Gaz Cooks Crap

The horror. The horror. I once had a great idea* for a comedy TV show called 'Hendon', where - due to an administrative error - the spirits of everyone good who died ended up in the London borough of Hendon rather than heaven. Likewise, any baddies ended up in Hull rather than hell. Aside from having thoughts of a bickering Hitler and Pol Pot running a Hull fish stall that's about as far as I got, what with not being paid to be a TV writer or anything, aside from stretching out an already tenuous concept even further by thinking you could have a halloween episode. In that one, everyone - due to another administrative error - has to celebrate 'Halesowen' on October 31st instead. Anyway, Happy Halesowen everyone! Today, I'm going to do a take on a traditional autumnal treat (i.e. crap compared to modern stuff - I mean who'd choose a toffee apple over a bag of mini novelty chocolate pumpkins?) that's something suitably disgusting AND potentially usef...

Purple monster curry, eh? Well this all sounds very lewd doesn't it? But wait, come back you hopeless prude! Before you run off to rinse your eyeballs in toilet duck (or own-brand equivalent such as u-bend buzzard, sink flamingo or urinal puffin) I've not suddenly gone all 1990s lad mag - there's a reason this is called purple monster curry that has nothing to do with the sort of groin-based innuendo you'd find in one of the ill-advised modern attempts to reboot the Carry On films. You see, when I'm not actively creating washing up that leaves semi-permanent funny stains in the sink, I like playing video games. And one of the best video games of recent years, and indeed all years, is The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild . For the philistines among you who don't know, in that game you can make yourself various foods to give yourself various abilities, and one such food is the monster curry, which is a rather awful shade of purple what with it containing mo...

All right, sir! Well, here we are. The best part of 4 months, 1 broken arm, and the worst part of 40 grand (i.e. almost all of it) stuffed into a builder's pocket after my last post, and I finally have a kitchen in my house again. And indeed a back wall, roof, sink that doesn't just vomit tepid dish filth directly onto the floor because it isn't hooked up, washing machine for fresh pants, cooker, lounge not full of pots and pans and so on. Oh, and a mostly working arm - nearly forgot that, despite it being quite literally in front of my face. So obviously what better way to celebrate than by getting straight back to ruining perfectly good food and giving myself indigestion? If I were some sort of hipster lifestyle writer who'd been off round the world to 'discover myself' (read: get drunk at someone else's expense) and find a whole new load of taste sensations to blog about, I'd probably pass off the posting break as deliberate and grandly call this ...

Now in this recipe I did end up using quite a lot of this stuff, but hey - what's the harm in ingesting a large amount of...*squints at label*...titanium dioxide? Oh. Ahoy! Unless you've only just been born (in which case, congratulations on having learned to read before mastering control of a number of your body's sphincters) or have just emerged from a not-inconsiderable nap, you'll probably be painfully aware from the weapons-grade fawning undertaken by 99% of the UK's media that there was a Royal Wedding the other day. As these things go, apparently this one wasn't too dreadful - in fact it seems to have annoyed quite a few Daily Mail readers with its progressive take on things, so good on them for winding up the 'gammons'. It did still cost an absolute bumload of cash, though. Specifically, your cash and my cash, as we fund QEII and her ever-expanding clan through our taxes and (if you're an idiot) purchases of Prince Chuck's brand ...

To me, William May seems a very formal (and male) name for a chicken. Then again I've never laid an egg, so what do I know? Happy eggmas! At this special time of year it's always nice to come together with friends and relations and attempt to curse each other with type 2 diabetes via the giving, receiving and tremendous overconsumption of sweet, brown ovals. As you may remember, last year as a special Easter treat I did a double whammy of a scotch creme egg and superhot cross buns . This year, I've decided my special Easter treat will be not having to eat a packet of Rennies and not choking myself to death on a birds eye chilli, so it's a single whammy instead. But hoist your trousers, madam, because it's a bit of a 2 for 1 anyway. You can't accuse me of not giving value for money! Literally - it's not like anyone pays me to do this. So what am I doing? Well like a lazy DJ when the first side of Now 98 comes to an end and I have to get off my ars...