I'm not too sure about vegetarians. They may be stupid.

With their stupid dreadlocks, and stupid sandals, and stupid attitude about not eating one of the most delicious foods ever.  I arrogantly refuse to quantify that further.  But even more stupid, and we all know them and all hate them, are those that are 'vegetarian' but just eat chicken.  Well done you.  Now the cows are happy, and the lambs can frolic, and the pigs can roll around in shit to their hearts content.  All because you aren't eating them.  And all the while you are looking down on me from your pedestal of a toilet, with your healthy bowel movements, you know what I'm doing?  Eating your share of animal. Naked.

But what I don't understand is why, out of all the meats in the world, they choose to eat one of the blandest, most boring ones?  What's wrong with having a bit of blood to dip your chips into?  No one can resist the smell of bacon.  So instead of having bacon flavoured rashers of tofu, or whatever rubber concoction you eat instead, just have bacon.  You're only going to comment on how good it smells when I cook it, so goddamn well eat it.  If I were to ever be a proper grown-up (unlikely), and hold a sophisticated dinner party, the only dietary requirements I would take into account would be 'I'm afraid I only eat raw beef', or 'Sorry, I'm vegetarian - however I will eat monkey'.

Being a carnivore is no easy ride though.  There are so many delicious, cute, fluffy little animals out there just waiting to be chewed up, swallowed, digested and flushed that I am always faced with the dilemma; lamb or beef?  Pork or chicken?  Venison or sloth?  Well now there is no need to have to make these critical culinary decisions for I have created the perfect solution.

You're welcome.

Step 1:  Buy meat.  Lots and lots of lovely, delicious, once cute but now butchered beyond recognition, colon clogging meat.  Here we have lamb mince, bargain bacon (a few rashers required), a pork butterfly steak (I didn't know until now that a butterfly is made from pork, but now I do I will eat more), some chicken schnitzel, and some beef schnitzel.

Step 2: Get some garlic (2 cloves), and some rosemary, which is like, herby shit.

Step 3: Mash up the garlic and herby shit with some olive oil in a pestle and mortar, until it's like a bit of a paste.  Not too stodgy, not too runny.  That's right, I own a pestle and mortar.  And I even know what to use it for.  I just swan around the gaff these days thinking I'm Gordon fucking Ramsay.

Step 4: Mix the rosemary and garlic paste in with the lamb mince, add some salt and pepper, and knead that shit until it's well mixed in.  Place in a ziplok bag (which may or may not have been originally used for the purchase of a criminally large amount of Gummi Bears), and throw it in the fridge.

Step 5:  Place the pork steak in between two sheets of cling film and batter the shit out of that bitch until it's flat.
Top Tip:  Pretending it's Celine Dion makes it a whole lot more satisfying.

Step 6:  Once it's flatter than Julia Stiles' face, find some old white wine in the fridge, fold the pork up into another ziplok bag, pour in what's left of the wine, seal and place in the fridge next to the lamb.  Leave the lamb and pork to marinate overnight, and have wet dreams about how good this shit is gonna taste.

Step 7:  Pre-heat oven to 180 degrees.  I think that's the C, not the F.

Step 8:  Get your pork and lamb out.  Roll the lamb into a sausage shape, until it looks like a giant, ill turd.  Unfold the pork too.  Ignore hole.  This may be getting a bit too sexy.  Roll the pork around the giant cock-shaped lamb sausage, which I may one day try to use in polite conversation as a euphemism for sex.  I forgot to take a picture of this stage, but you should be able to cope.

Step 9:  Once the lamb is rolled in the pork, roll the whole thing in some bacon.   I've chosen to use 2 bits, but they are quite thick.  You can use more if you like.  Go on, you know you want to.

Step 10:  Once the pork is wrapped around the lamb, and the bacon is wrapped around the pork, wrap the chicken schnitzel around the outside.

Step 11:  Once the pork is wrapped around the lamb, and the bacon is wrapped around the pork, and the chicken is wrapped around the bacon, wrap some beef around the entire bitch.

Step 12:  Coat in some mixed herbs, to try and dull the impending smell of post-death bowel voiding.

Step 13:  Get some foil, and wrap that bitch up tight.  I mean tight.  In a few layers.  Like the BEST pass the parcel EVER.

Step 14:  Throw that bitch in the middle of the oven, and leave for around 3 hours, because e-coli is seriously NOT fun.  Once your 3 hours is up, remove from oven, and let it rest for 20 minutes.  I've got no idea why, but all the professionals do it on T.V. so it must do something, right?

Step 15:  Unwrap carefully.  Don't get too excited and rush in with fat little fingers keen for the meat prize inside.  Remember - the lack of steam is not due to a lack of heat, it's due to you wrapping that bitch up tight.  Then step back and marvel at the giant poo you appear to have created.

Step 16:  Marvel at it from a different angle, and wonder to yourself if it will actually look any different when it comes out of the other end.

Step 17:  Slice.  Inhale.  Lick.  Taste.  Be proud that you have just made the worlds best and longest scotch egg.

Step 18:  Serve on a bed of pasta, with a large helping of something that may do you some good.  I got carrot.  It helps you pee in the dark.

Of course, I have been up to much more over the past few months that I haven't updated you with, but I really can't be bothered just yet.  Look, up there ^, I have lots of faeces shaped meat to eat, so I will do it soon, I promise.

In the meantime, I can only see two possible outcomes.  Either my guts are going to be fully backed up for the next month, or I am going to spend a full week squirting dirty water out of my bum-piece.

I'll let you know.

