Restaurant Review: McDonald's Raspberry & White Chocolate Pie

"Limited Time Only" "Caution HOT!" "Scan for nutrition and allergen information." "A red short crust pastry pie with a raspberry and white chocolate filling." "Served hot." 

Not my words, but those of the McDonald's Corporation. 

Do you like McDonald's hot apple pies? Well, there's a new kid on the block (Limited Time Only) with all the potential for molten fruitish-filling shenanigans as its more sensible, workaday brother. But wait, this guy's packing white chocolate too? What is white chocolate? Seems to be chocolate without the colour you normally associate with chocolate i.e. chocolate. Let's agree it's probably cooked sugar diluted with milk. Best not to delve too deeply, imo. The raspberry bit? I'm guessing that's jam minus time. I'm no expert, but am expecting sweet.

To give the crunch-enveloped, fruit-based dessert its best chance I went for controlled conditions. Nothing else was eaten beforehand, and I tried to act as quickly as possible for the hottest of results. 

*consumes pie*

The Verdict: If you don't like McDonald's hot apple pies, this babe isn't going to change your mind about big Ron's dessert offerings. I've got a sweet tooth (and some right bastard ones too lol) but was fearing this would be off the charts. Not so. About the same as the apple one. Because of gravity (perhaps a complete control experiment would involve eating one in a vacuum or space - if anyone wants to set that up I'm game) there was an uneven spread of filling (therefore flavour) throughout the six inches or so (careful) of food. As a result there was a definite hit of raspberry halfway down. Further experiments may ascertain whether this was due to "white chocolate" diluting the raspberry flavour elsewhere, or just a big old dollop of the red stuff lurking halfway down. 

Overall, three stars out of five: not for everyone, but in its field a potentially compelling effort (much like Underworld's 'Beaucoup Fish' album of 1999).

I'm not made of money, so limited myself to one experimental pie this time. I think I'd prefer a raspberry one without the so-called white chocolate interference. It seemed to only muddy the waters, ironically. I had a latte afterwards, which was leng.

The Smyths (sic), 13/1/24, Shepherd's Bush Empire

 "There is an obvious media shift to delete me from being the central essence of The Smiths, but this cannot work because I invented the group, the name, the song titles, the album titles..."

So moans Morrissey. In the words of Father Ted (when found with a stash of nazi memorabilia), you do get a bit more right wing as you get older. I'm not going to discuss or defend 'Bengali in Platforms' here, but from that first solo L.P. 'Viva Hate' the journalists were wondering... and now it's widely accepted that The Moz (to give him his full name) has gone nuts. Not quite Neil Oliver/Russell Brand/Right Said Fred nuts, but enough to worry anyone with an allergy.  

The Smyths: banter lads obviously.
(Sorry Jon, didn't make it in time to see you.)

Parking that, what about The Smyths? First I'd heard/seen of them was last night's show at The Shepherd's Bush Empire, a 2,000-seat venue that was 90% full. Apparently they've been going since 2003, gaining the confidence to become their own Smiths/Moz-solo hybrid. They were witty, efficient and put on a splendid show. Take their mock Morrissey (Mockrissey?) Graham Sampson away however, and you could've been in The Bell & Compasses watching Any (very good) Pub Band. The Smyths prove Morrissey right: The Smiths were mostly frontman, and the other guys Johnny, "Bruce and Rick"* were great musicians rightly loved, but come on...

From last night's show, and The Smyths' Facebook.
Photo: Steve Millgate

Back to The Smyths. Last night they were introduced by longtime fan and heralder of the cause, Jeremy Vine. You'll be pleased to read he was greeted with boos, and shouts of "bike nonce!" Frankly, the whole enterprise was worth its two-decade gestation for this moment alone. Would recommend. The star of the show was frontman (see!) Graham Sampson (Grammossy? Needs work). He certainly has the haut. The walk to the microphone stand, rehearsed endlessly no doubt, told me (as it would you) they were going to have a proper go at it. He's got the voice to around 86-92%, only a reediness in the higher registers letting him down (he chooses to go low at some telling points, and just about gets away with it). His dancing was less fluid than the real thing and tailed off as the night went on, but this was their biggest night so some slack cutting is in order I reckon. He was dressed incidentally as 'Vauxhall and I'-era Mozzer [citation needed], before the hair went grey, and when suits became his costume du jour. Earlier photos on their website show the paisley-shirt-open-at-the-navel, flower-throwing days have also been covered. 

They were supported by their own bootleg Billy Bragg, 'Billy Blagg' (Jon Hunt, also enjoying the biggest night of his musical life). Lovely stuff. 

