Gaz Cooks Crap

Many years ago, I had the misfortune to observe a friend of mine being sick after getting very drunk indeed. This would have been fairly unpleasant at the best of times, but on this occasion it was far worse as, prior to being sick, said friend had drunk-binge-eaten 10 creme eggs. Now, if you've ever been sick (and if you haven't, by reading this I think you're increasing your odds of breaking your 'puke duck' by some considerable margin), you'll know that the whole process involves getting a large volume of material up and out as rapidly as possible with scant regard for where it lands - the bodily function analogue of serving soup using a miniature trebuchet. And as it turns out, thick sugary fondant and chocolate isn't the ideal form of matter for expediting this process. The only way I can describe what I witnessed is that it was like watching someone give birth to a lava lamp out of their face in slow motion while making a noise you might hear coming ...

People (specifically, idiots) often argue about whether a Jaffa cake is in fact a cake or a biscuit. This, despite the fact it has the word 'cake' in the title and goes stale like a cake not soft like a biscuit when you inadvertently leave the packet open a bit and ruin the next day's tea break. Both fairly substantial clues - particularly the former, given the manufacturer is literally telling you it's a cake on the packet. I mean, what more do you want - a confession written in blood from Mr Kipling? Sure, you may eat them in the same manner as you eat biscuits, but then you'd probably eat a Victoria sponge-sized biscuit by the chunk like a cake - it's more about size than anything inherently biscuitesque as to why there's even any discussion in the first place. Observe: a giant bourbon is still a bourbon - it doesn't metamorphose into a black forest gateaux once it passes a certain girth. To put it another way, even if you sellotape wheels to a po...

Hello! Well last week I had a cold and so didn't feel like cooking anything in the end, let alone something unusual. But now I'm feeling acceptably human again it's time to reward my body by filling it with a load of experimental nonsense. Kill or cure, and all that. From the title you might assume that this week I'll be eating some form of sturdy footwear. And in making that assumption you'd be quite wrong - I may make up stupid recipes, but I'm not really looking to push the boundaries of omnivorism into the realms of eating anything that I can lay my hands on. Or rather my feet, in the case of wellies. No, this week we're tackling an issue that's vexed me for some time: why is it that beef has the monopoly on being wellingtoned? For those who have never heard of it, beef wellington is a dish where you get a perfectly good (in fact, usually a very nice) bit of beef, smear it in an awful mushroom paste and then cover it in puff pastry and pretend ...

Hello. After a brief hiatus for 'reasons', we're back with our most delicious offering yet! As long as in your dictionary, 'delicious' has - due to an appalling printing error - been mistakenly aligned with the definition for the word 'emetic'. Anyway, on with the show - and by criminy what a show it is. This week, we're tackling the meal that is arguably the most important breakfast of the day: breakfast. Like most people who aren't my daughter who inexplicably decided to have just a tin of cold beans for breakfast the other day, you probably fall into one of 3 categories: 1. Toast (inc. honorary toast-alikes, such as croissants/crumpets) 2. Cereal 3. Cooked breakfast - beans, egg, sausage, bacon. The full fried monty. And for the record, the correct answer is of course 1. Cereal is, by definition, rubbish. It's the leftover chaff, gravel and mouse droppings that they remove from wheat and stuff before making it into bread, which in turn...

Ah, this is the one that started it all. Not started this blog, obviously, as this is some weeks in and I don't possess a time machine. No, the first recipe that I came up with years and years ago to be served in my deliberately terrible restaurant designed to fleece rich morons. 3 of your 5 a day. As long as your 5 a day is '5 different things'. So what is eggs in a ditch, I don't hear you ask as you're not in the room with me? (Unless you are, in which case speak up and also get out from under my desk please.) Well the 'ditch' is a Yorkshire pudding cooked in a loaf tin, and the 'eggs' are, err, eggs. Specifically, fried ones. And even more specifically, hen's ones - though I'm sure you could use the ovum output of another bird if you wanted. The theory being that this meal would be an overpriced, stodgy, charmless and bloated lump - a bit like a Rolls Royce, and thus a status symbol for vainglorious dimwits if I charged £300 a pop f...

Unless you're one of those guys who has to live in some sort of tank or bubble, you've probably had a cold - and by one of those guys who has to live in a bubble I mean someone with an impaired immune system who can't come into contact with pathogens, as opposed to arsewit 'magician' David Blaine doing another dreary stunt. He doesn't have to live in a bubble of course and just periodically chooses to, although ironically it would be a whole lot better if he did have to live in one full time and then also the bubble floated out to sea and was eaten by a kraken. But anyway, when you have a cold, people will almost certainly suggest you have either hot honey and lemon and/or chicken soup to help you feel better. The theory being that these are tried and tested cures - chicken soup is even known as 'Jewish penicillin', which probably says a lot more about a frightening lack of oversight at Israeli branches of Boots than anything else. However, I'm ...

So here we are then, week 2. Having recovered from last week's undiluted gravy granule-induced heartburn, this week we're doing a twist on a genuine recipe accompanied by not so much a twist as a full-on dislocation with dreadfully torn ligaments of a traditional side. With surprising results - not least of which being I'm not in A&E at the moment on some sort of drip. As before, here's this week's identity parade of bit parts you'll need for this Frankenstein of a dish should you wish to cook along at home (preferably your home, as I've already done the washing up). And yes, I know Frankenstein was the scientist and not the monster so that's technically incorrect, but then I also know this: shut up. Anyway: Ingredients: If this isn't a balanced diet, I don't know what is. 2 chicken breasts or 4 or 5 mini fillets (basically, pick your favourite chicken extremity and use that) A bottle of Ribena concentrate A bag of radishes Some...