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A NOT SO FORGETFUL WEEKEND

July 13, 2012, 6:19 am
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I can remember where it was exactly
a former field, in a state of a home
off the A12,  twixt Southwold and nowhere
at the end of a tree-lined boulevard
full of brand new wheelie bins
and busy, baked and blustery hi-vis volunteers

I remember who was there the first year
a full set of friends and Patti Smith’s rider
a caravan bulging with flowers and vodka
an angsty Trigger from Dibley droned
whilst DJ78 spun shellac
and we danced & danced, our pleasures abundant
and just the tiniest bit guilty

I remember the air crackle with expectation
as the sun shone in buckets & spades
we all drank bottomless cold lager
and discussed poor Kylie’s cancer
in the shade of a backstage green-room
from dawn until dusk and then way past noon
until the day-glo sheep were safely home

And I don’t remember why, but the rains came the following year
and with them came the profits of doom
there was money to be stolen and the Sky was the limit
executives in Barbour twittering endlessly
their subjects feral punters
trying to escape the deluge,
the fug of burning plastic and the enmity

A dystopian nightmare played out
against a boundless and pregnant
East Anglian sunset
angry mud and fatigue won over
but not a toilet to be seen with
amidst the relentless overwhelming stench
of shite and doughnuts.

And The Levellers.

Can you remember your first time?
I'm glad I can’t forget.
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SHOULD I STAYCATION, OR SHOULD I GO?

August 18, 2012, 12:21 pm
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To the peoples of London, Manchester, Bristol, Birmingham, Edinburgh and other great cities:

It was 32oC in Suffolk today.
It was hotter than the Caribbean.
(And with no disrespect to the lovely people of St.Kitts & Nevis, we do make better cyder than you).

And in Beccles we have probably one of the best outdoor pools in the UK.
And we've got a ferry that takes you from the lido straight to the best pub in East Anglia.

And it'll take you back again.

Beccles Public Hall will be showcasing some of the hottest acts on the circuit this year, and our nearest beach at Lowestoft won the lauded Blue-Flag award this spring.
We've got some of the quaintest craft-shops in the land, we played host to Aussie ne'er-do-well Julian Assange, our church was where Lord Admiral Nelson's parents were married, and every year we play hard & fair in a Duck Race and a Conkers Tournament.

And we're less than 15miles from Southwold if you need a Waitrose or a new aga.

The question is;
Should I staycation?

Of course you should, you fuckwit.

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Cunt In A Pac A Mac

December 1, 2012, 5:49 am
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I threw away my funding application for this year's Edinburgh Fringe when I realised  (again) that I didn't really want to go.
It felt like a terrible shame to waste all that creativity, so here is a condensed version of my submittal.

Title: Cunt In A Pac A Mac

Genre: Interactive street theatre

Plot: It's basically me, Yanny Mac, in a Pac A Mac, behaving a bit cuntishly.
The audience are intrinsically involved, but unaware of the denouement (obviously - it's a denouement) until they realise that they too are cunts in Pac A Macs.

Benefits: It is a piece of theatre that invokes social & cultural observation through the prism of art.

Funding required: £2000 (travel & accommodation) + £10 for a Pac A Mac

Possible problems & resolutions: 
Edinburgh experiences its warmest summer on record, and it doesn't rain for at least a week.
Would require changing title of show to Cunt In A Pair Of Crosshatch Shorts.
Will need £40 for a pair of Crosshatch Shorts.


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A WHISTLE-STOP TOUR OF MODERN NORWICH

January 28, 2013, 5:56 am
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Having spent the best part of my life living in & around the fine city of Norwich, on Saturday I decided to take a whistle-stop tour of the old girl, in the old girl, whilst the old girl played ponies back at the homestead.

I chose my moment carefully.

The snow that had ground Norwich to a complete skid-pan had thawed, and the Canaries were playing host to the only non-league side left in the FA Cup competition. Knowing that the agitprop poet Helen Ivory was away from the country, thoughts of any disturbance were quelled, and I aimed to hit the 'Big Sugarbeet' around 2pm, just as the hordes of Luton Town fans goose-stepped their way from their collection of illegally-parked delivery vans.
To be fair to the miscreants, the queues for the John Lewis, Castle Mall and Chapelfield car-parks were so long, the visiting supporters must've thought they were in Lakeside Thurrock;
and no doubt many of them took full advantage of the post-Xmas post-NewYear sales-lull SALES- events that were happening in every cloned outlet, from Monsoon to Oasis; from Matalan to TK Maxx. Post-Snowmageddon panic-buying had evolved into a slightly uglier style of consumerism.

As I dawdled in first gear for what seemed like an hour (but was in fact an hour & a half), I began to mentally note all the changes that had occurred in the city of my alma mater.

Ber St, once notorious for it's post-pub activity, had risen from the ashes of a car-dealer nightmare, and was now akin to a micro China Town, bustling with tea-houses, Asian grocers and martial arts centres.
The gaps that were once empty shops, were now filled with tanning lounges, hairdressers, nail polishers and more tanning lounges.
But the queue for the John Lewis car-park was as long as ever.
4x4's and Lexi belching their way to a safe spot underneath their retail nirvana, holding the duality of traffic-flow to ransom, with width and power and ignorance.
Yet the Anglia Square car park still had 480 spaces, and was only a short walk from anywhere.

