No longer living in Scotland, I no longer have to call it "Hogmanay", which I've always felt is a slightly silly word. I'm glad to escape the Scottish celebrations, too. I would never dispute that the Scots celebrate New Year better than anyone else in the world, but it's not for me. Perhaps it's because the vast majority of my years have been fairly shit that I am less than enthusiastic about the arrival of yet another one, or maybe I'm just irretrievably English. This year, however, has been so spectacularly bad, that, for once, I am looking forward to the next one. It is extraordinarily unlikely that it won't constitute at least a small improvement. So there will be a bit of optimistical celebrationing this evening. I still doubt I'm going to get drunk, though.
Tomorrow, on the other hand, is a big celebration: my mother-in-law's sixtieth. There'll be more people in her house than at any time since my wedding, with much food and drink. I will be in charge of one of my specialities: home-made Pimm's. Here I must stress that I do not know or claim to know what goes into real Pimm's, which I'm sure is a closely-guarded secret recipe. However, I do know how to make a drink that tastes by sheer naked coincidence, their lawyers will no doubt insist remarkably similar to Pimm's. I know my version must be at least slightly different, because it tastes better. In the traditional New Year spirit of enabling the drunkenness of others, here's the recipe.
- 2 parts gin.
(Plymouth gin is by far the best. But you knew that.)
- 2 parts red vermouth.
- A little more than 1 part triple sec.
(According to its label, Cointreau is a type of triple sec. That may well be true, but don't use it; get some proper stuff which tastes a little less like a flamethrower.)
- a dash of Angostura bitters.
Shake well. Add lemonade to taste. Throw in slices of lemon, lime, orange, and cucumber. The cucumber is just a weird English tradition; it seems to do nothing for the taste, but gives a good impression.
Using this recipe, you will find that you can get a roomful of people very drunk very cheaply, without any of them being aware at any stage that they are drinking anything particularly strong.
Have fun. See you next year.
Courtesy of God Save The Queen
, here's a link to Clive James, writing what must be the largest amount of intelligence and common sense ever to appear on one page about Israel and Arabia
For the Israelis, anti-Semitism is merely a nightmare. For the Palestinians, it's a catastrophe. If you believe, as I do, that the Palestinians' cause is just, nothing could be more depressing than to hear them spout the very stuff that guarantees they will never get an even break.
Anti-Semitism is so obviously insane that no refutation of it should be necessary, and indeed after the Holocaust the feeling was widespread throughout the world that the whole demented notion had at last become an historical back number, like phlogiston or the belief that mirrors could leak lightning. Throughout the world: but not, alas, throughout the Arab world.
The University of the Holocaust had as many dumb graduates as clever ones. Nazi anti-Semitism was so awful in its irrationality that any contrary force is likely to be irrational as well. The only rational contrary force is called democracy, which conquers extremism by containing it.
If you don't read Tim Dorsey
's books, then (a) you should and (b) Serge's new blog
will mean nothing to you.
So buy the books
read the blog.
(And yet another Daily Bread post.
I'm dead gastronomic today, me.)
I think it was 1991. My dad & I (it was just the two of us living together) wanted to invite my dad's friend Terry round for Christmas dinner. But Terry couldn't leave his sick dog alone overnight, and giving Terry a lift back that night would mean my dad wouldn't be able to drink alcohol (on Christmas Day!), and it just wasn't going to happen. We couldn't rightly invite ourselves round to Terry's place, thus forcing him to cook a huge meal for us. Then my dad hit on an ingenious solution.
On Christmas morning, he roast the turkey until it needed another hour or so in the oven, took it out of the oven and wrapped it in towels to keep it warm, put it in the boot of the car, drove it and me right across London to Terry's place, and put it into the oven that Terry had waiting for it. For the whole journey, we were hoping that this compromise between cooking and travel wouldn't wreck the meat. And it didn't.
In fact, the turkey was fantastic: incredibly moist and tender; one of the best we'd ever had. Being wrapped in towels for a while seemed to have done quite a brilliant job. My dad & I have been joking ever since that we should try that method again sometime.
Well, this year, I did. Only without the car boot.
It was only a small turkey we had: it was going to need about an hour and three-quarters done the usual way. I made a rough guess, based on nothing, that two minutes wrapped in towels would be about equivalent to one minute in the oven. So I roast the turkey in foil for an hour and a bit, took it out and wrapped it in foil and some tea towels and a bath towel and left it for about half an hour or so, then put it back in the oven, without the foil, for another half hour or so, basting occasionally. I then got distracted by vegetables and left it in for at least ten minutes longer than I'd intended. Oops.
And the results were fantastic. Definitely the best turkey I've ever roasted.
(This is another post for The Daily Bread.
It was Nigella who made boiling bacon in Coke famous in the UK, and she says you should never
use Diet Coke. She's not diabetic, though, so she can shut up.