Jeremy Vine (bike nonce) and Graham Sampson (the voice)

The high point for me was 'That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore,' faultlessly done. They also excel at the 'Panic' and 'Sheila Take A Bow'-type thumpers. Criticisms? They lack swing. 'Girlfriend in a Coma' and 'Ask' definitely have a bit of swing about them, but here they were rendered motorik four-to-the-floor rock numbers. Again, this could be their evolution over 20 years and none of my business, but it was a musical minus point. This heavy-handed approach, which I have to blame on the drummer (Myke Joice?), marred the inevitable encore 'How Soon is Now.' Less the throbbing, sprawling joy of the original, it became a military two-step down the nape of my neck. A shame, because the different versions of 'How Soon...' show how encoreable it can be. Their Johhnny-come-lately Marr Andy Munro (Anndy Murr? Munnrossey? Again, needs work) played all the right notes in the right order, but he has the wrong guitars. Johnny Marr uses a Fender Jaguar, in fact he has a signature model built to his own specification. He discovered that he could get "the Jag" (to give it its full name) sound like any other guitar. I wouldn't begrudge Andy Munro having three guitars on stage, but visually they'd have to be a cherry red Gibson ES-335, A cherry red or gold-top Gibson Les Paul** and a Fender Jaguar. Crowdfund it lads, it'll be worth it.

The Smyths then; very, very good. What next? They can keep touring indefinitely I presume, not having to wait for the next album as an excuse. Perhaps follow them on Instagram and Facebook, to see if they're in the provincial town you jut round soon.

The Smyths, quite literally at a crossroads.

*Talking to Stuart Maconie, when asked about his old band mates... "I love and have loved Johnny Marr, but I haven't heard from Bruce or Rick." A reference to Bruce Foxton and Rick Buttler of The Jam, discarded by Paul Weller when he morphed into The Style Council.

**Johnny Marr has a big guitar collection and would've used many different ones over the years, but those three are his most recognisable imvho.

 

A Short Story

This is a short story about aliens and Michael Bendell.

Michael (never 'Mike') Bendell is a swimmer. Not a professional swimmer, it's not his job to swim, and although you could argue he's been paid to swim before, that was for charity so doesn't count.

Michael is swimming. He was swimming some time before, and he's swimming now. But between the "then" and the "now" something happened. Either Micheal had one of those existential moments when he was somehow outside his own body and had time to consider his own being from a distance, or he was abducted by aliens, experimented on (why else would they do it?) and placed back in the water without realising what had happened. Between strokes (he was doing the 'front crawl' - he'd often lay on his back and just drift, but today's swim had an indeterminate time pressure, so the fastest of strokes it was), fractions of a second after the out-of-body experience, he was back in the real world. Swimming not as quick as he used to, but maintaining a very respectable pace for a man of 43 years, nine months and thirteen days. His age was/is not important to the aliens.

When we hear stories of alien abductions they're usually from remote areas of the planet. The collection of stories montaged during 'Close Encounters of the Third Kind' are typical: deserts, people who probably worship the sun or similar, not Reading town centre or 500 yards out in The Thames estuary near Leigh-On-Sea. Thing is, Aliens look down on The Earth and most of it is water. They calculate that whatever inhabits The Earth is likely to be in the blue bits, not on the green and brown bits. It's just maths. So the vast majority of alien abductions have been fish and sea mammals. Whales and dolphins usually, although they tried great plankton shoals too (in case the shoal was one great organism, which of course it is). These abductions have to date been so lacking in worthwhile information, that the aliens had all but given up. Fish and sea mammals are great, don't get them wrong, but they're better to eat than to talk to.

Imagine the aliens' joy at stumbling across Michael Bendell 500 yards out in The Thames estuary near Leigh-On-Sea. He wasn't a fish, he seemed to actually realise what was happening to him, and was happy to tell all about the invention of the wheel, the internal combustion engine, and computers. His insides were much the same as the sea mammals, except some small but vital differences in breathing apparatus. On the whole a very worthwhile catch: quick, and informative. They dropped him back exactly where they'd found him, and of course erased any memory he'd had of the abduction. Textbook. Luckily he was immediately conscious enough to continue swimming, rather than drown.

The news today is full of stories of raw sewage being pumped into our seas and rivers because the current government aren't very good. Sad to think that this short-sighted approach to waste disposal will stop people like Michael Bendell from swimming in our natural waters, and prevent aliens from picking him out of the water to experiment on him. Perhaps the aliens will think we enjoy swimming in our own waste, turn their noses up (they have several noses) and decide to try a more civilised planet. It makes you think.