I was happy to find that the City Gates pub had been put to sleep.
Students at UEA were often told that Norwich had "a church for every week of the year, and a pub for every day". During my time at the University of Exaggerated Abbreviations I found this not to be true.
But what I did discover was that the city had more Wetherspoon's per capita than any other town in the UK.
The fact that the former JDW City Gates' building had been re-invented as an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet, ladled irony onto my sticky rice in heaps.

As I passed the monolithic building that once housed 'the old model shop', I couldn't help thinking that a lot of this change was probably for the best.
The queue for bespoke coffee and naff Neff, smug Smeg and Moben design, was populated by men who shouldn't be wearing skinny-fit jeans, and their girlfriends who shouldn't encourage them.
But there was a middle class defiance in their queueing, that said more about Norwich than the gas-guzzling numpties that stalked Ber St.
If it really is the 'economy stupid', then we probably need these affluent foot-soldiers and their disposable income now, more than ever.

As I went around the confusing Anglia Square one-way system, I noticed that in amongst all the building-sites and new development, the independent shoe shop in Edward St.was still open, defiantly opposing so-called progress, with less than three pairs of shoes in its window, and one of them a pair of classic cherry red DMs.
The smile and the warmth this gave me were only lost when I turned onto St.Augustine's St. and was confronted by a huge billboard advertising "PMT - Let's Rock!"

I sincerely hope PMT is an acronym for something far removed from its common acronym usage.
But then, Norwich folk are a funny old bunch.

**I would really like to know the name of the shop in Edward St. if anyone has it? I know there was a similar shoe-shop in St.Augustine's called 'Yallops'. Not sure if it's still there.



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THE FEAST & THE FAMINE OF THE FESTIVAL FOOD FORAGER

June 19, 2013, 5:15 am
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We've come a long way since Woodstock, and the doling-out of soup & rolls at Yasgur's dairy farm in 1969. 
Food is big business within the bigger business that is the modern day pop festival.



There are now over 250 food stalls at Glastonbury alone, ranging "from the Far East to the Wild Wild West to good old proper English Country grub".
The television & radio host Jonathan Dimbleby once famously sold his own organic 'Dimbleburgers' at Worthy Farm in 2002, although there is very little evidence to substantiate this.
It was the year that the 'ring of steel' prison fence was erected, Rod Stewart and Mis-teeq headlined and tickets were over £100 (for the first time in any UK festival's history).
Very few people went.

And with the festival's alcohol-policy very much in the news this week, ahead of next weekend's 5 Day Strictly Bruce Forsyth Show, our attention has turned towards the provenance, provision and purveying of food at Britain's must-do-staycation events.


Glastonbury prides itself that it is one of only a few festivals that allows personal booze on site. This was one of the reasons why Michael Eavis jettisoned the party-pooper storm-troopers at Festival Republic (formerly Mean Fiddler), in favour of running his own show again.
It would seem that Festival Republic have a profit-driven agenda, banning all types of food and drink substances on-site, whilst using the same bland, but expensive suppliers and stalls at every event they manage.
You will be sick of the sight of over-priced Tuborg lager, Lucozade Jaeger bombs and Pepsi Max if you follow the Fiddler to the cultural behemoths that are Reading, Leeds and Latitude this year.
And if you can swallow the fact that massive tax-dodgers Vodafone are the major sponsors, you'll probably be faced with very similar 'boutique' food options;
The Australian Pie Company, The Square Pie Company, Jay Rayner's 'Kitchen Cabinet' etc.


This is why the independently run festivals such as Glastonbury, have a culinary edge over the corporates.
They can pretty much put catering out to tender; and if you're prepared to serve up hot, sticky stuff, to cold, sticky punters, some of whom can hardly say their own names, then these bizarre British summer events can be the making of you financially (especially if you serve up chips and/or noodles).

A word of warning however.
Hiring or taking your own trolley to & fro' the distant car-parks of the Avalon Valley can be very time-consuming and energy-sapping.
Filling up your trolley with tents and slabs of canned lager will mean little space for your own food.
Once inside the arena you are pretty much a captive market.
No amount of Class A drugs will take away the pangs of hunger after five days, and it's at this point that you realise how expensive the food really is!
You will no doubt have spent all your money by now, so prepare for a three hour wait in a cash-point queue, that may or may not provide you with the amount of dosh required, but when you return to the catering stalls, there may well be nothing left but chips.......
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DEAR LATITUDE FESTIVAL: A COUPLE OF QUESTIONS......