I did this on Christmas Eve, and the results were pretty good. I took a nice ham, stuck it in my biggest pot, added two litres and a bit of Diet Coke, some apple juice, and lots of cinnamon and black pepper, brought it to the boil, and simmered for about an hour. Then I fished it out, put it in a roasting tray, poured a few spoonfuls of the cooked Diet Coke mixture over it, covered it in foil, and roast it for about an hour, removing the foil for the last twenty minutes or so. Then I left it to cool overnight.
Like I said, the results were very good but not good enough. The ham is exceedingly delicious, but not all that Cokey. I don't just want a little hint of Coke flavour around the edges; I want lots, right through. I don't think this is a result of using Diet Coke instead of Coke: I did this with Coke once before, with similar results. Part of the problem may be that the recipe is designed for bacon, and I'm using ham: ham is denser than bacon, so might be more resistant to permeation by the liquid. The other problem is simply that Coke isn't strong enough.
So here's my plan for next time.
I'm going to use at least twice as much Diet Coke, and reduce it before using it. And I'm going to leave the ham sitting in the liquid for a whole day before I turn the heat on.
I shall report back.Update:
This one's looking controversial. James at Arcanus Maximus
says that the Aspartame in Diet Coke breaks down
To clarify aspartame when heated breaks down into methanol, and other chemicals. At best it wil lose it's sweetness. At worst, it might become toxic chemicals. The end result is debated. It is best not to use it in cooking at all.
I have several family members who are diabetic so I understand the dangers of sugars as well. In the ham recipe the sugars are meant to caramelize and form a crust. I doubt diet coke would do that. The acid and other flavors would also improve the taste and tenderness. At best diet coke I suspect would add little to the flavor, but I have no clue. I haven't tried it.
I have to say that nothing toxic appears to have occurred, but I haven't submitted the ham for chemical analysis or anything: for all I know, havign eaten a few slices of this stuff, I'm going to die a few days earlier than I had been going to. But I doubt it. Coca-Cola are well aware that Coke gets used in recipes. If cooking Diet Coke were seriously dangerous, their lawyers would have stuck warnings all over the bottles by now.
But James is right about the crust: there isn't one, not that that bothers me: it's the flavour through the meat that concerns me. And he appears to be right about the sweetness: there's not much. As I said before, the ham is still delicious, but, next time, I'm going to try adding a load of Splenda, too. Still plenty of acids and other flavours in Diet Coke, though, and they appear to have had some effect.
If you don't have some good health reason to avoid sugar, use Coke. It probably gives better results and might not kill you.Another update:Estelle
has emailed to say that she reckons that aspartame does break down into something dodgy:
Nigella may have said not to cook the ham in
diet coke because it is not healthy. I have a degree in chemistry and I have
read a little about this matter: it is unhealthy to cook artificial sugar.
Well, I'm not dead yet, but, if I may say so, buggeration.
Back to the drawing board.
(This is my latest post from The Daily Bread.
Ah, the joys of marriage.
Actually, she did buy me lots of other things, including a large box of Bendick's Bittermints. The gravy strainer wasn't the primary gift or anything. We're not that crap. But it does have a story behind it.
About a year and a half ago, I made some gravy. I think I was roasting a chicken at the time, and I was sick of the way that I always got gravy wrong, so I decided to put some real effort in for once. The entire time that the chicken was roasting, I made the gravy. I fried diced mushrooms and grated carrots in butter and teriyaki, added seasoning and herbs and a little stock, boiled it down, squished it through a sieve, added juices from the roasting chicken, made a roux, added the gravy to the roux, built it up with milk and more stock, and then just added anything that I thought might taste good, before reducing it for about an hour. The gravy was, I have to say, pretty damn good. And Vic & I didn't eat it all, so a load of it went into the freezer. Since then, every time I've roasted meat, the gravy has come out of the freezer and had the juices of yet another roast added to it, along with anything tasty within reach. We never eat all of it. It has stayed with us through two house-moves. After this Christmas, there is more of it than ever before.
Here's a list of ingredients that I know for a fact are now in there:
- the juices of multiple roasts: chicken, turkey, beef, pork, ham, duck, and lamb
- a myriad stock cubes
- pepper & salt
- tomato puree
- lots of cinnamon
- various herbs
- orange juice
- apple juice
- pineapple juice
- red wine
- Diet Coke
- lemon juice
- Worcestershire sauce
- barbecue sauce
- Telma chicken soup mix
- caramelised onion chutney
- bits of any vegetables cooking nearby
- some Heinz baked beans, I think
- left-over soup
- the stuff that drips out of a George Foreman grill
- the scrapings off a George Foreman grill
- scrapings off the bottom of the roasting tray
- the left-over sauce from a couple of casseroles, liquidized
- cheese of some sort
On Christmas Eve, I boiled a ham in Diet Coke (more on that later). Once it was done, I kept the Diet Coke, and used that both to baste the turkey I roast on Boxing Day and to thin the gravy. When the ham cooled down, a load of jelly formed under it. No prizes for guessing where that went. I also used the Diet Coke to boil the turkey's giblets and neck, and the liquid resulting from that went, of course, into the gravy.
So the gravy strainer's not a bad present, really.
So Merry Christmas.
My wife and I got a Christmas card from my brother Edward this morning.
