Who's Up for Dessert?

A Picture of a Trifle

Accept an offer of dessert from Cuz with caution.  I have witnessed what she does to them first.

Cuz is the hostess of many an epic "Sinners' Dinner".  These were events where the alcohol intake was considerably larger than the consumption of food.  Things tended to get just a little messy and often people passed out before the cheese board arrived.

If the chef/hostess had had one margarita too many then backstage management would descend into chaos.

The evening the of "The Trifle Incident" I think Cuz had possibly had that one glass of wine too many.  I recall sitting in the dining area being witty & urbane and failing to impress any male company because I keep setting fire to my hair while Cuz has gone to the kitchen to fetch dessert - which includes one of her legendary trifles*

She is gone some time. "Pssstt, psssssssst" comes through the kitchen door and I thought "Well I am actually but there's no need to point it out".  "Psssssst!" comes again more persisssssstently.

I go to investigate and find Cuz kneeling on the kitchen floor.  "what's the matter?" I ask.  "I've dropped the fucking trifle" she whispers.  "Well, not dropped it but the top's slid off and it's on the floor".  I look down and there are two perfect layers of custard and whipped cream on the tiles looking like they just wafted down from heaven.  The industrial-strength sherry-soaked sponge is still in the bowl.  "Fuck me - I hope your floor's clean Love".

There is a farcical five minutes where two drunk Scouse women attempt to inveigle a fairly liquid piece of matter into a trifle bowl without alerting any of the other guests to the fact that we were scraping their dinner off the floor.  The fish slice was a genius idea.

The trifle is somehow restored and Cuz triumphantly carries it to the dining room "Ta dah! Who wants trifle?".  I slide back into my seat and hiss to Acton Baby "Don't have the trifle, I've just lifted it off the floor with a bit of kitchen towel and a fish slice.  Stick to the mousse, as far as I know nobody's trodden in it".

No one was ill fortunately.


*Ekky was an absolute trifle FIEND.  There is a slight grudge still held today about the time we sat Ekky next to an enormous trifle at Cuz's Boxing Day family party (he couldn't walk about, bless him, so we left him on a barstool in the kitchen with a bottle of whiskey).  He ate the WHOLE thing with a serving spoon and then tried to pretend it wasn't him.  The fact that he had jam and cream all round his gob gave it away.

Slugs on a Bus

Plenty of Bloody Slugs

One of things about my family is that they will not let you leave their house until they have collated some kind of food parcel for you to "take back".  Despite me pointing out that we do have grocery shops in the South of England I'll still be handed "a few bits".

This charming trait means over the years I have hauled more tins of chocolate pudding & spuds down the M6 than a Morrisons' lorry.  I've stunk my Nobby Nissan out with cheese & pâté left over from a New Year's Eve buffet and permanently keep a cool box in the boot in case someone hands me a "spare" frozen chicken. 

Once, when I went round  to pick up a spare set of keys for Cuz's flat so I could perform holiday plant-watering duties, I left with a stalk of broccoli and half a pint of semi skimmed.  At the time I lived three minutes walk away from a Co-op so I'm not sure what famine she anticipated was going to hit Ealing that fortnight.

My lovely Irish Grandad was the same whenever I went to visit him.  But he was a champion gardener so whatever he handed you was not shrink wrapped or freeze dried.

"Take that for your Mammy" he'd say passing you a huge bit of vegetation wrapped very badly in newspaper.  He wasn't into carrier bags so whatever he'd just dug up got wrapped in a bit of the "Echo".

This wasn't good for my street cred.  There'd I be on the top deck of the number 61* bus with a huge stinking cauliflower on my lap praying no one from school got on.

He was into organic gardening before organic gardening existed and while you were nursing your giant cabbage in your lap all sorts of primeval life forms would start emerging - slugs, spiders, big fat green caterpillars and beetles with teeth & an attitude problem... Alighting at Fazakerley bus terminus you knew you'd left a number of unusual 'passengers' behind on the seat as well as trailing soil down the stairs.

The worst was rhubarb.  Because if you were handed rhubarb that meant it was going to rain on the way home and the newspaper would get soggy and then the rhubarb would roll onto the pavement and then you'd have to walk from the bus stop to your house clutching half a dozen of sticks of rhubarb in each hand looking like some eco-nutter-baton-twirling-drum-majorette. 

I still hate rhubarb.