July 12, 2013, 3:43 am
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I don't want to bang on about the ever-increasing wealth gap in provision of/attaining the arts. I did it last year (and the year before) and it's out there for everyone to read.

http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4047128714365156996#editor/target=post;postID=5625580970077870690;onPublishedMenu=overview;onClosedMenu=overview;postNum=8;src=postname

The gap gets wider by the day, 'culture' is mainly unaffordable to those on low incomes, and the middle classes still pretend to care about Oxfam, Greenpeace, Water Aid and environmental issues, whilst littering the land with disposable barbecues, gazebos and tents.
The ticket prices for the modern day arts festival are now astronomical, and in order to stay for the duration, one would need an overdraft the size of Bristol just to survive.
The irony is that the only low-income attendees at these orgies of excess are the performers themselves.
And their guests.
And one wouldn't blame them, if after all the hard work & effort they have put in, a Penguin Publishing or SkyTV corporate-type came along and offered them a chance to escape the seemingly endless void of poverty. Only for they themselves to leapfrog aforesaid gap, and suck on the teats of the overlords, until the milk runs dry, and someone else is commissioned to entertain jester-like for the chosen few.

I do however want to have a pop at Festival Republic.

I'll get straight to the point.
The profit-obsessed promotions company who entertain us yearly with events such as Reading, Leeds, Berlin, Hove and Latitude (notice the last one isn't called 'Beccles' or 'Wangford') are a bunch of wankers.
They employ incredibly low-paid staff to do the jobs of people who should be highly paid within their profession; they charge punters ridiculous sums of money to stand about in their own shit & piss, in a field that suffers the degradation of human excess, every fuckin' year; they over-hype their events to the point where we all feel like failures if we haven't attended, and they cheat us out of our hard-earned cash through being coralled into a open-prison, where the only escape is to over-consume, over-inflated food, over several days.

I have had many issues with Festival Republic in the past.
Not least the time that Melvin Benn's storm-troopers threw my tent into a ditch, in order to accommodate Rufus Hound's camper-van;
or the time I left the site to go home, only to find on my return, that in their desire to get more & more Day Ticket punters onto the rain-flooded site, they had gone through three temporary car-parks, and were unsure where to put the fourth, resulting in a five hour trip for me, from house to tent.
I live in Beccles - nine minutes away!
The following day it took me a further seven hours to get home, but at least the AA were doing a roaring trade.

My issues this year are ones that will not arise from my attendance at Latitude 2013, but from details on the ticket itself.

There is now a "£30 Compulsory Donation to Charity" on the FREE tickets for guests.
Apart from the fact that this donation used to be voluntary, and by definition can't be 'compulsory', this figure has increased from £10 in 2007 to a sum that is way out of line with inflation (and welfare benefit increases), despite the fact that they have increased the number of guest tickets allocated by several thousands.

If you refuse to pay your donation, you are immediately asked to forego the Performer's Camping facilities (overflowing toilets & an angry barbecue chef) and pitch your tent in 'Normal Camping', away from your performer friends, and by the fifth day, in a zone that resembles anything other than 'normal camping'.

QUESTION 1: What are the charities that benefit from these donations? Trying as hard as I can with the search-engines and information supplied to me, I can find NO indication as to where this money goes, or who it benefits?

Several years ago I took my daughter to Latitude.
She had a lovely time, and I took advantage of the 'Under 14's Go Free' policy.

I note this year that the policy is now 'Under 4's Go Free'.
The very fact that this information on the ticket is proceeded by (Must Be Accompanied By An Adult At All Times) and even the feral yuppies of Latitude know that Under 4's need parenting, can I suggest that your profit-driven obsession with costs has stooped so low, you did a bit of a cheat on the ticket info?

QUESTION 2: Did you just scratch off the 1 from 'Under 14's' rather than re-write your T&C's to reflect your new policy?

QUESTION 3: In the light of Vodafone being exposed as Britain's largest tax-shirker
(£294m operating profit - NIL tax paid) couldn't you find a slightly less despicable sponsor for your festivals?

QUESTION 4: Why did Glastonbury drop you as a promoter after 12years?





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No Future.

November 20, 2013, 5:10 am
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A friend of mine was invited to Buckingham Palace last night, to meet the queen of Britain & Scotland.

In fact several of my friends were invited.

But this particular friend didn't go.

A lot of my friends talk-the-talk.
A lot of my friends are poets, and therefore are required to talk-the-talk on quite a regular basis.
In order to be zeitgeisty, fresh and 'down with the kids', a lot of my friends decry this government, and openly abhor anything that is marginally right-of-centre in the world of politics.
A lot of my friends are anti-establishment, and use their words as weapons or tools to joust and hustle those that run our country.
A lot of my friends are fiercely republican, anti-monarchy and repulsed at the thought of titular inheritance, silver spoons, old money and the nepotism that pervades the British class-system.

Some of my friends went to London to visit the queen.

One of my friends didn't.
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IN BED WITH MEHDI HASAN & CLARE BALDING.

December 17, 2013, 9:18 am
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I’m often accused of humbug behaviour at this time of year.
My misanthropy  borders on the evil side, and I moan and grumble my way through the season of good will, hoping to achieve a sense of relief come twelfth night, and hoping to avoid the inevitable stress-related flare-ups.

But it’s not the season of good will I detest.