To say that I don't get on with my brother would be a world-staggering understatement. He made my childhood a complete misery. He is a nasty, spiteful, vindictive, manipulative little bastard with no conscience, who derives a great deal of joy from other people's misery, especially mine. And that doesn't even begin to do justice to him. I never wish to see him again. I don't know exactly when was the last time I saw him (had I known at the time, I'd have marked the occasion), but I think it was Christmas '95, against my wishes. I haven't wanted to spend a single second of time in his company since around '82, since I could guarantee that he would do his utmost to make that second miserable for me, and that he'd succeed. My family all know this, or would if they had ever listened to a single word I've said in the last twenty years or so. The fact that my father, the member of my immediate family with whom I get on the best and who knows me the best, after my having repeatedly asked for, at that stage, about ten years never to spend Christmas with Edward ever again, arranged matters so that I would be forced to spend Christmas with him, tells you a lot about my relationship with my blood relatives. I last spoke to Edward very briefly on the phone a year or two later: I rung my mother, he answered, I asked him to get her, he did. Even that level of contact was, as far as I was concerned, unwelcome. But, since I cut off all contact with my mother (which is another, but (ha!) related, story), that doesn't happen any more.
Anyway, I just moved house a couple of weeks ago. Needless to say, I didn't send a change-of-address card to my brother. Yet here is this card from him, delivered to my new address. The list of people who could have given it to him is short: my father, my sister, or my grandmother. Whichever one it was, it simply demonstrates, yet again, how little they have ever listened to me and/or how little they think of my feelings. That I can't guess which of them it was says a lot. I don't want him to know where I live. I've gone to great lengths to avoid him: I've left the country, for fuck's sake; how heavy a hint do they need?
This card is, to all extents and purposes, a big special Christmas "Fuck You" from my family to me. And they wonder why I don't visit.
So Merry Fucking Christmas.
On the up side, I got let out of work a few hours early. So now I'm going to go home to the rather excellent new family I've made for myself and try and forget about the old one. And I'm going to boil a ham in Diet Coke, which should be fun.
Back soon. Have fun.
Mr Spacejack is upset that bastards like me have the temerity to drive cars, against his explicit wishes.
(Yeah, I know: two and a half years old, and I just get round to it now. Well, I only found it the other day.)
First off, I'm not talking about people with a real legitimate need to drive; like if you're unfortunate enough to drive for a living, or you've got to move a large piece of furniture across town, have to drive a bunch of kids to hockey practice, or those who live in rural areas without public transportation, or even carpoolers (do they even exist anymore?).
That's awfully big of you. You mean to say that some of us have your permission? I'm weeping with gratitude.
I'm talking about you urban-dwelling twits, one to a car, who could easily, easily be taking the bus or the subway instead, but refuse to because of some stuck-up class superiority hangup, while opposing any sort of investment in public transportation.
There are many reasons why I avoid public transport, and class superiority is not one of them.
Let's leave aside the dubious assumption that we all have some sort of moral duty to use public transport, that it is somehow more inherently evil to travel by yourself in a small vehicle than with a bunch of strangers in a large one. (And if public transport is so much cleaner, then how comes bus-only streets are so polluted?) Here is a list of requirements I have for any transport, public or private, before I use it. They're quite basic requirements; nothing fancy.
- I would like to be able to sit down if I want to.
- If I'm travelling with my wife, I'd like to sit next to her.
- I would like to sit in a clean seat that has not recently been set alight.
- I do not want a pool of drink, spit, vomit, or urine, or old food, or litter at my feet.
- I do not wish to be shouted at, or spat at, or be slapped, or have sectarian songs sung loudly and threateningly at me.
- I do not want anyone to accidentally sit on me or to fall on me.
- I want braking, whenever possible, to be gradual. I wish to be thrown out of my seat by an emergency stop less frequently than twice a minute.
- I don't want the driver to insult me.
- I do not wish to get chewing gum on my clothes.
- I don't want to put up with listening to other people's racist slurs.
- I don't want a fight to break out next to me.
- If I buy something while I'm out, I want somewhere to put the shopping bags.
- While I'm getting in or out of the vehicle, I want the option of having it stay still.
- I don't want anyone to blow cigarette smoke into my face.
- I do not wish to sit next to anyone whose body odour is so overpowering that it literally makes me gag.
- I want to be able to get in and out of the vehicle without being jostled, pushed out of the way, or sworn at.
- I want to take a fairly reasonable amount of time over my journey.
For example, getting home from my last job, I had a choice between using the train, which took an hour and a half, or taking the car, which took less than thirty minutes, including the time taken to walk to the car. I don't mind a bit of a delay, but that seems excessive.
- I would like the temperature of the vehicle to be neither so hot that I sweat like a pig in a plastic bag and get a migraine nor so cold that I can't feel my toes.
- I don't want the driver to be reading a paper while driving.
- I don't want the journey to be unnecessarily complicated.