Trevor Chappell's Butterfly Effect

 First, The Butterfly Effect. From Wiki...

"In chaos theory, the butterfly effect is the sensitive dependence on initial conditions in which a small change in one state of a deterministic nonlinear system can result in large differences in a later state."

Also...

"In The Vocation of Man (1800), Johann Gottlieb Fichte says 'you could not remove a single grain of sand from its place without thereby ... changing something throughout all parts of the immeasurable whole'."

And...

"The idea that the death of one butterfly could eventually have a far-reaching ripple effect on subsequent historical events made its earliest known appearance in 'A Sound of Thunder', a 1952 short story by Ray Bradbury. 'A Sound of Thunder' features time travel."

Go back in time, accidentally tread on a butterfly, travel back, everything you understood before could now be different.

Now, Trevor Chappell. From Wiki...

"Trevor Martin Chappell (born 12 October 1952) is a former Australian cricketer, a member of the South Australian Chappell family which excelled at cricket. He played three tests and 20 One-Day Internationals for Australia. He won the Sheffield Shield with New South Wales twice, and scored a century for Australia against India in the 1983 World Cup." 

"His career was overshadowed, however, by an incident in 1981 when he bowled underarm to New Zealand cricketer Brian McKechnie to stop the batsman hitting a six."

"On 1st February 1981, Australia played New Zealand in a ODI, the third in the best-of-five final, 1980-81 World Series Cup, at the Melbourne Cricket Ground.

With one ball of the final over remaining, New Zealand required a six to tie. Australian captain Greg Chappell instructed his bowler (and younger brother) Trevor Chappell, to deliver the last ball underarm, along the ground. Trevor Chappell did so, forcing McKechnie to play the ball defensively, meaning Australia won. This action, although legal at the time, was nevertheless widely perceived as being wholly against the traditional spirit of cricketing fair play."

Okay. If you could travel back in time (and space) to 1st February 1981 and persuade Trevor Chappell not to bowl underarm, what would the Butterfly Effect of that action be?

I think you could persuade Trevor Chappell not to bowl underarm because a) I don't think he wanted to do it, b) his captain was also his brother - so he could plead to him on a different level to other teammates, c) his teammates (especially Rod Marsh the experienced wicket keeper) also didn't want him to do it, and d) the worst that could have happened had he bowled a normal delivery was McKechnie hitting a six for a tie.

"The outrage caused by the incident eventually led to an official amendment to the international laws of cricket to prevent it from occurring again."

This is the legacy of the incident, the underarm delivery wasn't against the laws of the game, but those laws were subsequently changed so it wouldn't happen again. If we assume Trevor Chappell ignores his brother and bowls a standard delivery, McKechnie hits it for one, two, three, four but not six, and Australia win, the world carries on turning regardless. However, underarm bowling remains legal to this day (*evil chuckle*).

How many more games of cricket take place before another captain thinks bowling underarm is the only option? It could happen tomorrow. It could decide an Ashes test series. It could decide a World Cup Final between India and Pakistan. 

P.S. Only the 'Mankad' has come close to causing the same controversy as Trevor Chappell's action...

"Mulvantrai Himmatlal 'Vinoo' Mankad (12 April 1917 – 21 August 1978) was an Indian cricketer who appeared in 44 Test matches for India between 1946 and 1959. He was best known for his world record setting opening partnership of 413 runs with Pankaj Roy in 1956, a record that stood for 52 years, and for running out a batsman "backing up" at the non-striker's end. Mankading in cricket is named after him."

My Last Assembly

Hello.

Following a tweet from journalist Andrew Male, which lamented having to sing 'Lily The Pink' by The Scaffold at school assembly, I've been thinking about my last school assembly...

First of all, we sang 'Ghost Town' by The Specials (they used to be The Special AKA but decided they should also be known as The Specials because it's easier to say, so "The Specials, also known as 'The Special AKA" is a great joke, and it's what everyone sees when they Google the band), and we sang it bloody well, but that's not the best bit of my final assembly.

I was in "the sixth form" - for any youngsters reading, this was where you got your 'A' Levels for college/university or dossed for anything up to two years to avoid going to work. I was somewhere in the middle: I took Art and English Literature with a view to dossing for two years to avoid going to work. I could've painted the same thing I did for Art 'O' Level and probably passed the 'A' Level hours after completing the 'O' Level exam. This isn't a boast, it's an illustration (no pun intended, nor taken) of how silly exams can be. I still had to do at least a year of life drawing (mostly still, any "models" were fully-clothed attention-seekers from other classes) before being allowed to sit the 'A' Level exam. So I was there a year.