It’s the people.

Today I tried my hardest, with my last remaining fiver, to do a ‘Jack Monroe’ in order to feed my family and cats, until the next ESA payment comes in.

And I failed.
I ended up buying value pizza and out-of-date sausages.
(But I also managed to secure a massive bag of reduced sprouts, so that at least me and the wife and the vegetarian lodger can keep the fresh veg intake up for a week or two).

And today, before I left the house, I resolved to smile at everyone I came into contact with.

I felt today I should be glad to be alive, and walking, and warm
(the shops are a great place to go if you can’t afford to have the heating on at home!)
So I smiled and I waved.
I even patted a dog.

But everyone seemed terse and brusque,  fretful, worried and dare I say it, downright miserable.
It was the alarm before the swarm.
Panic filled their eyes and slumped their shoulders.

I let a kid past who was scootering on the pavement, and even though he thanked me, he got scowls from the lady on the motability scooter and “oi”s from a man with a big box of something electrical.
The post office queue was as long as it had been every day of this month (very lengthy) but it was filled with muttering o.a.p.s, angry men in suits and mothers talking out LOUD to their errant children

“ PUT that down!  Why? WHY? Because mummy has to stand here darling. Because we’re in a QUEUE and have BEEN for quite some time now.  PUT THAT DOWN!”

It was only a biro on a chain.
It’s Christmas for fuck’s sake.

Everywhere and everyone was glum, and by the time I smiled at the scruffy chap picking through the bin outside Laura Ashley, I was all smiled out.

Maybe feeding a family of three( + 2 cats) for under a fiver makes me happier than most?
Maybe Xmas has just run out of joy?
Maybe I really don’t like ‘other people’?

I’m not really sure, but I’m glad to be home again.
In bed.
In the cold.
With my emaciated cats and my vaginal knitting.

And according to my email inbox, Mehdi Hasan, Owen Jones and Clare Balding have got tweets for me.

Merry Xmas.
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YANNY MAC'S TEN MINUTE SUPPERS (2014)

February 4, 2014, 6:28 am
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My original aim, to provide monthly, nutritious-yet-simple, cheap and easy to assemble suppers, has somewhat been usurped by a young fella with his own baby, and a lucrative contract with a national newspaper and the UK's most successful supermarket chain.

However; never one to be daunted by competition, I've now decided to publish ANNUALLY, continuing from where we left off last February   







CUP-A-SOUP (avec pain)

I hear a lot of people going on about benefits, the food banking crisis and immigrantisation, and I can assure you that you don't need ANY of these, to create this ten minute dish.
It's simple and versatile, being suitable for both supper and lunches.

There are a lot of high-end, luxury instant soups on the market at present, such as Heinz 'Squeeze & Stir' and tins that just need warming through.
Don't be fooled!
The soup contained within these tins or tubes is EXACTLY the same sort of soup you'll find in a packet, but at nearly TWICE the price!
Juggling a busy writing career and a horse can often lead to what I like to call convenience purchasing. But if you prepare your ingredients in advance, and add a little 'je ne sais pas', you can be serving up cup-a-soups  to-die-for  in next-to-no-time!

Be careful when choosing your crockery.
Tesco's 'Soup In A Mug' does NOT have to be served in a mug.
It can be served in a cup, or a bowl, or any handy receptacle not made of soft plastic or straw.

Don't worry if you don't own a spoon. A pen will do.

The bread (or 'pain' in France) is optional, but I like to think it offers something more cosmopolitan to the dish.

1. Tear open packet using your fingers or teeth.

2. Boil the kettle, making sure you have enough water to fill a mug (or cup).

3. Add water, stir, season if affordable.

4. Garnish with bread (or 'pain' which is French for bread) and serve.

Ingredients:
Packet Soup (various flavours and themes)
Water (preferably hot)
Bread or 'pain' (optional)

                                         And here's one I prepared earlier!



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YANNY MAC'S TEN MINUTE SHOP

February 6, 2014, 8:07 am
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FEET

Always try to put some shoes & socks on before you leave the house.
The walk to the shops can often be littered with chewing gum, dog poo and other unsavoury items, and I find that a good pair of shoes (nothing fancy mind) can alleviate some of the yeuch-inducing nastiness of stepping into something not very nice.

EYES

Try to use your eyes a bit.
Many shops have stuff for sale that needs to be seen, rather than grabbed blindly, or sucked up into your pouch.
SEE if there any offers on things YOU ACTUALLY WANT, rather than picking up a ten-pack of kitchen roll, when you don't even have a kitchen.
Look around and see what other people are buying.
If there's a queue (and you're not in a Tesco) then it's probably for some short-dated 'reduced' products.
Here you can find cheap Billy Bear ham, bits of broken quiche from the deli, or dented cans of hairspray.

(See my next Ten Minute Suppers blog for what to do with Billy Bear ham & hairspray, and how to feed a party of ten, and still have lots of washing-up to do).

MOUTH

If like me, you enjoy talking to yourself whilst shopping, always look at your list in doing so. That way people think you're only a bit mad, and they are less likely to throw things at you.