I used to have to commute from Govanhill to Uddingston, in Glasgow. A direct route does exist, and no public transport goes anywhere near it. A direct train line even exists, but the trains, for mystical reasons, don't use it. The first fifteen minutes or so of every journey had to be spent travelling in the opposite direction to where I was headed. Similarly, in my current job, I could use public transport if I were to allow an extra hour and a half or so for all the unneccessary distance I would have to travel.
- I do not want to spend any time at all in a sewer.
This is not a figure of speech. It is a reference to Dalmarnock Station in Glasgow. I recommend visiting it once otherwise, you'd simply never believe it and never going back.
- If I'm delayed, I still want to be able to get home late at night.
- I do not wish to catch hypothermia while waiting for the vehicle.
- I do not wish to be mugged or assaulted while waiting for the vehicle.
- When the vehicle arrives, I would like it to stop.
In Glasgow, it is not uncommon to see people at bus stops get so pissed off with bus drivers refusing to stop that they stop the next bus by walking into the middle of the road and blocking its path.
- If I am outside the vehicle in heavy rain, I do not wish the driver to refuse to let me in, just for their own amusement.
- I do not wish the driver to lock me in the vehicle while he leaves to use a phonebox or toilet or do some shopping.
- I don't want anyone to kick me in the back of the head.
- I do not wish the driver to take a long alternative route for no apparent reason and refuse to tell me or any other passenger how long it's likely to take.
At the moment, the method of transport that meets these requirements is my car.
In my earlier post about Band Aid 20
(which I stand by), I linked to this piece by Joan Smith
. While it makes a lot of very good points, it also contains some crap. In the spirit of journalistic balance, it's about time I laid into it.
Clearly something happens to people who buy singles at this time of the year, putting them in the mood for repeated doses of sugary sentimentality as they prepare to spend several trying days cooped up with their relatives.
This is true, but not really why people bought the Band Aid single. You may disagree about whether it's a good idea, but the fact is that the reason the single did so well was that people bought it out of a desire to help the starving. Criticise the outcome of their charity, by all means, but their intentions were noble.
Even in the more innocent age in which it was first recorded, it seemed absolutely gob-smacking that no one involved in the project questioned the appropriateness of singing Do They Know It's Christmas? in the context of a famine in Ethiopia.
Not only was it difficult to believe that starving children and their parents had given much thought to Santa, but as Julie Burchill pointed out at the time, many of the intended recipients of Geldof's largesse were Muslims.
Julie Burchill veers wildly between brilliant insight and utter idiocy. This is one of the latter cases.
The idea behind Christmas is not to give generously but only to our type and not to them heathens. It is to give generously. I'm an Atheist myself, but have always regarded the festival as one of Christianity's greatest gifts to our civilisation. (Yes, I'm well aware that the Solstice was celebrated before Christianity appropriated it. The point of the Pagan celebrations was to get drunk, eat a lot, and hope the Summer was going to come back yet again this year. These are all good things, and I'm glad they're still with us, but it was Christianity that enshrined the ideals of generosity and charity in Christmas.) A time of year whose entire point is to give people things that will make them happy. It's simple and it's brilliant. Christianity has, in its time, had sects who have seen it as their duty to punish, even kill, unbelievers and heretics. Those sects have been in charge of the Church at times. No Christians I know of regard those parts of their history as something to be proud of. It's interesting to see how the multicultural leftists, who pride themselves so much on their sensitivity to other cultures, have so eagerly embraced the idea that Christians should ignore the suffering of non-Christians.
Two decades later, with Islam at the top of the political agenda, it would be reasonable to expect a greater degree of cultural sensitivity from even the most bone-headed celebrities.
Got that? For Christians to try to help Muslims at Christmas time is cultural insensitivity. Presumably, Muslim charities aren't allowed to help non-Muslims either. What a wonderful multicultural world we do live in, and no mistake.
What makes it even worse this time is that the proceeds of the record are intended for Sudan, where the Darfur region has become notorious as the site of a savage religious and ethnic conflict, prosecuted against the Christian and Animist population by the Janjaweed (Muslim) militia.
Yes, if there's one thing even worse than Christians giving to Muslims at Christmas, it's Christians giving to Christians at Christmas. Is there no end to their perfidy?
Apart from that, I have to agree with everything else Smith writes (except that I think the verses of the song have a rather good tune, though the chorus and middle-eight are shite). The Band Aid
project is fundamentally flawed. If the reason you have no food is natural disaster, then a gift of food will help you. If the reason you have no food is that men who want to kill you have burned your crops, then a gift of food is less help. It might help you survive for a little while, but, sooner or later, the men are going to come for you, and, at that point, what you'll need are guns. And yet... and yet....
Bob Geldof is not a stupid or an ignorant man. He knows the problems in Africa are largely caused by dictators. He knows that a lot of the aid he offers won't do what he wants it to, won't go where he wants it to; he knows that some of it will be counterproductive. He knows that Band Aid didn't work perfectly, and made plenty of mistakes. But he does make one simple point. There are people alive today who would be dead if it weren't for Band Aid and Live Aid. You can argue back and forth
about whether a lack of charity would make revolution more likely and whether charity therefore leads to a greater number of deaths, but not everyone can always look at the big long-term picture. Sometimes, you have to act like a human and a good thing, too. So you give food to the starving. And it doesn't always work, but, if you give enough food to enough starving people, then some of it will work. And you end up with people perhaps not as many as you'd have liked, but some people who would have died but instead have lived, thanks to you.
