Rolling pins: them, me, and the ancient argument as to what constitutes a ‘pin’.

Posted: November 2, 2025 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I appreciate there are going to be some alternative definitions from my own, as to what constitutes a ‘pin’. I also know that some of these are going to be ‘factual’.

But what pride themselves on in terms of correctness, they more than let themselves down in accuracy.

A pin is something that you can pin with. If a thing cannot pin, a pin it is not.

Rolling pins – they’re not pins. They’re my ultimate bed fellow of the realm we can all relate to: something you enjoy having around, regardless of its purpose.

I can picture a medieval woman, house-bound, subjugated and bored, being told the local ravishers are on their way to commit their namesake.

Thankfully, she has a rolling pin, which must, simply ‘must’, have been used at least once in human history to defeat the bad guy.

Got yourself a villain? Bop him on the head with a rolling pin.

Got a yourself a villain nearby but just out of reach? Throw a rolling pin at him, the distant git.

Baking?

Baking and interrupted by a villain?

Bop him about the head and neck with a rolling pin, before returning to the esoteric application of a rolling pin outside of villain-bopping and household defence (plus all around justice): somehow flattening dough.

I’ve never really been able to use a rolling pin for anything other than a really good time thrashing it about and some amateur Morris dancing (I haven’t landed a paid Morris-dancing gig yet, but I hear its all about persistence. Keep at it and eventually someone will pay you to leave. They won’t threaten – you’ve got a rolling pin and a fucking hanky.).

When at school I put the rolling pin to dough and nothing really happened – certainly not cakes or bread or whatever it was I was being taught. Least of all flattened dough.

As I got older I treated myself to a basic, this’ll-do, rolling pin, in preparation for the day in which I’d be bopping anti-social behaviour in the face.

I’ve still got it. My wife uses it for cooking every now and again (and bloody again), whilst I prefer to chase my children with it – so the whole family gets good use out of it.

In the event of a fire, or perhaps some near-world-event, if I’ve time to grab something from the house before dashing for the village hall, I’m grabbing my rolling pin. And kids.

And people at the village hall would be pleased, commending me for bringing so jolly-decent a thing as a rolling pin to the end of the world that the whole Parish can find some relief from.

I don’t know if it would necessarily aid in clearing rubble in search of wounded, or be massively handy when it comes to building a new basic infrastructure system once the fallout has cleared, but it wouldn’t half give me confidence in the new world.

Such confidence, that in fact it would aid in clearing rubble, and in developing basic infrastructure. Because we’ve got a rolling pin.

But it’s still not a ‘pin’.

Spur of the moment, I’m going to rename them to “Oods”.

I like that, it works, and I like that and it works.

And even if it doesn’t work, you can’t deny I like that.

Sam

Getting old – a quandry of vegetable care

Posted: July 21, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I’m the sort of chap who has a great idea, tells people about, takes little-to-no action, allows a few years to pass by, and eventually wonders: “why didn’t I do that?”

You might know this sensation.

I wanted a vegetable patch in my garden – to grow my own, beat the system and enjoy fresh air, etc.

My wife and I had a slight disagreement on where such a patch would go – and it proceeded not to happen.

Later, friends told me they were growing their own veg. “How nice” I thought.

Later still, colleagues told me the same. “How nicer” I continued.

My brother then announced he was getting an allotment – the mark of someone who wants to grow vegetables so much that they do it in public.

Lastly, my wife told me she was starting a veg-patch wherever the hell she wanted in our garden.

Suddenly it seemed I was surrounded by home-growers of an idea I’d had years ago, and was feeling somewhat left behind and out of the veg-growing picture.

Other people my age are growing their own, enjoying the process and link to their land, and probably vegetables too.

I’m yet again behind, inspired to have an idea that becomes in-vogue in time, but not inspired enough to take action at the time.

Others are saving money, becoming in tune with the Earth and growing both themselves – and carrots.

What am I going to do? I’m such a loser – I didn’t even grow vegetables when I had the chance and and other people my age have so much going on, especially cabbage, and I really need to get my act together before………………………….oh wait it’s only growing vegetables.

Quite irrelevant really – when you want them to be. Still, I’m getting old.

I’ve had my efforts.

I tried growing a pineapple plant, which struggled until my dog snapped it in half – promptly ending the struggle.

I also grew tomatoes a few years ago – but that’s too easy. It’s like trying to grow a beard – effortless whether you succeed or not.

So, sure enough I do need to begin growing something, to remain a part of the pack – but it needs to have a edge to it. Just so I can feel slightly ahead of the curve for once, like I used to be.

Naturally I turned to sea-monkeys.

In place of the pineapple plant I was growing with my son, tiny crustaceans seemed like the next best bet/pet.

However – it turns out you can’t really rear and eat these minuscule specimens. You can drink them down in one, get a bad tummy ache and rear them back up again – but you can’t enjoy chewing them.

And they’re not very intimate a collection either – individually or as a herd. Carrots are better company.

We did name one though. On the theme of them being sea-faring monkeys, we named him: “Ooh Ooh ARGH!”

I think next I’ll try tomatoes, but grow them where no one would expect – like my brothers allotment. Watered with sea-monkeys.

That’d show them all.

That’d show everyone.

Sam

Sandwich ingredients – can’t we all just get along?

Posted: January 31, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Say you’re a slice of cheese, with all the crucial memories and opinions that a slice of cheese would have.