ALARM CLOCK

Take an alarm clock with you, and set it to go off after only NINE minutes. This gives you an extra minute.

And finally CASH

Pay for things with cash. This can avoid those embarrassing moments when you get to the checkouts, and no-one wants to barter with you, despite the fact you have ten copies of the Big Issue and a head full of nits.
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YANNY MAC'S 10 MINUTE VALENTINE'S DAY SUPPER

February 9, 2014, 9:41 am
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I’m not one for massive shows of affection, and at this time of the year I think we should focus on the death of baby Jesus more, and Rudolph Valentine a lot less.
The supermarkets and petrol stations are full of sexy toys and cards and flowers and coal around mid-February every year, and it’s a little cynical of them to ‘casually forget’ that if baby Jesus & the Holy Spirit hadn’t teamed-up to make Jesus fly into the air, then chocolate eggs, filled eggs, novelty eggs and even mini-eggs would not have been invented.

However, I’m back on the blog for a one-off Valentino Special that I hope some of you can use to impress that special person in your life, without costing the earth, or impinging on valuable 'you-time'.

Ham & Eggs
Ham is a cheap alternative to crisps or chocolate, and can be tasty.
I use tinned ham because the animals it came from had longer lives, and this way it doesn’t go off as quick.
Ham generally comes from either a turkey, a chicken or a pig.
If it is called Bernard or Matthew, it tends to be made from our feathered friends.
Tinned ham is nearly 40 per cent pig.

Eggs are also made of chicken, but look so different, they could be from entirely different countries.
(See the link below for more eggy recipes).

http://yannymac.blogspot.co.uk/search?updated-min=2011-01-01T00:00:00-08:00&updated-max=2012-01-01T00:00:00-08:00&max-results=50

The contrast between the ham and the egg can be further enhanced by keeping a distance between them on the plate.
(If you haven’t got plates, try using books or something solid like a picture frame).

Take the ham and put it on the plate.
Cook the eggs in your particular favourite way. And be brave!
Serve them on their own.
Or with peas.

Why not add some mustard to spice things up in the bedroom later?

Ingredients:
Ham
Eggs
Peas (Optional)
Mustard (Essential!)

Voila!
A simple, sassy, sexy meal, for that very special someone;  prepared in minutes, and won’t break the bank (but might break the bed!) lol
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YANNY MAC'S TEN MINUTE PANCAKE-DAY SUPPER

March 4, 2014, 4:13 am
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Pancake Day or Shrove Tuesday is celebrated all over Europe, not just in developed countries like England or America.
Shrove literally means 'use up all the eggs and butter quick' and is often celebrated  40 days before Easter, so that the supermarkets have time to take down the Jif and McDougalls displays, and replace them with larger items, such as Yorkie Easter Eggs and disposable barbecues.
A lot of people forget that Baby Jesus nearly died of malnutrition in the desert, before having himself crucified so that we could make (or buy) hot cross buns and mini eggs.
In France they call Pancake Day 'Mardi Gras' which literally means 'Fat Tuesday', and shows that the French have no respect for Baby Jesus or any of the Big 3 supermarkets.
The Swedes also call Pancake Day 'Fettisdagen' which literally also means 'Fat Tuesday', but as they are significantly wealthier than us, and very nearly invented Lego, my recipe today will ignore them completely, and focus on the slightly more accessible ingredients used by those cuddly Vikings, the people of Iceland.
'Sprengidadur' literally means 'a day for bursting your stomach open', and in my experience, the frozen food from Iceland is very capable of doing just that, if eaten in great quantities.

Ten Minute Sprengidadur Supper

If, like me, you struggle to make your ends meet, living off benefits and generally being feckless, you may find this recipe a little challenging, and decide to get a takeaway pizza from say Pizza Hut or The Dominoes.
If you do, try asking for a maple syrup, or lemon & sugar topping, in order to be festive and show respect for the Lent stuff.

1. Get your ingredients from Iceland

2. The Icelandic people celebrate with salted meat and peas.

3. Carefully sprinkle salt onto your meat (I use Tesco Value Free Running Table Salt, but I once had a lodger who got hers from the sea! I think it was a quirky hipster thing, but it tasted ok, even though it was very lumpy).

4. Open your bag of peas from Iceland carefully, and add them to a boiling pan of water.
(If, like me, you've had your gas cut off, try melting the peas with a lighter from Gary's Discounts, or putting them out in the sunshine for a bit).

5. Serve with Findus Crispy Pancakes from Iceland (optional - mince beef may contain bits of animals).

Ingredients:
Meat (animal meat is best)
Salt
Peas
Crispy Pancakes (optional)

Og Lita' Par!
A ten minute recipe that'll have you fit for bursting, and won't have you taking out a crisis loan in order to pay for the kids Easter eggs




This is a photo of an experiment I did earlier. 
Call it 'Yanny-Fusion' if you like, but I combined pancakes from Iceland with waffles from the more developed & civilised country America (Untied States of, NOT South America!)