* I spent hours on the 61 before I left home.  Most of my life was conducted sitting on the fucking 61.

Butter on Bacon Sandwiches? Morally Wrong.

Not a bit of Kerrygold in sight

Seen that advert for Danepak bacon where the chap makes a huge bacon sarnie?  I have to leave the room because it makes me feel physically sick.

Butter on a bacon sandwich is morally wrong and I personally find the promotion of such a practice quite offensive.

These are the rules of making bacon sandwiches.

One must use cheap white bread (and I mean the cheaper the better, none of your ciabatta bloody nonsense thank you).

The meat product should be smoked and preferably back bacon.  Streaky is no good as it just disappears.  If you want pancetta go and bloody buy some pancetta.

One should add some sauce, either ketchup or the mysterious 'brown'.

NO BUTTER. 

You have just grilled some very fatty meat and it is swimming in grease.  Why the fuck then are you slapping it on a piece of bread which has already been spread with some dairy product?  It is going to run right up your sleeve, you disgusting article.

Is it a Southern thing?  Is that why when I go into a greasy spoon and I order a "bacon-on-white-no-butter" they stare at me like I just asked for a side order of green snot?

There is nothing worse than someone putting a big mug of tea in front of you and a lovely looking bacon sarnie and you bite into and urrggghhhh...some twat has put butter on it.

However bacon toasties are completely different.  A bacon toastie must have loads of butter on it.  If it isn't running down your chin when you chew it it is substandard.  And one does not add sauce to a toastie - that would be repulsive.

The bacon sandwich/bacon toastie rules drive poor Angus nuts.  10 years he's had to learn but I still have to write it down every Saturday morning.

10 Things My Father Taught Me

Nice legs!

1. You can change gear without using the clutch.
2. Bluthners are the best pianos in the world.
3. You can file your nails with a box of Swan Vestas.
4. Where the dipstick is.
5. The art of good soda bread.
6. How to sand stuff down using "wet and dry".
7. Putting a crease into a pair of trousers with a sheet of brown paper and a hot iron (soap optional).
8. How to pour beer so you get a decent head on it.
9. When applying emulsion paint remember you are supposed to be "putting it on - not bloody scraping it off".
10. Dignity.

How the Human Pinball got her Name

The North Star - My Spiritual Home

The final weekend of the Six Nations is approaching and I am planning a marathon session on the sofa watching game after game accompanied by a mugs of tea and Oatie Crumble biscuit dunking.

Very different from when The Human Pinball and I used to watch the games together before we became grown ups, spawned some offspring and started reading water meter readings with great interest.  The Human Pinball and I have much in common being short, dark, Celtic and passionate about Wales - no matter how crap they were playing.   The Human Pinball (THP) is very, very Welsh to the point she is from a village that actually has no vowels.

Back then a Six (or maybe even Five) Nations Wales game took the following format.

Get out of bed and choose not to eat breakfast as already the nerves are kicking in and a dose of bran flakes doesn't taste as good on the way back up.

Spend an hour or so frantically trying to dry your Wales shirt with a hairdryer because you only washed it last night instead of earlier in the week.

Spend another good 40 minutes looking for your Lucky Red Bra, a.k.a LRB.  (All Welsh women own a LRB in the misguided notion that it actually works.  If you are wearing your LRB then Shaney is going to score a hat trick.  This of course is not the case - when you get back from the pub after the game you will be drunkenly yanking it down one of the sleeves of your shirt and flinging it off into a corner while giving it some verbal abuse... "You bastard thing, never fucking works".  Hence the search is on a week later because you can't remember which corner you flung it at.  I found mine under the sink once wrapped round a tin of furniture polish.)

Suitably attired in LRB, beer stained & slightly damp shirt it is time to rendezvous at the North Star.  We get there early to "get a seat" in front of a 14" portable mounted eight foot up high on the wall.  No one else in the pub is there to watch the rugby - they're not remotely interested so this notion of "getting a seat" was a completely wasted effort.  Why the North Star?  It's not a very sporty pub but allegedly the barman fancied me and we always got served first. 

Kick off is at three so we're in there at two o'clock and the first pint is going down on that mandatory empty stomach.  We've got beer vouchers and we've got 40 fags each - so bring it on.

Time for the anthems and THP and I are the only couple of twits in the bar standing up and singing along.  A couple of pints each are lined up on the table so we don't waste valuable time going to the bar.  Adrenalin has kicked in big time so the only way to control it is to drink more beer and drag on more tabs.

