Doubles Enstandards

Years and years (and years) ago, a family member tried to buy a t-shirt bearing the legend 'Kentucky Fried Rat' complete with an image of an appropriately prepared rodent. He couldn't in the end because the mail-order company went out of business . That's what happens when you sell clothing that makes passers-by vomit, leap in front of buses and squander their final moments twitching in a lagoon of bile and incontinence.

Not so long ago, Ratatouille hit cinemas and grown-ups were being dragged by both tiny and not so tiny ('special') hands into multiplexes to weep into their disappointing popcorn at the antics of a rat that worked in a restaurant. Those were tears of joy that were blazing a trail of mirth down their rosy cheeks by the way, not tears of glum. And that's just the parents. The fat little cherubs parked next to them were enjoying it so much they exploded. Then they swept themselves up into a Cineworld Ratatouille dustpan, dribbled Fanta over themselves to form a putty, reformed their putty into something vaguely resembling a child, only to explode all over again. That's how much they loved this film. Then they would leave the cinema to visit Mcdonalds and have a Ratatouille branded Happy Meal. Now, did they look at the panicking rat on the box (pictured sprinting across a tabletop) and think "ooh, they wanna get the departmen' of 'ealth in der"? Did they fuck. They smiled at the box, smile at the cherub munching on his Ratatouille fries and Ratatouille beef burger, slurping his Ratatouille coke and wiping the Ratatouille grease away from his Ratatouille face and thought no more than "ratatouille ratatouille ratatouille ratatouille ratatouilleratatata". Curiously, the Ratatouille Happy Meal contained no actual ratatouille. Then again Mcdonalds are often guilty of these misnomers. 'Beef burger' for example.

Time does march on though, and now a family have complained after visiting their local KFC and seen a rat running around the restaurant. The rat was no doubt startled by this negative response. I bet he trotted out the kitchen door, pockets bulging with Ratatouille party favours expecting to entertain the kiddywinks, and instead of spending the afternoon making Pixar balloon animals he gets chased away by irate mums screaming "eek, rat!". As he ran back into the kitchen he must have been wondering why they didn't say the whole word. That's before he had too much cheese and beat his wife of course.

Britain, make up your bloody mind.

The Beard of Woe

Recently I have been unwell, and unable to shave because of this unwellness. So, whilst lurking in the catacombs of my house wearing a white mask and causing chandeliers to drop unexpectedly, I had grown a beard. For a generally non-hairy face this is quite an arduous process. It's like a contest in which you have to spend every waking hour with someone standing next to you, prodding you and throwing itching powder in your face. If you succeed in neither clawing your face off or killing your annoying companion, you win your health back. My face had been relentlessly pushing dead protein-sticks through my follicles like brie through a lazy cheese-grater, hoping in vain that I will take the hint and slice them off. I didn't.

The trouble is, after a while I found I actually quite liked it. Maybe a watershed moment crept by lacking the common decency to make itself known. All of a sudden, it stopped itching. I ceased clawing at my face like a man convinced a more attractive one lies beneath the unattractive layer of putty currently in place. But could I be a beardy? I really didn't know. On the positive side I enjoyed running my fingers through the chin whiskers when wishing to appear wise. On the negative side, two hours after dinner I'd go to the bathroom and whilst washing my hands would notice a sweetcorn kernal nestling amoungst the foliage of my upper lip like a tiny yellow woodsman, or less pleasantly, a gangrenous Chesney Hawks mole. I remember an episode of 'Police Squad' where a large man ('Al', who's so tall his head appears off-screen) is told he has food stuck to his face. He dislodges it and a chicken leg hits the desk. If I kept my face-fuzz, would that be me? Would a polite colleague mention a little lunch had remained and was currently lurking in my cheek-Sherwood like one of Robin's merry men, would I in turn dislodge it and suffer the shame of an eight-foot lasagne farting from my face as if from a furry tv-dinner dispenser? I don't think I could survive that embarrassment, if for no other reason than it being difficult to appear wise whilst wiping bechamel sauce from my keyboard.

So, I was forced to choose. A sage's beard or dinners large enough to host music festivals that rival Glastonbury. A tough choice, but one my razor was all to glad to resolve for me.

Oh, and that's dinner. Parmesan?

Lie in which wardrobe

Sat in my room in a hotel near Leamington Spa, I am delighted to see that there is a small safe in one of the desk cupboards. My delight stems from the warning label on the door stating 'danger of suffocation exists'. I love the idea that a couple might contemplate putting their child in a safe so that noone steals it when they go for dinner. Why didn't the McCanns think of that?

When I say the warning's on the door, more specifically it is on the inside of the door. As if the tiny new inhabitant would watch the door close, light a candle and then see the sign. A baby's first words, unheard by its parents: "oh...crap".

Sensible positioning or not, the label seems awfully specific to me. 'Danger of suffocation exists'. Yes, yes it does. So does danger of fire. Danger of being run over. Of being mugged. Of getting your heart broken. Being stabbed. Beaten. Poisoned. Electrocuted. Why not include all the dangers that await me rather than just one? Then put it on the room door so I see it when I cross the threshold into the snakepit.

'Just so you know, danger of x; x; x; x; x; x; x; x; x; x; x; x; x; x; x; x...exists. Be careful big guy.'