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YANNY MAC'S TEN MINUTE RECIPE - PASTA & MASH

March 24, 2014, 4:14 am
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As a big fan of Jack Monroe, and his Sainsbury's adverts and his blog, and his recipes in the newspapers, I've found myself reading The Guardian a lot more, to see how 'real people' create 'real food'.

Inspired by the latest recipe for 'Make Your Own Gnocchi'
http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2014/mar/21/make-your-own-gnocchi-pasta-recipe
I've decided to concentrate on pasta this month, and more importantly, what it is?

Pasta is made out of wheat.
But sometimes it is made out of wholewheat (which is better for your children if they never leave their room).
And sometimes it is made out of eggs.

One of my favourite websites Fit Chick Tricks .com says this:
"Whether it is angle hair, fettuccini, elbow, or macaroni, white or wheat has become one of the great debates, right along with boxers or briefs, and chocolate or vanilla".

I'm going to use Tesco Value Spaghetti because it is currently only 20p.
(Up yours Aldi! With your so-called 'cheap' 29p pastas!)
I'm also going to use Smash mash because there is little chance of it going green, sprouting triffids or making my veg box dirty.

Gnocchi is essentially pasta stuffed with mash.
If like me, you have only tried it at middle-class students' houses, you'll know that there is always a great chance they will overcook it, and it will taste a bit like wallpaper paste.
My recipe deals with this issue by TIMING the pasta as it boils.

I'm going to use Tesco instant potato instead of Smash because these blogs are about cooking on a budget.
It's essentially the same thing, although if you read the ingredients you'll notice there are a lot less adverts for other Cadbury's products on the packet, thus reducing the overall net unit cost.




1. Boil a kettle
2. Add HALF of the water to a saucepan (any pan will do - it doesn't have to be specifically for sauce)
3. Put the saucepan on a heat source ('source' not 'sauce') and when boiling again, add the spaghetti, stir it about a bit, get it boiling again, and then look at your mobile phone to see what time it is?
Add ten minutes to that number (i.e. 6-45pm + 10 = 6-55 or 18-45 + 10 = 18-55) and remove from heat when cooked.
4. Use the other HALF of the kettle water to make a paste with the potato.
(Be careful. Too much will make it gloopy. Too little will make it crusty.)
5. Mix the potato with the pasta.

E ecco!
Gnocchi Inglesi-style, and all for under a pound!

Ingredients:
Instant Mashed Potato
Spaghetti
Water


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YANNY MAC'S TEN MINUTE AIR POLLUTION

April 2, 2014, 3:59 am
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Once again, I find myself writing on behalf of a minority of the population, who feel excluded and unjustly ignored when it comes to national events or occurrences.

And once again, I can't help thinking that London, Manchester and Birmingham get all the fun stuff, whilst East Anglia pumps out the sugar beet for their lattes, the rapeseed oil for their humvees, and the second homes for their parties.
London has hipsters and the London Eye, Manchester has the BBC and all of the footballs, and Birmingham has The Archers; but not one of them has the beautiful white sands of Great Yarmouth.
And where else would you find a KFC adjacent to a McDonalds, and directly opposite a Wetherspoons?


As the wealthier parts of the UK bask in a glorious cloud of air pollution and exotic sands brought in from Samsara, I am going to show you how to make your own air pollution, in less than ten minutes, and at a cost that wouldn't even get you a replacement smart phone.

The main ingredients for air pollution are ozone and sand.

According to Wikipedia
"Air pollution is the introduction of chemicals, particulate matter, or biological materials that cause harm or discomfort to humans"
So this must be true.

I use builder's sand because most sand is the same.

For chemically biological matter, I have stuffed lots of baby wipes and sanitary products down the toilet in order to cause a back-up in my Victorian plumbing system, and the resulting funk is making my eyes water and the cats cough.

For presentation, I will listen to endless Radio4 interviews with people explaining why the planet is suffocating, why we are not just part of the problem, but why we are the actual problem, and what we can do about it, but let's be honest, we won't.
Garnish with plenty of apathy.

And Bingo!
A soupcon of air pollution that would look good hovering over an overpriced back garden in any major city south of Doncaster.

Ingredients:
Sand
Polluted Air
Asthma (Optional)


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YANNY MAC'S TEN MINUTE EASTER WEEKEND NEWS STORY

April 20, 2014, 3:21 am
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On long cold Bank Holiday Weekends, I often find it's very easy to forget that real people exist.

With the culling of the garden centres, the wanton expulsion of money-lenders such as Wonga and the pharisees, and the oh-so British obsession with disposable barbecues and gazebos, Baby Jesus has had to play second fiddle to our whims in recent times, in part, due to his inability to obtain a quick resurrection.
Had the cheeky little rebel risen up to Heaven within a 24hr period, the whole concept of a 4 day break for politicians, bankers and Her Majesty Clare Balding would be anathema.
Hot & cross bun dough rises with a good knead, not need.