Well into the second quarter and we're both stood up yelling "Go on, go on, GO LEFT", "Rip his fucking head off", "YOU STUPID ARSE" at the telly.  Folk poke their head through the door and decide the "Townhouse" is a better option.  THP needs a wee and heads to the bogs.  Wales score a try.  They always score a try when THP goes the bog.  She's never seen Wales actually score a try.  THP emerges from bogs bewildered "Bloody 'ell, did I miss something?".

Half time: more beer.  Lots more beer.  Hands are shaking, Wales are leading by a number of points and we can smell victory.  Restart - more standing up and yelling "Run!, run! You stupid Welsh bastard".

About 20 minutes into the second half the "too much beer" has kicked in and we're both struggling to focus on the minature telly.  Anyway, Wales are losing dismally now so we've completely lost interest.  I'm talking to a pensioner on the next table about morse code and the THP has decided to stand up.

The North Star had three bars at the time.  We're in the middle bar - the bogs are down the back.  THP I think is attempting another visit to the toilet but the pub is filling up and the tables are close together.  Swaying slightly she negotiates her way around a table of four by bumping into it "Hiya, sorry, hiya".   Her recovery is good and she heads for the back bar again bouncing gently like a fluffy cloud against a mountain top off a couple of further obstacles.

When she returns she's brought a waif and stray with her.  "This is ermm, Thingy.  He's on his own so I invited him to sit with us".  "Thingy" is mortified but too scared to decline the invitation. 

Probably Wales have lost but we don't care and we're not sure of our own names.  The table is covered with spilt beer and ripped beer mats.  More waifs and strays are migrating to our table and our seating area is beginning to resemble the bar scene in the first Star Wars movie. We stumble to the jukebox to play some Catatonia to cheer ourselves up - THP bouncing off a few more tables/chairs on our way back.  "Hiya, sorry, hiya".  Alarmingly she is building up speed and beginning to now ricochet around the pub.  I can see she is frantically attempting to get back to her seat but the kinetic energy provided by nearly a gallon of lager is resulting only in further acceleration.

Some minutes later I'm at the bar clutching onto it while trying to trying to count out £4.80 in loose change.  "Jings", says Angus carving a love heart into the top of my Guinness "She's like a bloody human pinball".  I turn to look at my friend who is now spinning like a Hotpoint on a hot wash, giggling & screaming in turns, spraying beer, attempting to shake hands with complete strangers, light a fag and operate a mobile phone while not noticing she's set fire to her hair.  "There's tidy. I'm Welsh me".

Motion is finally halted by arrival of MacSaffir who is THP's infinitely patient boyfriend.  He's brandishing her duffle coat like a matador's cloak and is preparing to ensnare her on the next lap of the track.

My last view of THP is MacSaffir stuffing her arms down her coat sleeves while dragging her out of the door.  "Bye-ah!"  she blows kisses to her audience as she departs.

I can't really remember getting home but I bet I knocked at Cuz's flat on the way to ask if I could use her toilet.  Well, it was only over the road from the bus stop.

10 Catholic Things You Can't Stop Doing Even Though You No Longer Practice as a Catholic & Deny Being One

1. Bring yourself to eat meat on Ash Wednesday or Good Friday.  You still go out and buy a bit of smoked haddock.
2. Call everyone wearing a dog collar 'Father' - even when you've just been introduced to Ian Paisley.
3. Bless yourself when a hearse drives past. 
4. Bite your lip rather than blurt out "Jesus Christ on a Bike" in front of your mother.
5. Go white with fright if you see a nun in the street.
6. Mutter along with all the "words" when the Sunday morning service on Radio4 is a Catholic mass.  Or - get annoyed when it's not a Catholic mass and the congregation puts in that "extra" bit at the end of Our Father
7. Look for a holy water font when you turf up at a Church of England wedding to bless yourself with.
8. Genuflect as you climb into a pew at above event.  Everyone else thinks you're having a minor stroke.
9. Nod your head if someone else says 'Jesus' and then pretend it's a tic.
10. Hoard rosary beads, Child of Prague figurines, holy water bottles, miraculous medals and palms at the back of a cupboard because if you DARE put them in the bin GOD WILL KNOW and all the ANGELS WILL CRY.

