07 November 2005

Off my meds, again.

Life isn’t all just corporate brigandage and rapine, you know. Sometimes one must knuckle down, grit one’s teeth and go to a piss-up. This weekend, however, was not one of those times. I had not mown the lawn in over a month and had received “The Look” ™; you know,the one that says: “A) I have pinking shears, and B) I Know where you keep your willie.”

Since I had to mow, shear, trim, dig and blast all weekend long, nothing exciting happened, so I am forced to dredge up mouldy stories.

It has occurred to me on many occasions that British football hooligans could be vastly more effective if they were to adopt the American habit of tailgating. I know we are certainly more likely to eat the opposing team’s mascot when we have just consumed a truck load of alcohol and grub.

Besides, it is a perfect chance for evil one-upsmanship. Flaunting filet mignon with boursin, lobster, coquille St. Jacques mornay, asparagus Normandie and a two keg beer delivery system, makes the usual light beer and hotdog affair seem flaccid. If we weren’t such terrible nerds, it would be a tremendous chick magnet.

So that is why I built the 20 gallon piña colada maker.

Things started out well. There was a chilly breeze, and being “gentlemen” we leant our coats to the ladies. Besides, I was quite warm next to the grill and lobster cooker. Then, buttery disaster struck.


A charming young lady, wearing Putz’s jacket, displays the lobstaah for the cameras. Note how the liter of clarified butter that I had poured over them is draining into the right sleeve. Also, note the blurry image of the Putz on the right, as he dashes in, in a doomed attempt to salvage his jacket.
<Homer Drool> Mmmm, Rich, buttery, jacket </Homer Drool>



“Think on the good side, Putz, you’ve been packing it on, and your jacket is getting rather tight. Think how easy it will be to slide into now.”

He gave me “The Look” ™.

I didn’t know that it was possible for men to give “The Look” ™. I decided to change the subject.

“Why don’t I fire up the Coladatron? You look like you could use a drink.”

The Coladatron is nothing more than a giant blender, manufactured from the compressor stage of an old Allison turboprop; powered by a 6.5 HP lawn mower engine.

For you Continental types out there, I’m not sure what that comes out to in terms metric Cod Power units. (Of course I am joking; as a scientist, I use the SI system. One Horse Power is the equivalent of 32 Cod Power. The Euro-folk have damn powerful cod, and quite frankly, I fear them.)

Flash poured in six bags of ice, four bottles of piña colada mix and enough rum to feed my family for a fortnight. “Fire it up!” exclaimed Flash. I did so.
“It’s binding. More power!” shouted Flash.

I cranked the throttle fully. The ice started to move sluggishly.

“More power!”

I cranked open the valve to the nitrous oxide cylinder. The trick to getting nitrous is knowing where a dentist’s office is, and having a brick.

The damn thing worked! Briefly.

Without having balanced the compressor dynamically, the tip gap became negative, and the coladatron; well, it blew up.

Putz had been knocked back on his arse. He was covered with translucent, white piña cheese and was as pale as a ghost.

“Christ, Putz, are you okay?” I asked, jumping down to help him. He crab crawled away from me.

“Back off, monster!” He shouted. “You bevricidal maniac!”


And that's the way I likes it.