The best way to gain temporary notoriety over the Easter Weekend is to mix a soupcon of peril, with a large dollop of ignorance.
I like to lock my children in a room full of bees.
Others like to ply their offspring with six bags of sugar and a bucket of unethically-sourced cocoa.
However, if you really want to usurp the headlines, and knock Ukraine or Louis Hamilton into a cocked hat, you should always use caged animals and carbon monoxide.


LIGHTLY SAUTE'ED KIDS (WITH SLIGHTLY CHILLED LION).

Take an unserviced car full of children to an over-populated, over-subscribed stately home in Wiltshire.
(I find you can get one adult & two teenagers into a safari park for little more than £94-50.
This leaves a fiver change from four ponies, guaranteeing a fun time for all in the gift shop).

Make sure the caged animals are unhappy.
(British weather and high fencing make great misery if you're running short of ideas).

Put the car nose-to-tail with several thousand other cars, and make sure they simmer gently.
(I prefer extra wide 4x4's for that dash of 'added sense of security').

Add a YouTube recorded telephone conversation from the car behind, some very grainy mobile phone footage, and a large measure of hyperbole.

Flambe' for several minutes.

And Noli Me Tangere!
The perfect ten minute Easter news story, for less than several hundred pounds!

Ingredients:
Parental Desperation
Ennui
One large disposable income.
Lashings of petrol.
Blind faith.

Gift shop merchandise (optional).

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A TOPLESS ELLIE HARRISON

April 21, 2014, 4:47 am
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To get my stats up
I do concede
I have to tease with tags that lead
A desperate person
To click on this one
But only in their hour of need.


**When you've finished, perhaps you'd like to read my stuff about 'austerity chic' (YANNY MAC'S TEN MINUTE SUPPERS) or my insightful pieces into the way the BBC ignores its policies on advertising, in order to get better ratings (TOP NON-PREMIERSHIP ADVERTISING HOARDINGS).
Or my essays on why the modern pop festival has become more of a right-of-passage involving huge commercial interest, and less of an aesthetic cultural experience (VARIOUS), or my little vignettes on how Julian Assange put my home town on the map (VARIOUS).

***For those of you who prefer political satire, try YANNY MAC - DWILE FLONKER.
A hilarious spoof of those people who just don't get it!

**** Please enjoy the photo of a topless Ellie Harrison, but remember;
it's not real - none of this is real..............
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DOGGEREL, FISHING, GERMAN BYTES.

April 21, 2014, 6:19 am
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Late into Wimbledon Fortnight.
A storm imminent, and with several strawberries trampled into the carpet
Arnold shuffles to the sofa, clutching Rizla paper and lighter.
He prises open the sticky window before the inevitable body-slump,
and catches the faint whiff of an incoming storm.
The gusset-pong of a damp sandy swimsuit
discarded atop dead cockles
and draped in fluorescent slime,
on the rope handles of a salty basket.
Fruit juice, rotting fish and a nagging desire for sleep.
He uncurls his gnarled claws, and clutches at his stick.

"There's the fucker!" He shouts from his cushion, through the nicotine-stained curtains, and out into the empty streets.

But no-one is listening.


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YANNY MAC'S TEN MINUTE FOOTBALL MANAGEMENT CAREER

April 23, 2014, 6:30 am
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I'm often asked by desperate people in these austere times, who I think should manage England?
And my reply is always "Kevin Keegan".

With the average weekly wage for a Premiership football player at around £30k + bonuses, it's easy to see why so many of them opt for a career in management, in order to provide at least one meal a day for their families.
In terms of revenue, the Premiership brings little to 'the economy'.
It's financial impact is akin to one of a small supermarket chain like Fine Fare or Gateways.

It's therefore essential that everyone in the UK (including immigrants and foreigny-looking students) get behind our national sport, and support at least two or three top flight teams.
Season tickets can be had for as little as £900;
but if the thought of hanging out with your boss or your local MP doesn't thrill you, a Sky TV package can be had for just a little bit more.
Replica shirts are essential at a little over £50, so it's easy to see why undergraduates would rather get a job than waste their valuable cash on tuition fees.
(More about getting a Ten Minute Job next month).

Bob Shankly once said that football was about believing in life after death, and as a neo-socialist like me, I think he deserves more praise than he gets.
We can't all be Antony Worrall Thompson, so here is my recipe for a short career in football management.

I call this quick-fix special 'Get Your Benefits Out For The Moyes'.


1. Don't let the poor salaries put you off.
Australians eat fruit and salary more than SEVEN times a day, and they are all rich, and very beautiful.
(see Tim Cahill).

2. Try to have a continental sounding name.
Ancelloti, Mourinho, Plopp and Salami are all very exotic, and make you sound a lot posher than you really are.
(David and Ron are quite boring).

3. Add lots of ginger, some oak-aged Fellaini and lashings of Irn Bru.

4. Wear shoes that don't fit you.
Simmer gently.

5. Serve, way above your means, but way below your potential.

Ingredients:

Multi-Billion Dollar US Holding Corporation (essential in 'Soccer' recipes!)
Russian Oligarchs
Media Moguls
Sheep (lots of)
Under-ripe management skills (optional)
Over-ripe players (optional)
A huge dollop of arrogance to serve.


