meemalee

A fortnight ago, my husband was looking up Noel's House Party on the internet (don't ask). This in turn led to him doing an image search for " Mr Blobby " (really don't ask). In amongst the pictures of the yellow-spotted pink abomination nestled an even greater insult to nature - the feller above, Latin name Psychrolutes marcidus , common name "Blobfish". No, seriously. Slightly over-excited at this discovery and wanting to share the love, I immediately went on Twitter and posted a link. It got retweeted a couple of times by the Twitterverse. And then I thought nothing more of it. Until a couple of days ago, I opened up my copy of Metro and found this staring back up at me: Coincidence, much? I went back on Twitter to share my concerns. And got this response: And indeed the Mirror had also written about our friend, the blobfish. This was getting ridiculous. I think the height of newfound blobfish hysteria was finally reached when Mr Blobfish featured

Dearest Mister Mike Patton , many happy returns on this your 42nd birthday. Age cannot wither you, nor custom stale your infinite variety. ( cartoon by Brian Walsby ) ( "Reunited" video from the Faith No More Reunion at Brixton Academy )

Without wishing to offend the myriad fans of the marvellous Sir Terry Wogan aka his TOGS (Terry's Old Geezers and Gals), I kind of wish this headline wasn't just metaphorical. ( More on Terry Wogan versus Chris Evans here )

When my husband and I moved into our marital home, some previous occupants had no intention of leaving. The intruders were welcome to stay though, as one was a man-sized freezer and the other a man-sized fridge. I’ve no idea how old they are, but the make is Husqvarna who only seem to make lawnmowers these days so I’m guessing they’re pretty elderly. I don’t think I could cope without my chocolatey twins. I know they’ll be past it one day, but I have cherished every moment with them, so much so that I recently removed all the rude magnetic poetry for fear of disrespect. Last weekend though, the unthinkable happened - I contemplated cheating on my gorgeous Husqvarnas. The new object of my desire? A Miele MasterCool fridge freezer - the size of a walk-in wardrobe and just as alluring. And where did I find this eye candy? Abingdon, Oxfordshire - the home of the Miele Experience Centre where you can literally try before you buy, as they run MasterClasses (ie cookery courses) to demonstr

We came. We saw. We ate pig. Last Friday, 16 of London's finest female foodies descended on St John Restaurant , Smithfields, to take part in Ladies' PigFest 2010 . It's been a life-long dream of mine to ravage a whole wild boar Obelix style, so this was one step closer to fulfilling that dream - for our group of girls were about to dine on suckling pig. Kill the pig, cut his throat, bash him in ... Our pre-booked, pre-paid piggy feast was composed as follows: Ladies' PigFest 2010 Roast Bone Marrow & Parsley Salad Whole Crab & Mayonnaise Whole Roast Suckling Pig, Potatoes & Greens Eccles Cake & Lancashire Cheese Spotted Dick & Custard Sounds bloody brilliant, doesn't it? We gathered beforehand at Smithfield Tavern for a drink, but spurned their enticing scotch eggs and sausage rolls in anticipation of the ensuing piggery. I'd made badges and A Scot in London brought crowns - what could possibly go wrong? It was my very first time at St Joh

We interrupt our normal schedule for a guest post from A Scot in London: "There is a very strange thing in Anglo-Saxon culture that would be worthy of in depth anthropological study and that is the gender assignation given to food. If you are not sure what I mean then look at the number of food reviews describing food as macho, separating men from boys, butch, etc etc. Almost everyone writing in English is at it. Personally I blame Anthony Bourdain and the like. At some point chefs decided they were pirates and that cutting meat was akin to hoisting petards. Well I’m sorry boys, you don’t swash buckles, you chop onions and last time I looked it wasn’t the same thing. The losers in this, as always, are the women, as anything a man decided he liked became macho. So it is with steak. We – me and a few n’er do wells on Twitter- have decided it was time that this imbalance in our culture was redressed and that a new phenomenon of women meeting for steak and martini, as opposed to after

So last week I was stuck at home for three days, because my "metro" train service into London is a big steaming pile of fail and couldn't cope if a pigeon farted in its general direction, let alone deal with the heavy snowfall we'd received. Cabin fever was setting in, not least because husband and I were unused to being at home at the same time without it being a holiday. Apart from working, we passed the time by yelling to each other to make a cup of tea. I invariably won because (a) I'm me and (b) he was nearer the kitchen. Anyway, as I've mentioned before , I'm a survivalist at heart, so being snowed in was kinda thrilling as it provided the perfect excuse to break out the ration packs I'd kept stockpiled under the stairs. Okay, not technically ration packs (though Lord knows I've tried to buy some genuine field rations off eBay), but camping meals made by Wayfayrer . Pasta and meatballs, and chicken casserole - so far, so blah, but here

I only know three things about Michael Bublé. Michael Bublé's surname is pronounced "Boob-lay". Michael Bublé is addicted to pain . Michael Bublé thinks his mum is hot. I quote: "I looked at my mom, who was my date, and said, 'Mom, you look hot'" That is all I know, and that is all I need to know. 12/01/10 EDITED TO ADD: So it turns out that Michael Buble got engaged this weekend (and not to his mother) ie mere days after I published this post. Coincidence? I think not.

It's my 100th post! To celebrate, I'm ramping up the cute factor with a few Burmese cats. By "Burmese cats", I don't mean Burmese cats , although maybe some of them are, because I can't really tell them apart. By "Burmese cats", I don't mean Birmans aka the Sacred Cat of Burma - incidentally, wtf? We're not ancient Egyptians. We don't worship cats. Nope, I'm just showcasing some cute little fluffy kitty-cats from Burma (although that third one below looks a bit evil to me). Feel free to imagine your own lolcat captions.