(Back to the assembly bit: sixth formers sat in the balcony, not for them the mosh pit of twelve-year-olds where anything goes, oh no. The fact we had the best view might be important later.)

But what, I pretend to hear, about English Literature? Funny you should ask. My teacher was brilliant, and we were supposed to read loads of really great books, but my laziness was so manifest and evident that Mrs C (I'll save her blushes [if she's still alive]) eventually asked if I'd "rather sit in the corner with a cup of tea and some hot buttered toast?" I would've. 

Anyway, the Art 'A' Level was a piece of piss, and I didn't need English Literature 'A' Level to get into a technical college that did OND/HND courses. So there. (Note: lots of my friends went away to The North to do degree courses [even longer periods of laziness?], but I had a dog I'd have missed terribly, and mum & dad started to see through the 'period of laziness' scam.)

Alright, the assembly...

What I didn't know was that my final assembly coincided with the retirement of our headmaster (I'll call him 'Mr H' to save his blushes [he must be dead]). Mr H, going against every stereotype of a mid-to-late-last-century headmaster you may (or may not) have heard, was a lovely man. Thing is, he wore a wig. 

When I rolled up as a 12-year-old I knew nothing of periwigs, syrups, rugs, hair-hats and the like. Because Mr H was such a great bloke, and hardly any of us got close to him, it was only when I made the sixth form that I was observant enough to offer a "hang on..." or a "is that...?" The first time the piece-in-the-room was openly discussed was a week before the final assembly, when Mr S (another absolutely top bloke: taught Maths, was so loved that I can only remember him raising his voice above Library Whisper once. "Why is there talking?" he said, and not a sound was heard ever again) announced the news that Mr H was leaving. 

Someone much braver/stupider/ than me offered: "Ha, is he going to take his wig off?"

Simon and/or Garfunkel would've been proud of the sound of silence that followed. Mr S stood up (another first), and we knew this would be big. I'll paraphrase Mr S's following speech because a) I didn't have a Dictaphone (they still make them!), and b) memory is a very strange thing: you may think you remember what happened in 1981, but you're probably remembering what your brain told you the last time you tried to remember what happened in 1981 (It's a bit like Chinese Whispers)...

"You'll all agree, I'm sure, that Mr H has been a brilliant headmaster for this school. Hands up anyone who thinks otherwise... (nothing, of course) ... yes, he wears a wig." 

*actual gasps* (even from RS, the questioner [and there were two RSs in the room, lawyers.])

"But consider this: why would a man wear a wig? Yes, your mums and dads might suggest it's vanity - 'he wants to look younger than he is' - but what if there's another reason. What, for instance, if his head is unsightly."

Fucking hell. Those words still ring today. I still haven't been able to watch 'The Elephant Man' all the way through: he was potentially unsightly.

*cut to the assembly*

We sang our songs, we signed our little notebooks, vowing to keep in touch (*looks to camera*), and finally Mr H rocks up to give his final address. Again I'll paraphrase for brevity, and the Chinese Whispers memory thing... 

"Good luck everyone!"

*REMOVES WIG, WAVES IT ABOUT*

*prolonged cheers*

Lovely stuff.

Spotify: Robot or Philosophy?

 Hello.

I started doing a thing on Twitter this year called ‘#1of365in22’. I did a similar thing in 2016, which was simply a way of having something to do on Twitter except trolling Piers Morgan. That in turn was inspired by John Aizlewood (renowned music journalist and all-round brilliant egg), who does his ‘A Song A Day For A Year’.

The difference this time is there’s a philosophical element to it. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. Let me explain.

Here’s the system (and you’ve got to have a system): I choose an artist on Spotify, I wait for ‘[that artist] Artist’ to appear, and I press ‘Play’.

The idea is that the resulting track is either the average or mean track by that artist. This could be the only philosophical question here: which of the two is it?

To be the mean track, I think everyone pressing ‘Play’, anywhere in the world would have to get the same result.

To be the average track (which is what I’m expecting to be a more obtainable result), everyone pressing ‘Play’ gets a different result but the track isn’t that artist’s biggest hit.

I assumed that any artist chosen needed a large catalogue to increase the ‘sample’, to avoid any “one-hit wonders”.

So for instance, if I press ‘Play’ for New Order (who have a sizeable back catalogue, but for a casual Spotifier might only be known for ‘Blue Monday’) and ‘Blue Monday’ is the first result, the experiment (and it is an experiment) is over.