As Fran Healy said, they're just musicians, and all they can do is sing. Bob Geldof & Midge Ure have found a way to turn mere singing into saved lives. Sometimes, your duty is to help those who need your help, to the best of your abilities. I think I'll buy a copy.
Jackie's done it
, so so shall I. Sun ink to do, in it?
Three Names You Go By:
2. Squander Two
3. Mr... er... sorry, how do you pronounce that?
Three Things You Like About Yourself:
1. My wife.
2. My taste in eyewear.
3. My ability to touch the ground without bending my knees.
Three Things You Dislike About Yourself:
1. My childhood.
2. My bouts of depression.
3. My tendency to piss off people I like.
Three Parts of Your Heritage:
Three Things That Scare You:
1. Sudden loud noises.
2. The threat of intense pain.
And that's it.
Three of Your Everyday Essentials:
3. Diet Coke.
Three Things You Are Wearing Right Now:
1. My wedding ring.
2. Some rather excellent FCUK wraparound shades with prescription lenses.
3. Silver cufflinks.
Three of Your Favorite Bands/Artists (at the moment):
3. Snow Patrol.
Three of Your Favorite Songs at Present:
by Squander Pilots
by Snow Patrol.
3. Is It 'Cause I'm Cool?
by Mousse T.
Three New Things You Want to Try in the Next 12 Months:
1. Getting to grips with Ableton Live
Apart from that, no plans. I'll know them when I see them.
Three Things You Want in a Relationship (love is a given):
3. Physical affection.
Two Truths and a Lie:
1. The Communists banned surnames in Mongolia.
2. Bats squeak so loudly that, if we could hear them, they'd deafen us.
3. Everest is the world's tallest mountain.
Three Physical Things About the Opposite Sex That Appeal to You:
Three Things You Just Can't Do:
1. Run for long distances.
2. Pronounce the letter S as a whistle for comic effect.
Three of Your Favorite Hobbies:
1. Making music.
2. Watching films.
Three Things You Want to do Really Badly Right Now:
1. Go to lunch.
2. Finish work for Christmas.
3. Empty my bladder.
Three Places You Want to Go on Vacation:
Three Kids' Names:
Three Things You Want to Do Before You Die:
1. Have a child, one way or another.
2. Become self-employed.
3. See a cure for diabetes.
The 1952 Committee
are a group of ex-Tories who have left the party for good because Howard is backing Blunkett's ID card proposals, plus some who'd already left the Tories but have been made even more determined not to return because Howard is backing Blunkett's ID card proposals, plus a couple who can't vote in UK general elections but, if they could, wouldn't because Howard is backing Blunkett's ID card proposals.
So where does that leave me? As far as I can see, what unites these people is, to a lesser or greater extent, some degree of surprise. Why? All Howard has done is exactly what anyone with half a brain always knew he or any other Tory leader would do. ID cards are not a Labour scheme. Labour just happen to be the government who will finally manage to push them through. It's not like the Tories never supported the idea when they were in power. It's not like the Tories have paid anything more than lip service to the idea of personal freedom for many, many years. It's not like they have a Libertarian wing worth speaking of. They're a bunch of authoritarians. Their solution to every problem ever is to give greater power to Whitehall. Howard was a typically authoritarian Tory Home Secretary, and he hasn't changed. I was surpised at the reaction from so many Libertarians when Howard became leader. "Oh," they said
we'll see a strong leader make the Tories electable again!" I can see why a traditionalist party-loyal Tory Conservative like Peter Cuthbertson
might support Howard, but why on Earth would any Libertarian with a memory think the man had anything to offer?
I actually have grudgingly to applaud Howard for his honesty. Because, had he opposed ID cards while in opposition, I absolutely guarantee that he would have tried to introduce them if he ever became PM. At least, this way, you know what you're voting for. Or against.
So I approve of the 1952 Committee in principle. But I don't think I can join, because I never
would have voted Tory, because I always knew that they would do this.
I just got one of these
. I am pleased to report that it is the bee's knees. It may not have a lot of clever functions like an iPod, but and I can't emphasise this enough it is only eighteen quid
. I spent another thirty quid on a half-gig SD card for it, which still makes it cheap. And, because it takes cards, it is upgradeable.
"What exactly is your problem with Blunkett?" asks a reader in response to my last, somewhat impolite, post
. A fair question, really. Blunkett is an interesting politician, in that people only seem to hate him from the one direction. When someone says they hate Blair, you need further information to find out whether it's because he's too socialist or too conservative, too fond of using the army or too keen to get the UN's permission first, too soft on Sinn Fein or... no, I can't type the next bit with a straight face. But you get the point. The same applies to most politicians: people hate them for a wide variety of often contradictory reasons. But not Blunkett. When someone hates Blunkett, it's because of what he's done for civil liberties in this country. Presumably, in recent weeks, a few extra people have started hating him because of the way he treats his ex-lover and his children, which does appear to be pretty disgusting. But, politically, civil liberties are the issue, every time.
