When two worlds collide: a 1997 Paul McCartney album and its influence on the trailblazing decision to put chilli in a pie.
Good Friday proves my best lockdown day so far, better even than the one when Amazon delivered my new four-socket surge-protected extension lead.
I am happy to announce that I have invented what I call the "stir" "fry", a meal composed entirely of – and this is the clever bit – things you have fried while stirring. The stirring is key, because otherwise the things will burn.
I have never to my knowledge eaten any Nigerian food, but it sounds like it involves big piles of chicken and rice, which is very much in my wheelhouse. I decide to eat some.
As my grandfather used to say, you can't griddle a chicken without humiliating a junior halal butcher.
I don't usually eat breakfast during the week, but at the weekend when I've got a bit more time I'll do something proper. So effectively all the breakfasts I eat are hangover breakfasts to varying degrees. The main ingredients are eggs and regret.
I'm having the leftovers of last weekend's tagine tonight, but I want to make a side dish and I've got a couple of hours this afternoon to kill now my enthusiasm for Safe on Netflix has waned, so how about dropping some stuff in a food processor and watching the blades spin round remorselessly until everything's dead.
I have had The Lads round. We spent Friday night playing poker, talking about which cars are the fastest cars and objectifying women. As a result on Saturday morning I have two rinded oranges left over from Old-Fashioneds. So now I need to find something to do with two oranges. Something that doesn’t involve autoerotic asphyxiation.