Make it your Bloody Self: #1 Yorkshire Puddings

Yorkshire puddings are a piece of piss.  I now leave my Cariad to make the batter while I do something else (like having a go at the cooking sherry) and she's only six.

If you have a fan oven STOP reading now.  Fan ovens are no good for Yorkshire puddings.

LARD.  You will be using LARD.  OK, if you're a veggie you might get away with vegetable oil - but olive oil is an absolute no-no, it simply will not get hot enough.

Kit

A decent set of scales.  This is chemistry so make sure your scales are accurate.  Too little flour and you'll be eating oven baked earwax.

A mixing bowl.  A proper mixing bowl, not the thing you eat your bran flakes out of.  It needs to be at least 2 pints in capacity so you can get your elbows in.

A measuring jug.

A balloon whisk or a fork.

Yorkshire pudding tins (or one roasting tin if you want to make a monster pudding).

An electric hand blender.

An oven.


Ingredients

4oz plain flour.  That's PLAIN flour - I know it doesn't make sense but it has to be plain.

Half a pint of milk.

1 x free range or organic egg at room temperature.

Pinch of salt.

LARD or vegetable oil.



Method

Dump your flour in your mixing bowl.  Add a generous pinch of salt.  With the uncracked egg make a little hollow in the middle of the flour.

Crack the egg into the hollow.  Add half the milk.  Take your whisk or fork and blend the stuff together, scraping the flour off the sides and from the bottom of the bowl.

Add the rest of the milk and whisk again until blended in.  This will be a fairly runny batter.

Poor the batter back into the measuring jug.  Now - leave it for at least an hour.  Go and wander aimlessly around the garden or sort your sock drawer out.

Ready?  You need to get your oven hot.  Very hot.  I pump mine up to gas mark 8 and put the shelf at the highest it will go.  You need to heat your oven for about 15 mins.

Once it's nice and hot you need to put about a good nob of LARD or a teaspoon of oil into each of the pudding moulds.

Whack the tin in and leave it to get hot, hot, hot for about 5 minutes.  This will give you time to hunt for the blasted hand blender and bump your head off a few cupboard doors.

With the hand blender give your batter a last blast in the jug.  You need to get plenty of air into it so a minute or so will do it.

Take out your hot tin  from the oven with your novelty oven gloves - or my personal preference which is a manky teatowel.

Fill each mould to the top from your batter jug while muttering "Bloody hellfire, this tin's hot".

Put the tin into the oven.  LEAVE IT for 10 minutes.

After 10 minutes stick your head in the oven and curse as your glasses steam up.

The puddings should be fairly well risen.  Flick the tin round to ensure even cooking and slam the door again.  They should take another 5 - 10 minutes.

If you want to make a deluxe version use this ingredient mix below:

5oz plain flour
Half a pint of milk
Pinch of salt
2 x free range or organic eggs

Method is exactly the same as above but this mixture works better in a single roasting tin.  It will go whumpff and raise up like a lovely raised up thing.

"We are F*cking Family"

You can tell what kind of a clan we are by the television programs we select to view.  "My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding" was compulsory viewing and we never miss "Police Camera Action" in case we spot someone we know.  I watched "Shameless" first two series thinking it was a fly-on-the-wall piece.

It was not an usual event then when Middle Sis, Cuz and I were "asked to leave" once during an evening drinking session in a pub on Boston Manor Road.  With hindsight a Beefeater outlet is not the ideal location when you've been necking Pimms at a barbie since noon and are simultaneously suffering from sun stroke.

We weren't even that badly behaved.  There were a couple of enthusiastic Mexican waves in there and we did stand up and cheer every time the tannoy announced "Mr & Mrs Gobshite, your table is ready".

The manager was watching us nervously however and was becoming anxious that we would spontaneously erupt into a bit of Irish dancing or start chucking bog rolls around.  He approached our table for a 'friendly' warning.  "Could you keep the noise down please - this is a family pub".

Middle Sis meets his gaze and hisses, "We are fucking family".

We 'left' fairly shortly after that statement and headed off to the North Star (which is what we should have done in the first place because Angus never threw us out regardless of how many pints we spilt in his quiz machine).  This is where we encountered the world's most boring stag party.  They were so boring they were boring themselves.  'The Stag' was so dull he was wearing a V neck jumper and his name was Ian.  He looked like a frigging woodwork teacher.  Ian was so catatonically boring there was nothing to do but destroy his self esteem.