To be fair to Blunkett, he was a symptom of the problem, not its cause. Much as I'd love to say that his plans were his alone, they clearly weren't: Charles Clarke, a politician whom I regarded as quite reasonable and sensible until yesterday, is eagerly carrying the torch onwards. Much as I'd love to say that Labour are the problem, they clearly aren't: the (relative) economic liberalism of the Tories hasn't extended to social policy for as long as I can remember. Michael Howard will never be Prime Minister because people remember what he was like as Home Secretary and will vote accordingly. If Labour actually start locking people up for not wearing the correct armbands, then
Howard might start to look like the lesser of two evils. The simple fact is that most governments of the last century or so have regarded the population of Britain as a problem that needs to be solved, and Home Secretaries attempt to solve the problem by keeping tabs on it and taking away its freedoms.
So Blunkett had two major problems: he was an efficient, capable politician; and he was Home Secretary. Home Secretaries being what they are, an inefficient politician, such as Straw, is ideal for the role: he certainly had some very illiberal plans, but they didn't come to much. But Blunkett, I'm sorry to say, was good at his job. And his job stank.
Under Blunkett, we have ended up with more police cameras on us than ever before. And I don't just mean speed cameras, which, as I've said before
, I don't have a problem with per se. No, I mean the way entire city centres have been turned into observation zones, so that the police can proudly track your every footstep from the comfort of their desks. Under Blunkett, ID cards have gone from something governments occasionally suggested as a red herring whenever they had some other particularly nasty legislation to slip past the media's attention to a very real scheme that will certainly be introduced in the next year or two. Furthermore, they have gone far beyond mere cards: the government intend to keep a database of the face, fingerprints and DNA of every person in the UK, cross-referenced to our car's registration numbers, our phone records, and our preferred websites. And the bastards are going to charge us fifty quid for the privilege. Under Blunkett, the government have overturned the principle of presumed innocence: in rape cases, defendants are now effectively guilty until proven innocent. Thanks to Blunkett, criminals' previous prosecutions can be brought up in court, which is handy for the police, who will no longer need to bother their pretty little heads with the gathering of actual evidence. (Unsolved burglary? Just pick someone up who vaguely matches the description and who's done plenty of time for burglary. The jury'll convict when they hear his record. After a few years, maybe we could just have a hundred or so all-purpose criminals, going into jail on a rota basis. Which, come to think of it, would meet the government's prison population targets.)
Blunkett did two things I can think of which elevated him above the status of annoyingly efficient Home Secretary and onto The Pedestal Of Bastard. Firstly, as you may know, it is the tradition in Britain, when someone is wrongly convicted and locked up, to present them with a bill for room and board
when their conviction is overturned. Yes, that's right: if you are locked up for, say, twenty years for a crime you did not commit, when your conviction is finally overturned, the government will present you with a large bill for the luxurious prison bed you slept in and the scrumptious prison food you ate. Needless to say, the guilty get all this for free. Now, it wasn't Blunkett's policy. But he did defend it in court as "reasonable". When the court found against the government, he appealed it, thus gratuitously pumping up the legal bills of the men the government had already so thoroughly screwed. The amounts of money involved are, to the Treasury, neglible. There aren't all that many miscarriages of justice, and a few hundred grand here and there is chump change to the government. This policy has never been about the money: it's a way for the government to demonstrate to the wrongly convicted that they are still as guilty as hell in the eyes of their lords and masters and that, just because they've got out of jail on a technicality, that doesn't mean they can't still be punished. It's illegal, it's immoral, it's cruel, and it's not even in the government's interests, but Blunkett defended it and called it reasonable. Bastard.
The other thing he did, which Charles Clarke is happily continuing with, is to mislead the public regarding the soon-to-be-imposed National ID Card by telling us that it won't be compulsory to carry it with us. The British public are traditionally opposed to the idea of having to carry ID with them at all times, and it was Blunkett who masterminded the way round this opposition. For those who haven't figured it out yet (which, sadly, according to polls, appears to be a majority), the card itself is just a minor detail. The way the government's plans have taken shape, it doesn't even matter whether they introduce a card. The database that the police will be using will contain your fingerprints and your DNA. Unless you change your fingerprints, which is painful and difficult, and re-engineer your DNA, which is impossible, you will always be carrying the ID with you, regardless of whether you're carrying the card. Blunkett certainly knows this, which means he was deliberately misleading the public. Bastard.
I hope that answers your question.
Good riddance to the worst Home Secretary in history. With Labour's record, they may actually manage a worse one shortly. Tsk.
Anyway, so here's my theory about David Blunkett.
Being blind, he had an entirely understandable desire to keep track of things and people, mainly in order not to bump into them. He was then given absolute untramelled power over the people of Britain. Oops.
Some of you will, no doubt, object that I am being unfair to blind people here, but I'm really just being generous to Blunkett: either his behaviour was brought about by paranoia borne of his physical disability or he was just a cunt.