You want, specifics? Fine you’re brie.

Actually, no – you’re cheddar. Being cheddar is important for this.

It matters to me.

Anyway, you’re a slice of opinionated (cheddar) cheese – and someone places a slice of ham on top of you.

Opinionated ham.

Ham with a mother.

Ham with hopes (not dreams though – it’s just ham).

And that slice of ham is laying on top of you face to cheesy face – how would you feel?

Perhaps you’d nod politely at one another, like businessman bumping into each other on a crowded train, but then again, that doesn’t often happen when they’re both horizontal.

It’d be really neat if you’d both simply get along. No need to shove.

But that’s not all – next is the disappointment that comes from the comfortable slice of bread you yourself had already been placed on.

You’d been enjoying it being as soft and convenient as it was to relax upon, though weirdly, it was particularly buttery. As buttery as anything you can think of as being buttery.

Not many things are buttery. In fact, its likely that most things that are buttery, aside from bread, are not intended to be buttery.

Buttery.

Albeit buttery, it was a pleasant place to find yourself as a slice of cheese, even when a slice of ham is pressed against you.

Then, you see over the slice of ham’s………………. shoulder (?)……a second slice of bread descending its way towards you.

Now I can’t pretend to have ever heard cheese before. But if I were then, like you are now – a piece of cheese about to be imprisoned within the kind of butteriness that you’d honestly begun to trust – I think I’d have a lot to say. And even more to scream.

Meanwhile, the slice of ham is still squished up against you, face-to-face, unable to move because it’s inanimate (AKA “thoroughly well-cooked”) and is desperately asking what you’re freaking out about, but can sense the darkness looming up from behind it.

As I said, I’ve never heard cheese, and I’ve never heard the inside of a sandwich either, but I’ll bet its muffled.

Now I don’t want to be grim here. There’s no pain in the life of this cheese (can’t guarantee same for the ham) so have no fear of me describing the agony of teeth coming together through you – some cheddar cheese.

But, the idea of being chewed cheese basically just occurred to me and I wanted to share consideration for the sensation with you.

My favourite part was the suggestion of the cheese and ham nodding politely at each other. Its nice to get along.

There might be a metaphor in there somewhere, sandwich ingredients getting along and so on.

But I’ll leave that to you to be interested in, I’m just curious about being a piece of cheese.

Sam

I’d Eat It.

Posted: October 15, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Snails, frog legs, pig arseholes and spider legs.

I guess there’s not much else to do with them but to scrub them up, add wet heat, and then chew thoroughly.
When it comes to diets that you mostly…find…then you have to sacrifice your pickiness for the sake of belly-filler being so important.

You there- eat something! It’s largely what we’re here for, so either fuck it (also on the important to-do list) or eat. If you’re going to do both then do it down-stream. That mess will be famous. Especially if it’s a snail.

Cooked snails are rubbery, aside from the personality. In terms of personality- they’re all a great bunch of guys/girls. Not very rubbery.

A rubbery individual is a person/snail that I have not met. Probably. It’s not my duty to meet rubbery people/snails, and that’s about as amusing as this sentence is going to get. Rubbery people/snails. Meet them.

I do like spending time with my pet snail, Greed, who I have not told yet about the eating of his kin. We’re going to buy two dozen and ‘prepare’ them for cooking, which is immediately the cruellest thing you can do to them. First step, access the snails. Second step “lightly sprinkle a fine layer of rock salt over the escargot” (‘escargot’ being French for, I assume: ‘the little shelly-bastards because they fucked my wife too’). This makes them dissolve somewhat which is apparently the only way to prepare them as it makes them evacuate themselves- a thing you can’t really train them to do.

But, seriously, I single-handedly hate emptying snails.

You think there’d be a spoon for that, but it’s all down to fingers and blowing. As usual.

Pig’s areholes are a Soul food delicacy, if you’re hungry enough. From what I read in a Bizarre Magazine article from several years ago- Mr T fled from one once.

You take a pig arsehole. Wipe it (and there’s only one way to do that- think about it. Making the common sign-symbol for ‘dosh’ might give you the right idea) and then fry what’s left of the shit out of it. Then serve it to Mr T and watch him go. I bet he’d even get on a plane.

From what I guess- it’s like a ring of blubbery gum. That you know used to be a pig’s arsehole.

Tarantula legs are probably the only part of them I’d want to eat. Certainly rather than its fangs, or beady little eyes. Or its arsehole (I’m not fond of arseholes- you really only need one in my opinion).

I’m told they’re like chicken and that it is actual meat. That’s really all you need to know- that its contents is not poison slime, nor is it acid- nor a thousand tinnier spider that are trying to occupy your genitals. It is meat.

This- I would totally go for, only I am lacking in the spider leg jar in my larder. Someone help me.

Frog legs taste like chicken. Well- why not eh?

I’d eat a frog’s legs. But it would be interesting to see the side of it by vegetarian politicians that allow a little meat-eating. Maybe they’d just take the one leg from the frog, and then patch it up and leave it to continue its fairly dull life. Perhaps build it an artificial leg out of the left-overs from a meal of frog’s legs. They already hop anyway.

I know it’s cruel to do the rock-salt treatment to these two-dozen garden snails, but if I don’t eat anything for a while then I’ll be hungry and I’m sure it’s acceptable to do these things if you’re hungry.

Poor buggers- may they rest in delicious, rubbery, garlicky-buttery peace.

On toast.

Sam.