Tag Archives: cake


This weekend I will make a cake.

I have not baked properly in a metric fucking ages, so I think it’s about time. Plus watching the Hairy Bikers is making me want to make something because this apple and blackberry steamed pudding thing looks incredible.

I would say maybe it’s my stomach talking, bored as it is with living off brown rice, potatoes, beans, broccoli and kale.

But I do think I owe it to myself to mix up loads of sugar and shit in a bowl, shape it into a recognisable cake-shape then put it in an oven for a bit. I mean, I don’t have any of the ingredients already, so I’d have to buy them. And being broke as I am, purchasing essentially frivolous things like this isn’t something I should be doing right now.

And, I mean, I’d have to use some form of specialised manufacturing tools (“a cake tin”), obviously. It wouldn’t be a proper cake without one. I don’t actually have one though, so I’d have to go buy one from Waitrose or wherever. Again, it’s a frivolous purchase that I really shouldn’t be bothering with.

It wouldn’t take too long to make it all, though – just a bit of a time investment. I mean, I can’t be arsed putting time into anything that isn’t sitting and playing games or writing the shit I have to write – like this. So I probably won’t actually put any time into making a cake.

So, actually, I won’t buy the ingredients, I won’t buy the equipment and I won’t spend the time doing it.

This weekend I will not make a cake.

I will sit in my pants and eat clemetines.

Does anybody want to bake me a cake?

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Birthday is mine today

Today is my birthday. I am now 27 years old. This may be quite old, or it may be quite young, or it may be neither young nor old. I don’t really know or care that much. Still, I’ve got a few birthdays under my belt so far, so I think I’m confident in my opinion that they’re… well, they’re alright actually.

It’s not like Christmas, which has been mainly shit for me, and it’s not like [INSERT OTHER OCCASION HERE] where I usually end up battling nine flaming cock(erels). Birthdays tend to be pleasant, if not downright fun. Even last year’s complete non-event was good, just because I got drunk with Anna. Pleasant. Even today is good – I’m ill and had to go to work, but I like my job and I’m not dead, plus the aforementioned Womana came down and is now cooking for me. Pleasant.

But there have been less simply pleasant times, more ‘fucking stupid’ times. Ben falling asleep at the table of the Mexican restaurant we were at because we’d been on the lash since about 10am, only to be woken up by me shoving jalapenos in his facial orifices is pretty high on that list. As was the trip my uni mates made to Swinton and Sheffield for – I think – my 19th. I fed them tinned ready meals and we were so bored we played cricket in my mate’s house in Sheff. But it was good fun in the end.

I don’t much care for ceremony, gift-giving and all that nonsense – I like it, but I’m just not a major player of the game. I just like birthdays because I’ve had fun on the vast majority of them. How could I do anything but like them?

Wow, this sounds a bit sentimental. Sorry.


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