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TESTY TESTY BLOG STATS & KEY WORDS (23-4-14)

April 23, 2014, 9:48 am
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In a vain attempt at reducing his carbon footprint on           EARTH DAY (aka ST GEORGES DAY),  "local poet & blogger"(NEW YORK TIMES) YANNY MAC       confirmed via the internet that he and TORI SPELLING       were not an item. In the             CHAMPIONS LEAGUE, JOSE' MOURINHO did some football, whilst an impending     METEOR SHOWER                 threatened parts of the USA, in particular AVRIL LAVIGNE, AEREO, PAT TILLMAN, FRENCH MONTANA & CHLOE KARDASHIAN.      The        CHICAGO BULLS never played the           BRUINS, and a bloke called KEVIN DURANT        did some very important stuff.                 BENJI MARSHALL of CRONULLA got Aussie folk talking & clicking & sharing,           whilst            NAKED CELEBRITIES              such as LUCY WORSLEY, CLARE BALDING, NIGELLA LAWSON and/or ELLIE HARRISON              helped Yanny in his desire not to use snail-mail, paper, stamps or envelopes, and/or the car.
Happy             EARTH DAY.
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REMEMBRANCE WEEKEND (A rant from the Noughties)

June 25, 2014, 10:50 am
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REMEMBRANCE WEEKEND  (A rant from the Noughties)

I can’t remember where it was, or even when?
Just a green hill faraway
where holy-grails and lay-lines lay.
Summer solstice, summer bank holiday
sometime in summertime?
It was raining, we were wet, there was mud.
(Not the 1970’s glam-pop band that did ‘Tiger Feet’,  
but who knows?  They might have been).

I can’t remember who was there
but the Stone Roses weren’t because I read about it later.
Jarvis Cocker asked us if we remembered our ‘first time’
and we all pretended that we did, and I told the girl that I was with
that I remembered Pulp in ’93, but I doubt she remembered me.

I can’t remember why we went?  Why we always went.
But I do recall throwing-up noodles after ‘shrooms in the Cider Bus
and carving ‘the Beatles were shit’ on a tree.
A tree that was actually growing, right in front of us!
Yeah. Twat.
Then I don’t remember much after that.
Except too much oestrogen, not enough oxygen
and the overwhelming stench of shite and doughnuts.
And the Levellers.

And somehow the cow field morphed into Club Trippy-Caner
where the drugs were more expensive, but the hugs were free.
A serotonin-stinking place, where ownership’s a smiley face, and dealers take you by the hand and welcome you to dumb-dumb land, and total ecstasy.

I can’t remember what it was, or who it was that sold it to me?
It wasn’t the bloke who blagged my ticket,
nor the crusty with the ladder and the androgynous girlfriend,
and it definitely wasn’t the space-cake in the portaloo
or the ever so legal-highs.
But perhaps it was the tiny bit of mysticism
oozing from the zit-like Tor
or the filthy naked hippies, bearded and beaded
with sweat and fuzzy-felt bindis 
or the thoughtless wanker that stole my tent?
I really couldn’t remember. 

Then; in ‘the Year of the Storm’
(not to be confused with ‘the year of Floodstock’, or ‘the year of Mudstock  ‘I’ or ‘II’),
I began to remember everything.

Everything.
Every last detail (whilst standing in a never ending queue for a totally empty cashpoint).
The odour. The dry barren daytime
Re-fuelling with overpriced pear-shaped ‘cider’,
square pies, and a serious dearth of entertainment.
The fake stone circle, the endless hum of the generators,
and the in-cess-ant fuck-ing drum-ming
punctuated sporadically by shouts of  ‘Bollox’ & ‘Yer Mum’ at 4am in the morning.
The cold damp evenings. The prison fence.
The rubbish and the waste.
The techno-techno-techno muzak.
Beyonce’, semi-naked but chaste.
Bono. Sky TV. Acres & acres, but nowhere to roam.
Rows & rows of neatly stacked tepee’s, reminiscent of rabbit-hutches we like to call ‘home’.
Contempt bred through familiarity,
and the dawning realization that I no longer belonged here,
fused together in a synapse of clarities,
and drenched in piss weak Budweiser beer.
Here amongst the festival virgins;
smelly, sex-hungry, sunburnt and bum-funky.
Here amongst the Dunlop wellies, “that’ll cost ya guvnor!
Let’s say……..a monkey?”

Memories of a time when money didn’t matter were dismissed.
Memories of the agro, the drugged and the pissed.  
Mobile phone dementia in a sea of Prada handbags
Memories of a vale called Avalon.
Mecca market mania for pills and booze and fags.

Yes! It all came back to me!
(A flashback they say).

I remembered that sense of ‘having to be there’
That rite-of-passage, the Home County diaspora, the must-see event.
Blur at dusk, Radiohead at bedtime,
badgers on the periphery, and strange looking creatures in my tent.

The tent that was stolen
and never replaced.

Consumed,  then forgotten.

Remembered.
Then erased.
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