My bathroom has 3 doors

Honestly, it has. A door to the bathroom, a door to the toilet, and a cunning sliding door affair to shut off the toilet from the bathroom in case someone needs to micturate or defecate when someone else is showering. When I was younger, more foolish and a little more naive, all I wanted in life was one of those huge fridge-freezer combos with an ice dispenser on the outside of the front door. And someone similar to Jenna Jameson in looks, moral fibre and loose virtue to dispense the ice into my Jack and Diet. Naked. (Incidentally, for those unfamiliar with Jenna Jameson's body of work, please do not google her. Especially not at work). But now, I have a bathroom with 3 doors, leading to endless door/room combinations to experiment with. Which cunningly leads me onto explaining a bit about where I am living, in what will probably be a journey into bone-crushing, eye-watering, shit-a-kidney tedium.

I have been here almost a week now, in a scenic little area just outside Queenstown centre, called Sunshine Bay. Which kind of makes me feel like I live in an Australian soap opera, albeit with less hot jail bait Aussie chicks. The house I am living in is set on three floors, with a lounge and kitchen at the top, two bedrooms and a bathroom on the middle floor (with 3 doors!), and a bedroom, bathroom and garage at the bottom. I still can't get used to saying that I am going down to bed though. The view from the lounge balcony is the photo above, which is also the view from both the windows in my bedroom. The windows that dribble cold air over my head when I am trying to sleep. I took a bus ride to Frankton the other day to pick up a heater, but to be honest it is quite small, and offers about as much heat as a tea light unless you sit directly on it, but then that just fills the bedroom with the smell of singed hair and burnt scrotum.
I've ridden the public transport out here a few times now, at first with trepidation, but in comparison to the bus in England it is, as most things out here are, a pleasant experience. A fact no doubt attributed to the lack of council estates, poor people and limited availability of Stella Artois in cans.
From Sunshine Bay, it is about a 25 minute walk into Queenstown (uphill), and then a 25 minute walk back (uphill). Despite this, it is a very scenic walk - a woodland track that runs by the side of the lake - so I am more than happy to walk it. When I first walked it, nightfall was coming fast, and as it got darker and darker I started to worry a little. Firstly, because walking some woodland routes like this in Canada you have to worry about bears. No problem down here, no dangerous wildlife. Secondly, because walking some routes like this in England you have to worry about sexual predators. No problem there either, as the main protagonist is walking a woodland path in Queenstown. And as night falls, it becomes harder to walk as my eyes are constantly drawn to the sky, where there are more stars than I have ever seen in my life. No picture I could take could possibly do the night sky any justice. So close your eyes, and press the heels of your palms against your eyelids as hard as you can until you see spots. It's like that but better. You can stop doing it now, I can't be held responsible for anyone reading this ending up spending the rest of their lives walking into furniture.

So back once again to the house. It is still the two of us here, myself and another English guy who holds the lease. The third bedroom is currently being advertised and viewed. In the interests of redressing the imbalance created by having two guys living here, the advert has been asking for a female. There have been a few come to view it so far. The only one who was genuinely interested however was ruled out for various valid, and not shallow at all reasons. Being fat and ugly had no influence on the decision. The majority of interest has been from South American girls, who have strangely expressed a huge interest, then changed their minds but brought round different male friends on the basis that it would be perfect for them. Each time they return, they come with more friends who they think it would be more suitable for. I am starting to think they just like hanging out here. We disagree about the suitability of their friends on the basis that the ones they bring round have too much penis and not enough vagina.

Moving on further, I think I have finally found a job. I went for training the other day, and have 3 shifts this week starting on Wednesday. It is working in a rental shop in Queenstown, delivering equipment to hotels in the area and helping out wherever else I am needed. I say I think as I have still not signed any contract, or got any of the finer details sorted out, but I am pretty sure it's nailed on. The benefits as far as season passes/rides to the mountains are great, and it is going to be good to finally have something to do other than walk uphill into Queenstown whoring my C.V. to all and sundry and waiting for the inevitable unsuccessful e-mails/phone calls. I am also attending the casual instructor try-outs for Coronet Peak and the Remarkables on Thursday which I am hoping I won't balls-up as spectacularly as I did with Quiksilver.

And finally, yesterday was opening day for Coronet Peak, so I headed up there with a few people for a day skiing once again. To be honest it was a bit of a damp squib. In fact returning to the lavatorial theme I opened with, it was much like waking up on a Sunday after a night out followed by a kebab or curry, making a coffee and grabbing the Sunday paper WITH the supplements and heading upstairs in the knowledge that it will be a long, arduous but immensely satisfying experience, only for it come out in a series of little tiny rabbit pellets leaving you deflated, crestfallen, and most importantly still hungover.
Not that it wasn't a good day overall, essentially the important thing was that I was skiing and on snow again, which is always amazing. And after having work done on my boots they don't hurt as much as they did last season. I was just expecting a bit more of a fanfare being the opening day, when all I could really see happening was a one-man band outside the restaurant - essentially just a busker with more speakers. It could have been improved by replacing him with the legendary recorder-playing busker from Christchurch. And the weather wasn't great, a little low on visibility. But the snow was good, and like I said, I was skiing once again, which made me happier than a dog with two dicks.

And in a final final completely unrelated note, in fact more related to the hilarious "Beaver Liquor" than anything else, during my C.V. whoring I popped into a job agency where the helpful lady informed me to come back next week as she was in the process of sorting through the piles she already had to find out who was still available. My eyes were drawn to a C.V. on her desk. In the name of Ming Poon.
Where is a middle initial "e" when you really need it?