So when he emerged from the bogs at a point later in the evening we were chanting "Ian wears a V neck, Ian wears a V neck, na na na na, na na na na" with all his boring mates joining in.  I think that's when he started crying.  Wonder if he's still married or if he bored Mrs Ian into an early grave?

 

I Attempt to Assassinate my Father - Part 1

Bloody nightmare.  I'm in our Irish office terrorising the users when I get THAT phone call.  "Drop everything.  Come now.  He's going."

A very kind soul* books me onto the next flight from Knock into (spit) Manchester.  From there I can catch a train into Liverpool to make my goodbyes.

What the kind soul doesn't tell me, because he is a kind soul, is that the flight to (spit) Manchester is a prop plane.  Anyone acquainted with me knows I loathe flying and the very notion of a prop would induce a Tena Lady moment.

I'm stood at Knock airport waiting for the flight to arrive (yes, Knock airport is like a bus terminus and you have to wave your arms if you want the plane to stop) and I can hear the incoming engines.  As it pulls into view at the terminal I can see it's a fucking prop plane and I go white with panic.  I have no choice but to get on the fecking thing.

By the time the prop has bounced across the Irish sea and very nearly clipped the Liver Building I am catatonic with fear thinking it might be a double funeral. As we disembark I have a moment where I nearly kneel and kiss (spit) Manchester soil in thanks.  But the thought of Bill Shankly stops me at the last moment.

The train takes for fucking ever.  We stop at every Woollyback village between Manc Land and Liverpool.  I am half demented and the batteries on me Walkman have run out.

Finally make it to Lime Street and onto another train to Fazakerley.  I leg it over the road humping my holdall straight to the hospital and up to Ekky's ward to his bedside.  He's got all manner of tubes in him and he looks really, really poorly.

At his bedside Big Sis and Middle Sis are already there looking very, very upset.  Nevertheless, "Good flight?" one of them sniggers sympathetically.  "Sod off" I reply and sit down to catch my breath.  After a few minutes I ask "is Ekky supposed to be that colour?  He's awfully blue".

Big Sis is a nurse and checks him over.  "God, he's blue, his breathing's not good."

Middle Sis ducks down and emerges with a tube that appears to have become detached from the oxygen supply in the wall.  "It's this" she says looking at me, "You've just stood on it with your big fucking feet.  You fucking mong."  The other end is of course attached to the oxygen mask Ekky has over his face. 

I've just cut off his oxygen supply.

Big Sis fixes it and then gives me a chinese burn.  On my neck.

A little while later he wakes up.  He looks at me and gives me a big Ekky smile: "Hello babe, I thought you were working in Ireland." 

"I was Daddy, but I came back to see you."

"Ah, that's nice.  Did you bring me any Duty Free?"   

At that point I knew this time he was going to pull through.  Especially after I pulled out the 10 year old bottle of Jameson I'd bought in Knock airport. Well, I needed something to steady me nerves once I'd seen that bloody prop pull up.

*Mr Mulhern - never forgot your kindness that day x

Why Some Women are a Complete Pain in the Ass in the Workplace

They lock themselves in the bogs and cry which means the rest of us can't get in.  They wear ridiculous shoes that make them fall down the stairs with alarming frequency.  They spend half the day roaming around the building looking for someone who has got a stash of Nurofen Plus.  The ones that smoke never have a ruddy lighter.  They complain about being bigger than a size six while consuming their own body weight each day in Pickled Onion Monster Munch.  They fiddle with their hair.  They think coming to work in a pair of tights and a sleeveless t-shirt is appropriate dress.  Their contribution to ideas for motivating the workforce include shite like yoga and free fruit.  They take half an hour to reverse into a parking space.  They are always trying to recruit you to "Girl's Only" nights.  They are pissed after two spritzers in the pub and then attempt to play pool.  They make the bogs smell like a tart's handbag on a Friday night.  They avoid work by claiming to be suffering from "issues".  They get cramps.  They get migraines.  They get dandruff.They flirt with the oldest lecherous male members of staff under the delusion it will further their career.  They are always on the scrounge for bloody hand cream.  They laugh at every sexist remark made to them instead of punching the offending bloke in the face.  They go on and on and on about their bloody boyfriends.  Worst of all - they want to be your friend.

"All Right Treacle?" - Part IV

I've been a Geek for about 10 years now.  My syntax is perfect.  My SQL queries are just stunning.  I know the ERP system so well I can fix it before it's even broken.  But somehow some colleagues just don't believe I possibly contribute anything of value to the IT function.

Last week.

A User, who is depriving a nearby village of an idiot, approaches the IT station and speaks to (male) Geek1.

User: "I've got a problem with SystemX, can you have a look at it?"

Geek1:  "You need to speak to Phen, she's the administrator."

User to (male) Geek2: "Can you help - I've got a problem in SystemX?"

Geek2: (aware that my antennae are up...) "Um, you need to speak to Phen.  She deals with SystemX"

User to (male) Geek3: "Can you do it?"

Geek3 (placing a crash helmet on his head): "YOU NEED TO SPEAK TO PHEN"

User finally makes eye contact with me... "Oh, do you know much about SystemX Phen?"

Me: "Fuck off, you NOB"

What's he think I'm doing all day?  Typing fucking minutes?

I Hate Thomas Hardy

Unfortunately the school I attended between the ages of 11 and 18 made St Trinians look like a progressive Steiner academy.  It was like WWII hadn't actually happened and we studied in an atmosphere of beeswax, hockey shin pads and, as a special treat, a lunchtime mass every Wednesday. 

We had a lake with swans on with it and an outdoor area referred to as "The Quad" for fuck's sake.

This pre-war modernity extended to the curriculum and in my seven years study there I don't think I encountered any book written in the 20th century.  I didn't read 'A Kestrel for a Knave' until I was well into my twenties.

The school was obsessed with teaching Thomas Fucking Hardy and Jane Frigging Austen.  I can only assume the nuns got a job lot in from a book depository because that's all we ever read - even if  those two authors were not listed on a matriculation board curriculum we still would have been force fed the Bonnet & Carriages crap.  As for poetry - William Wordsworth was radical.

There we all are - little estate rats in the midst of a Northern city during the mid-eighties witnessing the heart of it being torn out by a vicious recession and a ruthless bunch of Tory bastards and we're reading about stupid females drinking tea and feckless 'heros' getting just a little bit too obsessed with their sheep.   

The one book that really got up my nose was the "Trumpet Major" which is forever re-titled in my head as "The Trumpet Fucking Major".  From what I remember of the plot it was about some stupid tart in a frock who is desperate to cop off with some bloke in a uniform - he meanwhile is more interested in making fried eggs and eating opium sarnies.  His brother, meanwhile, is also trying his luck with the tart-in-the-frock but she's not having any of it, preferring the educationally subnormal trumpet playing squaddie.

I think that's how the plot went.  Most of it I have blotted out in a word-orgy of modern short stories.

Some years after escaping from the convent I read that Thomas Hardy had received a poor schooling and was largely self-educated.  That will be why he writes like a TWAT then - he could barely string a fucking sentence together.

Jane Austen. Jesus Christ - as relevant to my life as Haile Selassie's grandmother's second cousin's fishmonger (and probably just as fragrant given bathroom facilities at the time). Her novels have a single theme - arranged marriages.  How many bloody novels can you write about women being the property of another human being?

It took me many years after leaving to school to catch up with contemporary literature and the very notion of modern writing.  In that time I formed the opinion that you should read what you like rather than what you think you should be reading.   But do accept that some of the world's most acclaimed authors are, in fact, shite. 

My Top 10 List of Authors that are Actually Quite Shite

• Jack Kerouac - that ain't writing folks, it's typing
• Agatha Christie - an old bag who probably smelled of wee
• J.K. Rowling - you will NEVER entrance like C.S. Lewis NEVER
• Graham Greene - what exactly is a 'Catholic' writer eh?
• Charles Dickens - paid by the word and it bloody feels like it
• Norman Mailer - misogynistic git
• V.S. Naipaul - try and finish one of his without falling asl...
• Louis de Bernieres - when Captain Correlli's Fucking Banjo was all the rage I could have quite happily stabbed anyone on the Tube reading it
• Mervyn Peake - could you possibly stick your head any further up your arse?
• Albert Camus - what a tosser and I bet he had no mates
• James Joyce - yeah, I can write random words with no syntax too!
• Martin Amis - utterly, utterly talentless fucking TWAT.

Other acclaimed writers that get right up my nose:  Seamus Heaney, Robert Graves, Tolstoy, Anne Bronte (jump on the bandwagon why don't you?), Nick Hornby, Shakespeare, Gunter Grass, Beryl Bainbridge, Tolkein...  I could go on.