Posted by sean on March 31, 2019 at 11:52 pm in Have I Got News For You, Life In Bath, TBA with No Comments


When it comes to the whole ‘America v Canada’ thing, I always thought the Canadians were the clever ones. After all, the Yanks voted for Donald Trump – and, yes, I am more than aware that 51% of my fellow-Brits voted to leave the European Union.

I may have to reconsider whether Canadians really are clever, having read this story online today.

According to the report, Canadians are contracting salmonella and falling ill, after… get this… cooking frozen chicken nuggets in the microwave.

Just to clarify – for fans of ‘TOWIE’ and the 51%ers – you CANNOT cook frozen, raw chicken in the microwave – however tasty the breadcrumb batter looks frozen solid. It even states on the packaging, to heat the nuggets in an OVEN.

See, by comparison, the Trump thing doesn’t seem so daft now, does it?

If he’s being “cooked” in the microwave, the uncle will be having the last laugh!

Poor Foghorn Leghorn – he never stood a chance

The whole chicken in microwave story reminded me of a time in my early-twenties. I was still living at home. I must have been writing my blog, under its original name – Sparkster.net. Heaven knows why I didn’t blog about this…

Anyway, I’m still a young whipper-snapper. My brother is an even younger teenage whipper-snapper.

As far as teenagers go, he was relatively ok. Not as goody-two-shoes as me, but there’s very little trouble you can get into, if you spend the majority of your teenage years, locked in your bedroom, playing Donkey Kong Country and Crash Bandicoot.

The only problem I had with my brother, was the behaviour of some of his friends.

Now, I am sure they have all grown into very kind, caring, respectable young men. However, at the time, they had a habit of winding me up…

I would be in the kitchen, making a sandwich or perhaps just getting a packet of crisps – maybe even preparing a crisp sandwich, if I was feeling adventurous.

While in the kitchen, my brother’s friends would march in from outside, before proceeding to search the cupboards, fridge and freezer, like the police carrying out a drugs raid.

Luckily for my mum, they were not searching for drugs. Unluckily for me, they were searching for food. Food, which I would have probably wanted to eat.

My brother’s associates would perform this search, without permission from my mum, or even acknowledging me, despite the fact I was stood, staring flabbergasted, in the middle of the kitchen. Why, oh why, didn’t someone buy my brother a PlayStation and a lock for his bedroom back then…

This blatant food theft would get to me, as it happened frequently over many months – I would like to say years, but fear that I would be exaggerating.

One particularly bad day, one of the food thieves – let’s just call him “Friend A” – was raiding the fridge, when he pulled out a large chicken drumstick, covered in barbacue sauce. I was horrified. Not at the cheek of the food theft – I had sadly become used to that – but the fact the chicken was raw!

For someone who has always been over-the-top, to the brink of OCD, when it comes to food hygiene, I was mortified. What made things worse, was Friend A started eating the chicken. The raw chicken.

He ate the rare poultry, as if he was an animal on a David Attenborough documentary, about life on the Serengeti. Except this wasn’t the plains of famine-stricken Africa. It was a kitchen in middle-class suburban England. Plus, I am yet to see a hyena, eating a gazelle, marinated in Heinz BBQ Sauce.

I allowed Friend A to eat the chicken. Maybe I should have said something, although it wouldn’t have made any difference.

My next worry was that Friend A might be sick on our carpet – or the stairs! I also had a vomit phobia and if he was sick on the stairs, I would be trapped – unable to pass the scene of the incident, until the entire area had been sterilised and cleaned using the acid of a Facehugger, from the film Alien.

Luckily, there was no puking in our house, and as Friend A returned for more of my food, across the days that followed, I can only assume he had an iron stomach and had not fallen foul of the fowl – sorry!

Wow. I can really digress when I get going. This was only meant to be a short post about stupid Canadians. It’s nearly 1am – I’ve been writing for an hour and a half!

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