DARREN Ford is unhappy that his Asda sold him a chicken curry withut the chicken.
Mr Ford, a chef by trade, bought the meal from Asda in Worcester. He tells the Worcester News:
“I put it in the oven and I’m looking at it and thinking, ‘Where’s the chicken?’ We had to spend £20 on a takeaway because I can’t drive and it was late at night. I phoned customer services to be told I was only going to get a refund and a £5 gift voucher. I’ve told them they can keep their gift card and I won’t be going in there again. I’m unemployed at the moment and £20 is money I haven’t got to spare. It’s absolutely ridiculous.”
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LIAM Johnston, 21, has pleaded guilty to obtaining almost £120 worth of goods – namely, Domino’s pizas – by fraud (a fake credit card). But he’s not at Livingston Sheriff Court because he’s too fat, or “medically unfit”, as his lawyer calls it.
Mr Johnston tips the scales at 40 stone.
Johnston, is now “getting advice on what benefits he could claim after losing his Job Seekers Allowance.” He has been asked to be examined by his GP.
One might suggest a cure all – that Mr Johnston take up working for Domino’s as a walking pizza delivery man to pay off any debt. Or that the courtroom docks be made larger, and the scales of justice less biased towards the thin and slippery.
Spotter: The Scotsman
SO. What does go with your Mystery Science Theatre 3000 headboard? Why, A Mystery Science Theater 3000 vinyl wall decal:
This decal measures 70 inches wide by 22 inches high (approx). Available in other colors…
TO Portsmouth, where Shani Stock has found “a grisly hairy lump” in her mum’s lasagna. No, not the lodger. This was a lump of substance in the dish mum Trudy made using a £3 bag of frozen mince from Iceland.
The Portsmouth News reports:
Mum Trudy, 29, of Grove Road in Elson, Gosport is concerned as her daughter, already a fussy eater, now refuses to eat much else apart from crisps and picks through any meals she does agree to eat.
ONE does wonder sometimes what they’re smoking over there in Brussels. The latest bright idea is that in order to reduce gender inequality therefore we must ban all pornography:
EASTER egg of the day: the Mr Bump:
THE Daily Mail states: “Processed meat ‘is to blame for one in 30 deaths‘.” Maybe. Maybe not.
The BBC echoes this ‘news’: “Processed meat ‘early death’ link.”
Sausages, ham, bacon and other processed meats appear to increase the risk of dying young…. Diets high in processed meats were linked to cardiovascular disease, cancer and early deaths.
IN the New Yorker, Michael Idov writes about the problems of staging Lolita, a play based on Vladimir Nabokov’s book. It’s the 1955 story of a middle-aged professor who falls for a 12-year-old girl. The Sunday Express called Lolita “sheer unrestrained pornography”. It might be.
BANSKY is the famous Bristolian artist, a master of witty one liners. They say he’s called Robin Gunningham. The Banksy part came from his nickname Robin Banx. He went to Bristol Cathedral School. He left with an E grade in his art GCSE. Other than that, we know little.
RIM shot! It’s not numbers one and two on the toilet any more, folks. Technology means you can play toielt basketball, toilet golf and toilet fishing – not as disgusting as it sounds:
METSA’s Lambi brand toilet tissues are adorned with words from the Gospel of Matthew and First Corinthians. Customers in Norway, Denmark and Sweden could wipe their backsides on legends like Jesus’s words of wisdom:
“For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”
MARC Bradley Johnson, 23, a student at the School of Visual Arts in New York City, turned his masturbation into his art. Johnson’s work, Take This Sperm And Be Free Of Me, was 68 vials of his own jizz in a fridge.
Marc’s sperm was not a last-minute attempt to concoct homework from his linen. It represented “creation, parenting, desire, masculinity, fantasy and reality”. He’d give them away to the enthusiasts.
BAD Ad Watch: Abbott’s Village Bakery thinks it a good idea to portray its “free range” bread as grazing livestock. What the hell is in that loaf of bread? Do you know? Entrails? Horse? Worms?
We see birds sit on it, with their dirty bird feet. It walks in muddy pasture. And then the young bread beast is sliced up, most likely whilst it’s still alive:
WHAT is that substance inside your Icelandic beef pie? The Icelandic Food and Veterinary Authority (MAST) is uncertain, although it has narrowed things down. It can state that the meaty substance is not meat, rather a kind of “vegetable matter”. The label says 30 percent beef. It may care to be augmented with a “maybe”.
GET cleaning ladies: it’s because you’re porky fatties. And rather than this being the usual misogynist tripe this is actually sound science. There is a real reason for muffin tops and gargantuan bingo wings: it’s that no one is cleaning behind the stove properly any more. Really:
Women, they found, once had been quite physically active around the house, spending, in 1965, an average of 25.7 hours a week cleaning, cooking and doing laundry. Those activities, whatever their social freight, required the expenditure of considerable energy. (The authors did not include child care time in their calculations, since the women’s diary entries related to child care were inconsistent and often overlapped those of other activities.) In general at that time, working women devoted somewhat fewer hours to housework, while those not employed outside the home spent more.
Forty-five years later, in 2010, things had changed dramatically. By then, the time-use diaries showed, women were spending an average of 13.3 hours per week on housework.
HOW would you promote beef as delicious food? If you’re Burger Urge, you dress a cow in top hat and monocle, and have a model lick its leathery face. The slogan orders customers to “Get Intimate with our new Premium Beef”. Nothing is sex. Last week we brought news of a woman having sex with a tiger. Another mated with a squid. Dogs are common partners. You can read our report on other things humans have had sex with, our favourite being the fence.
BOOK of the Day: The Life and Loves of Mr Jiveass Nigger, by Cecil Brown: