Well, I suppose you could call it blasphemy

So, chaps and chapesses, it's the time of the month where I go all sexist and parochial.

It's the first Saturday of the month tomorrow, and regular readers will know what that means...

Tomorrow, from 10:00am till 12:00, there will be our monthly 'Dads and Kids' Totally Religion Free Super Adventure Style Saturday... (That's overselling it totally, but, you know me, I sometimes get a a bit over excited)

If you are of the male persuasion, and have a child (legally I mean, I don't suggest you pick one off the street, people aren't so forgiving of that sort of thing nowadays) or two and are within travelling distance of Derby (UK) then you should definitely come and help me eat like, a couple of pigloads of bacon.

There's loads of nice, quiet activities for the kids, Jenga, Extreme table tennis, Might be a Wii, will more than likely be a generic car racing game similar to, but not exactly the same as Scalextric, books, soft-play stuff for kids that still put random stuff in their mouths and giggle when a dog licks their faces, and all sorts of other things if we manage to dig them out.

Refreshment-wise there's toast and jam and Nutella and bacon and chilli sauce, limitless coffee, probably tea too, I'm not really sure, but it's all FREE!

FREEEEEEEEE! 

And how many things can you say that about nowadays?

So, if you have nothing better to do, drop in and help us celebrate.... Actually, we don't really celebrate stuff... We mostly just try to grab all the bacon before the kids get hold of it, which is a game in itself.  You could celebrate something if you want, we won't judge.

And you can also come if you're of the female persuasion, but you will have to wear a fake beard... No, Dudettes, seriously, no whiskers, no entry.  (This does not apply to the Dudes, I understand Bros, not all of you can grow facial hair as awesome as mine... For mine is the beard, the power and the glory... For ever and ever... Amen!  You should still totally come though, it's bitchin'.)

So, at 10:00am on Saturday, 7th December 2013, you should be opening the side door (They won't let us use the main door any more after that incident with the Llama and the eggwhisk... Totally the owner's fault man, I mean who brings a cuckoo clock to an eggwhisk fight?)

Side Door (You'll have to open it yourself, mind my antique studs, they're totally pointy)
St Mary's Church
Boulton Lane,
Alvaston,
Derby.
DE24 0GE

You can't miss it, it looks like a big Church.

This month, we are introducing a new game, called:

See how many times you can get tutted at... 

You see, our Dad's 'n' Kids day this month coincides with the day where the Church traditionally gets decorated ready for Christmas, so there will be people wandering around the place putting up tinsel and decorations and trees and suchlike...  I've a feeling that they're going to want to listen to festive Christmas tunes whilst they're doing it, and they're not going to enjoy constantly stepping over car-racing tracks or being hit in the ear by an Table Tennis ball (I got clipped on the back of the head last month and almost got knocked into the font - We don't call it extreme for nothing)  And that's going to be a pity, because our musical stylings are a little more 'RAWK!' and our Table Tennis is EXTREME!

So, keep score of how many times you get tutted at, bring it to me towards the end, and if you've got the highest score, you get a free cup of coffee, or some bacon if we have any left.

We literally have everything... Except a rug, which is a pity, because it would really tie the room together.

-oOo-

On a different note, I notice that there's an awful lot of things being said about Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela on T'Internet at the moment - Both good and bad, which you'd kind of expect I guess.  But you know, for every one of him, there are a thousand other people who deserve your praise and thanks.  People who've actually done things that have touched you personally without you ever knowing them.

This is one of those people.

Henrietta Lacks 1920-1951

The chances are that you've probably never heard of Henrietta, She was a tobacco farmer in Virginia who developed cancer of the cervix and died shortly afterwards of kidney failure.  Nothing special really, didn't write any sonnets, didn't blow up any electricity pylons, didn't perform any milestone achievement in Human Rights or anything.

However, during her autopsy, some of her cancer cells were sent away and used for research, they were found to have an incredible ability.  They were immortal, and they could be easily grown.

What this meant was they could be used for the development and testing of vaccines and treatments for some of the most aggressive diseases that have ever effected mankind.  If you've been immunised against Polio, that vaccine was tested on her cells, if you know anyone who had been treated chemically for Cancer, HIV/AIDS, Parkinsons, Allergic Sensitivity, Leukemia, Hemophilia, Radiation or Toxic Poisoning, a female that's ever had a PAP test, or had a dog that's been vaccinated against distemper, then none of those treatments could have been developed without the specific qualities of her cells.

Her cells were the first to be cloned, opening up an entirely new field of scientific investigation, which has changed the way we currently think about 'life'  There are over 60,000 scientific papers published about the uses of her cells with around 11,000 patents filed for processes that were tested using them.

In the past sixty years, over twenty tons of her immortal cells have been produced.

The number of people that she's personally helped is literally uncountable... And we've never heard of her.

But will it fly SMick?

Firstly can I congratulate my Daughter on starting her own Blog - Gods bless it and all who sail in it. Hopefully it will give you a somewhat skewed teenagers eye view of the Dandy Universe.

Important word of caution, whilst I am usually a good natured, happy go lucky kinda guy with an infinite amount of patience and startlingly good cheekbones, any sniff of abuse or unwarranted* unkindness towards her and I will, most definately, reach down the perpetrator's epiglottis and show them things that would normally only be available via x-ray.

-oOo-

Right, onto the job in hand.

We've all heard stories about people who've found wonderful things in the most unlikely of places. Antiques Roadshow is full of people who have found original Picasso sketches in their Aunt Mabel's loft or there are those despicable people who find an original, fully working, 1920's Brough Superior in a neighbour's garage which they buy for a fiver as 'It was our Derek's and he never used it, even when he was still alive'.

So, imagine my excitement, when everyone's favourite Chilli cook and professional Scotsman, my good friend SMick, arrived at my front door with news of a 'vehicle' that he'd found out about, just lying in the mud in a farmer's field just around the corner. It was, quite literally, just around the corner, as in those days you could spit the distance from my house to the wonderful British countryside - You had to check no-one was in the way of course, things like that didn't go down well with the residents' association, but a well-hawked loogey would land on grass, or in a tree, or on a sheep.

So, dutifully, I clamboured into his Peugeot and drove the 100 yards to the farm. I walked around to the outbuildings, through knee deep mud, in my white Status Quo style white hi-tops (It was around this time that I changed my footwear of choice to second-hand army boots) and said to SMick.

'OK, where is it?'

'There,' pointed SMick, proudly

'Where, is it behind that scabby P.O.S. Mk1 Transit Luton?'

The slow grin that swept across SMick's face told me all I really needed to know.

'You've got to be.. erm... flipping joking, I'll be in the car...' I said, and started to squidge away as fast as I could.

He convinced me that it would be a good idea, a nice little project, something to do during the day when the pubs were shut. And if we couldn't get it going, then the box on the back was aluminium (Not Al-OO-min-um) and we could weigh it in and get some money out of it.

I honestly cannot remember how we got it out of the field, I think I blocked it from my memory the same way that victims of alien abduction do, I'm fairly sure it involved lots of sheets of wood, many, many bottles of Newcastle Brown Ale and an almost Olympic quantity of swearing.

Eventually, it found itself on my drive. It didn't actually look all that bad with a large proportion of the mud washed off. It also turned out to have a V6 engine which was a bonus, which on it's own started a selection of trike/go-kart fantasies. After the battery was left on charge for about six weeks, the engine would succesfully turn over but not 'catch', dutifully we did what any men confronted with a failing engine would do, we stood staring at the engine and scratched our heads.

'I think the carb needs priming,' SMick suggested, sagely.

'Right you are, how do we do that?' I replied - I wasn't then the mechanical whiz that I'm still not now.

'Well, we just take the air filter off, put something flammable down the carbs and see if it will start then.'

'Flammable?' I asked, nervously, not quite liking where this was going, 'Like what?'

'Like... petrol!'

'Like petrol, or actually petrol?'

'Actually petrol, we've got petrol, and it's what you'd expect to find in the carb anyway, should be fine.'

I bowed to his greater knowledge and we poured, what turned out to be significantly too much, petrol into the top of the carburetor and turned the engine over.

Now, I've never seen a real giant lightsaber, but I can imagine it looking something like what came out of the top of the carb - a nine foot high column of flame and noise which existed just long enough to drive my eardrums into my rectum and blow my eyebrows over to the other side of the road - It's a good job, in hindsight that we'd taken the bonnet off else it would have bounced off it and cut a neat porthole in the garage door.

'I think we might scrap it,' Said Smick, batting at his still smouldering sweatshirt.

'What?' I shoulted as I was still mostly deaf and over the other side of the road looking for my left eyebrow.

Over the next few weeks we set about stripping down the van to its component parts. Many interesting and fun times were had during the project.

Do you remember when I talked about our friend 'Gullible' Steve? The gentleman who ate of the baby-carrot and rottweiler chilli? Well, a couple of incidents involved him:

1) He was stumbling about in the back of the van, seeing if there was anything of any worth amongst the rotting hay and mud. When there was a cry, a protracted coughing fit, a torrent of expletives directed at myself, SMick, life in general and birds in particular. I turned to SMick, who was sat next to me in a deck-chair and said,

'Didn't think to tell him about the nest full of rotten blackbird eggs we found yesterday then?'

'Nope,' replied SMick, taking another gulp of his beer. 'But I did put it right near the side door so we wouldnea forget to throw it in the bin.'

2) The roof of the Luton box was made of fibreglass, which is not as weigh-innable as aluminium sheet, so we asked Steve to have a go at taking it off. We assumed (Which taught me that you should never assume) that he would get a ladder, and maybe a saw and cut the roof off. But no, he clamboured up onto the roof with an axe and a hammer.

'Is that a good idea?' I asked SMick, knowing full well that it wasn't

'Idea? No... Opportunity to laugh? Yes.' He replied, reaching down into the crate for another beer.

It took him a good fifteen minutes to fall the eight feet or so into the back of the van as he smashed the roof our from under himself. Thinking about it now, we really should have thrown that blackbird nest in the bin.

I didn't remain completely unscathed through the project, I had countless fibreglass splinters pulled out of my arms with pliers, cuts, bruises and boo-boos of various kinds.

And I understand that SMick still bears the scar of his particular mishap. We had got to the stage of trying to flatten the aluminium enough to get it in the back of the car and take it to the scrapyard and SMick was belting away with a lump hammer at a piece of metal that he was stood on.

Well, he missed... And hit his shin... He went completely silent, looked at the group of grubby schoolchildren that were hanging around watching us, looked at me, said, very quietly,

'Excuse me.'

And went inside the house.

The flow of profanity lasted a good half an hour and featured words that I didn't think could be used in that particular context. It left seven local dogs paralysed down one side and a further three pregnant. He'll show you the scar now if you ask him nicely, it's quite impressive.

I'll never forget that summer - And neither will the person whose drive we dumped the burning remains of the van on.

Anywho, I've been informed that my Daughter has mentioned about the time I shot myself, maybe I'll tell you about that on Monday. Have a good weekend, and if you see me around, feel free to buy me a pint - I think I deserve it, I've had a hard life!


*There are times when my Daughter's Blog will warrant abuse, feel free to fill your boots in situations such as these.

Recipe: The Concussion Chilli with Rottweiler sauce

Originally posted on Facebook 30/10/12

Regular readers will remember that I promised to slowly release recipies from the 'Real' hairy bikers - i.e. Myself and Mike Farrish.

Today it's the turn of - 'The Concussion Chilli with Rottweiler sauce'

One thing to bear in mind is that although the ingredients and method are (with one fairly major exception) things you will find in the average kitchen, the complete dish takes a total of six months to complete - It can be prepared in advance.

You will need for the chilli: The standard ingredients to make a completely normal chilli - meat, tomato (fresh or tinned), onions, chocolate, herbs and spices, but specifically, and I can't stress this enough, no baby carrots.

You will need for the sauce: one 100lb+ good natured Rottweiler and a high-pressure water supply.

* Take a large pot and make a chilli as per any one of a thousand recipies as can be easily found on the Internet.
* Get slightly drunk and taste the chilli - decide it is nowhere near spicy enough and put in four more whole chillis.
* Get slightly more drunk and taste the chilli - decide it is nowhere near spicy enough and put in four more whole chillis.
* Get really quite drunk and taste the chilli - decide it is nowhere near spicy enough and put in four more whole chillis.
* Drink all the beer that is available and decide that you may as well put in all the chillis that you have in the house.
* Wake up and lift the lid off the chilli pot.
* Stop crying and look around at everyone else in the room with an expression of disbelief and mild panic on your face - as if to say 'I don't know anyone stupid enough to try that'.
* Remember that you do, in fact, know someone - And call your very good, but incedibly gullible, friend (ours was called Steve, but feel free to substitute your own as you see fit).
* Make sure that there is a clear path between the chilli pot and the nearest toilet (this is VERY important).
* Give 'Steve' a fork and ask what he thinks the chilli needs.
* Be completely suprised when he says 'Why have you put baby carrots in it'
* Turn to each other and mouth the words 'Baby Carrots?', then turn around just in time to see a fork with half a dozen whole chillis on it be swallowed whole.
* Congratulate yourself on clearing such a nice path to the toilet.

Now, for the sauce:

Wait six months (Yes, six)
* Have a party at your house on a Saturday night that gets completely out of hand and culminates with everyone becoming unconcious on the sofas, floor, hammock, garden or sideboard (It is important that the Rottweiler is invited, but 'Steve' is not)
* Approxiamtely 10:00 on the Sunday morning, arrange for 'Steve' to burst into the house and yell 'Helloooo' at the top of his voice, in payback for having long-term colonic shock due to the Baby Carrot incident.
* The Rottweiler should now launch himself at the interloper and stick a good 8" of doggy tongue down his throat - In a completely friendly, non-treatening way.
* 'Steve' will recoil from this and grab the first thing that comes to hand to wipe his mouth - You should make sure that this is the blanket that the dog sleeps on, for added gameyness, if you are a connoisseur of such things, it will help if the dog is slightly incontinent.
* Explain to 'Steve' what he has just done, he will make his way at a brisk pace to the kitchen, stumbling over slumbering bodies along the way, whilst trying to hold in his breakfast.

[Interlude] - I should probably explain that the house I was living in at the time had quite high water pressure, to the point where if you held a glass under the cold tap and turned it on full, it would blow the bottom out of the glass - [/Interlude]

* 'Steve' will now hold his head under the cold tap and turn it on full.
* Marvel at what a strange sound the human head makes as it bounces off the rim of a stainless steel sink.
* You now have three choices as to how you wish to finish off the sauce:

1 - Call an ambulance
2 - Continue to laugh until you feel quite sick
3 - Let the dog lick him awake

(We chose a mix of 2 & 3 - but obviously you should let your conscience be your guide)

Recipe: The 'Yeah, should be fine' Chilli

Originally posted on Facebook 7/10/12

So, with everyone giving it the 'Ohh, I'm cooking the Hairy Biker's Barbeque' or 'I've just made the Hairy Bikers Jam Roly-Poly' - I've decided to share some recipes that me and my old mate Scots Mick used to throw together, In that we've both an interest in motorcycles and we're both (to a greater or lesser extent) hairy.

The 'Yeah, should be fine' Chilli

1. Hang around outside a function room that's holding a badly attended party.
2. After the few guests leave and the organisers troop out with the food, muttering about what a waste it all is, ask them 'Are you going to throw that away?'
3. Look at them like Puss in Boots from Shrek
4. Realise that that doesn't really work when you're not a cartoon
5. Get them to empty everything off the plates and platters into a bin liner.
6. Go home and pour the contents of the bin liner into a cauldron
7. Pour in a couple of cans of chopped tomatos
8. Add a bottle of chilli sauce.
9. Put on a slow heat and stir, occasionally saying things like 'Is that cauliflower?' and 'Should we have taken the bread off the egg mayonnaise sandwiches first?'
10 Go to pub
11 Leave pub, remembering that you don't need to go to the Greek as you have hot food at home
12 Divide the chilli up between all willing participants, setting aside anything you can't actually recognise
13 Eat, incredibly gingerly
14 Wish you'd gone to the Greek

Coming soon: The Baby Carrot and Concussion Chilli (With Rottweiler Sauce)