I had thought that the maple syrup
was a one-off. I'm generally OK in supermarkets. I like
shopping. But no.
Having just moved house, and being in the midst of more dust and chaos than brought about life on Earth, we needed a load of tea-towels. So off I went, late last night, to get as many as I could in Tesco, who are conveniently open till midnight.
It was easy enough to find what should have been the right section: near kitcheny things like bleach and dishwasher tablets are a whole bunch of cloths and wiping things that you would use in a kitchen: washing-up cloths, washing-up sponges, dusters, super dusters, hyper-absorbent dusting cloths, "all-purpose" (ha!) cloths... no bloody tea-towels.
Might they be with the kitchen rolls, which are, in some ways, a bit like disposable tea-towels, after all? No, they might not.
After a good ten minutes of staring at the same shelves again and again, convinced that this must be the right place but that I was stupidly looking right through the things, I resorted to asking a passing member of staff. He had some considerable trouble finding them himself, first finding a manager who told him that they no longer stocked tea-towels, just seconds before actually finding them.
They were at the far end of the shop from all the other kitchen cloth products, with the cafetieres. Of course.
Admittedly, it is true that one might use a tea-towel on a cafetiere. But the same could be said of axes and Tesco's shop layout design staff, and they don't keep them
We got a new fridge the other day. It's my first ever brand new fridge: my last one came with the flat when I bought it. Anyway, the fridge has safety instructions, as you might expect, and I had a look through them for an entirely sensible reason: I wanted to check whether there was a minimum distance to be kept between the cooling things on the back of the machine and the wall. Apparently not. To discover that, I didn't half have to wade through some bollocks.
Now, everyone knows that fear of litigation and the technical stupidity of (a) corporate lawyers and (b) everyone else is turning these safety instructions a bit stupid. But this latest booklet has finally stepped over the boundary into out-and-out lunacy. As well as the warning not to put too much food in the fridge, as it could fall out when I open the door and disastrously injure me (thanks for that, Daewoo), there was this:
Do not spray water inside or outside the fridge/freezer, as this could cause fire or explosion.
Let's just be clear about this. If your kids have a water-pistol fight in the kitchen, and one of them hits the fridge with a small jet of water, and the fridge then explodes and kills them all, Daewoo's lawyers will respond with "Ah, you should have read the instructions."
Being amazingly tall, I tend to get a bit of a bad back when driving, since cars aren't built for the likes of me. So I went into Halford's the other day to get a back support thingy for my car. There was a high density lumbar support for about 20 quid (apparently, high density is good when supporting backs. Apparently): it was just a little strap thing that went across the seat behind the small of your back. I was going to buy it, but then spotted, for only 15 quid, a thing which also claimed to have high denisty lumbar support, but which covered the entire seat and had exciting-looking padded bits for your shoulders and things, and
had a built in electronic back massager which plugs into the car's cigarette lighter (or cigar lighter, as manufacturers insist on calling them, for some reason. I smoke neither, so what do I care? Come to think of it, when are they going to stop with the antediluvian terminology and start calling them "phone chargers", which let's face it is what they are? Anyway). It looked too good to be true: why would something so blatantly better be cheaper? Maybe, I reasoned, it was actually utter crap.
I bought it anyway.
It is not utter crap. It may well be the single greatest invention ever. I now drive around in an incredibly comfy chair with added exciting-cum-soothing buzzing going on around the small of my back and my shoulder blades. It is utter class. It may or may not be good for my back, but it feels so good, I couldn't care less.
The other day, I noticed that the bloke in front of me in the queue at Sainsbury's was wearing a pair of Levi's new "anti-fit" jeans. They looked utterly shit, in a myriad ways.
Now, this is interesting. (Yes, it is.) Levi's have created some new jeans which simply do not fit. Doesn't matter what size you buy or what size you are: they are such a weird shape that they are guaranteed not to fit anyone. And they don't even not fit in a cool way, like the giant trousers of ten-year old skateboarders do, because they transcend merely being too big or too small: they are both. In short, these new jeans are an example of extraordinarily bad tailoring.
Levi's are not stupid, however. They have popped adverts on to our screens in which blokes wearing jeans that don't fit pull extremely attractive women. Unsubtle, perhaps, but I'm sure it's working. After all, the poor bloke I saw wearing the bloody things the other day didn't need the help of bad trousers to appear ugly. The ads had clearly persuaded him that what he's been doing wrong all these years is wearing clothes designed to fit his body inside them, and he had leapt enthusiastically into this latest scheme to get laid, when he really should have considered a better haircut first.
Now, if Levi's marketing department were working for a company that couldn't actually make clothes, I would applaud them. These guys could sell arseless boiler-suits made of pickles to the masses. But Levi's are quite good at making jeans famed for it, in fact. Why go to all the trouble of designing crap clothes and figuring out how to sell them, when they could just continue to make clothes that fit?
Last night, I dreamt that I was a good friend of Boris Johnson.
Over a year ago, I had a plan. The plan was quite simple: move to Northern Ireland with Vic; get a job; get a house. It has proven trickier than I would have liked.