I haven’t done New Order yet. The ones I’ve done so far have not brought up the ‘Blue Monday constant/variable’: they’ve kinda been album tracks that are still strong, or surprising tracks I hadn’t heard before. (Talking of sample sizes, I’m not a big sample myself as many of the artists I’ll choose will be unfamiliar to me despite their renown. This is a sort of disclaimer I suppose.)

A second element of jeopardy was added: once I knew the track I Googled said track, and the first YouTube result for that track would be the one I posted to Twitter. (The first time this skewed things was for AC/DC: ‘Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap’ came up on Spotify; a song recorded when the deceased Bon Scott was lead singer. The first YouTube result was a live version of the song recorded much later, when Brian Johnson had taken over.)

As we “speak”, I’ve done 22 of these searches and had one interaction as a result. That one interaction was a comment on the artist I searched on January 1st: The Fall. Unfortunately for this blog, it had absolutely nothing to do with the experiment. Never mind. The Fall do however bring in an extra cubist fourth dimension to the experiment (as well as life itself)...

The Fall existed in a different world to us. They definitely exist beyond this experiment. The song that ‘Play’ called up on January 1st was ‘No Bulbs’ from their ‘The Wonderful and Frightening World of The Fall’ L.P. I think this is not only an “average/mean” track by The Fall, it may be an average/mean title too. Fans of The Fall love the titles as much as the music, it’s their fourth dimension. I’m digressing here, but if for instance ‘To Nk Roachment: Yarbles’ is the MOST The Fall title (please feel free to correct me The Fall fans, I know you can), and say ‘Lost In Music’ (a cover version I know, but throw me a bone here) is the dullest... ‘No Bulbs’ definitely (in my mind) sits in the middle. Why? Because in itself it’s not a particularly weird title by The Fall’s standards, but when you know Mark E Smith is going to rant on about having no BELTS in his “trash-mount” of a flat, before moving on to bulbs, it’s funnier (and The Fall are funny, apart from all the other fantastic things they were).

I said “are” and “were” above, because unless you saw every concert by The Fall, or you are a surviving molecule of Mark E Smith or his grandmother (bongos), there’s always more to learn.

So to conclude we have ‘Spotify Search’ + ‘YouTube Search’ (Where The Fall titles are variable Yarbles) for the math(s) fans. And I’m willing to admit this is simply someone (let’s face it me) wrestling with a robot (Spotify) because I can’t be bothered to upgrade to ‘Prime’ and lose the adverts.

No pressure, but if you join in on any day, I would love to hear your results.

Why I Can’t Wordle

Wordle is the current big thing. Your Twitter feed will be splattered with grids of squares, signifying that someone has guessed a five-letter word through a process of elimination. Twitter being Twitter, you’re almost as likely to see accounts claiming that they’ve muted the word “Wordle”, so players’ results don’t litter their precious timelines. 

I won’t Wordle, but I won’t hate Wordle. I’m not one of the second group mentioned above because I’m jealous Wordlers (for that must be their name) have found a wholesome way to exercise their minds, and share the experience with others. My problem is with puzzles, and to a lesser extent quizzes, in general.

Taking Wordle specifically, my brain refuses to enjoy trying to work out an answer that someone else already knows. The five-letter word already exists, and whether I can work it out or not is irrelevant. This, as you can imagine, makes all puzzles a problem...

Jigsaws: give me a 5,000-piece jigsaw of a Jackson Pollock and I’ll point to the picture on the box and tell you it’s already finished.

Crosswords: the same problem as Wordle, but multiplied. Someone has already put all the words in the grid; hell, they even give you the answers via a link or in the back of the book. What’s the point? Why not just save time and read the answers first? 

“You’re exercising your brain, and learning new words” is the answer, I know... but a) I’m no good at crosswords (don’t even mention cryptic ones), b) I prefer questions where there is no right answer, and c) the idea that the puzzle-setter is sitting somewhere giggling away at my incompetence makes me unhappy.

Quizzes: Only Connect. The Wall on Only Connect. Not only are there four groups of four random things to arrange, but while you watch the teams try and do it the three members of the team are shouting at each other and smashing buttons... *screams* ... and all along some smug git is rubbing their hands together because no one spotted the “red herrings”. And Lord of The Rings. There are always questions on Lord of The fucking Rings.

Hateful.

University Challenge: the only good thing about University Challenge is that none of the students are old enough to know the cool music you grew up with, so when they hear Sex Pistols or Ned’s Atomic Dustbin and look at each other nonplussed, it’s our turn to be smug.

Enjoy Wordle.