We sold my flat and left Glasgow on the fifteenth of December last. We came to Northern Ireland, put most of our stuff in storage, and moved in with Vic's mother and sister and Vic's sister's boyfriend and daughter for "a couple of months". So far, so easy. And, after that, it really all went tits-up.
The idea was to live rent-free for a little while, thus making lots of money and getting rid of most of our debt. However, I remained unemployed for nearly six months. I am highly skilled at all sorts of things, including a specialist area that virtually no-one else is skilled in, but that got me precisely nowhere. I finally got a job about two weeks before the government stopped paying me dole money a near thing. Vic got a job more quickly, but it was very badly paid. So we remained in a very small bedroom in someone else's house for a year, building up extra debt for most of that time and paying to keep our beloved possessions in a big box where we couldn't ever see them.
As if that wasn't enough, God decided to make it a thoroughly shit year for us in all sorts of other ways, into which I shall not go, as I have better things to do than beg for pity. It's been bad. And the plan was so good.
Today, we got our new house. Finally. I will eventually write about the hassle we had with bad lawyers (not ours he's brilliant) and a bad bank, which resulted in one house purchase falling through in spectacularly stupid fashion and this one very nearly being scuppered. But we prevailed, and we've got a house. It's got both rising and penetrating damp, the rendering and the roof need work, we'll have to knock down a wall and move two radiators to fit our sofa in, the central heating doesn't extend to the top floor, the hot water tank is leaking, and we're already skint: the place is probably going to bankrupt us. But it is worth it. It's ours.
I spent this evening adjusting the toilet's flushing mechanism and ripping big polystyrene tiles off the ceiling and bad paper off the walls of the room that will one day be our bedroom. These are crappy tasks, as eny fule kno, but I haven't been so happy in a long, long time.
The front room is currently painted mauve and a shade of green that I can't even think of a name for, other than "vile".
So my sister-in-law was telling me the other day that regular colonic irrigation is believed to lower your chances of bowel cancer. (No, I don't remember how we got onto the subject. It's a great euphemism, though, isn't it? "Colonic irrigation". Sounds like something a civil engineer might do. (Come to think of it, maybe civil engineers do do it. What do I know about the shadowy world of civil engineering?) An even better euphemism, used now by health spas and such, apparently, is "colonic hydrotherapy". My hat is off to whoever coined that.) Anyway, it got me thinking. The claim may or may not be true, but how would you go about testing it?
Well, obviously, you'd give, say, one thousand men monthly enemas for, oh, twenty years or so, and you'd leave another one thousand men alone, under strict instructions not to go getting any enemas off their own bat. But then there's the tricky bit: you have to test for placebo effect. So, somehow, you have to leave another one thousand men with the impression that they're receiving enemas without actually giving them enemas.
There are, I believe, genuine scientific statistics regarding colonic irrigation, which means that somewhere, somehow, someone has figured out how to do that.
It seemed simple enough: buy some maple syrup. (I love maple syrup. And it is The Best Thing to have on Weetabix.) I was in Tesco's already, so how hard could it be?
The first place I looked was with the sugar. No maple syrup there. Well, fair enough. Maybe they've put it with the treacle and golden syrup, which inexplicably aren't with the sugar. (Why isn't golden syrup with the sugar? It is
sugar.) So I manage to find the syrup and treacle, which are with the jam, of course, but there's no maple syrup there. Hmm.
"How about Home Baking?" suggests Vic. Good plan. So off we trek to Home Baking, only to discover that that's where the sugar is: I've already looked there. Damn.
So I check the Organic section (well, it comes out of trees, right? You don't get much more organic than that); the condiments, but they're all savoury; and the chutneys and pickles on the grounds that (a) they're all bits of plants in jars, and (b) we're getting desperate. No maple syrup.
We were going to just give up, when I had a sudden stroke of recollection. I followed my hunch, and found it: maple syrup! Oh, joy!
It was with the frozen geese. Of course.
Everyone loves arguing about music. Everyone loves proving other people wrong. And everyone loves voting, at least about trivial things. Well, here's an opportunity to combine all three. Ronnie
has just launched 90 from the 90s
After reading umpteen 'Best Of...' lists in the past few weeks (and more to come, no doubt) we got fed up of arguing about how bad everyone's taste in music was and decided to do our own list. 90 from the 90s aims to produce the ultimate list of the greatest songs from the last decade.
Brought to you by 160676 and Talking Pish, we need you to email everyone you know and tell them about this site. In order to get a fair and full list, we need as many people as possible to tell us their favourite songs.
So, get on the old email and tell all your friends about 90 from the 90s.
We need you to give us your Top 10 Songs of the 1990s and send them to the email address at the top. Once we recieve all the lists (entries close on 24th December) we'll compile them all and get the 90 from the 90s list published as soon as we can.
And you can't say fairer than that.
As if anyone cares, here's my top ten:
- Lamb Gorecki
- Alpha Slim
- No-Man Days In The Trees
- Sunscreem When
- Mansun Negative
- U2 Please
- Radiohead Planet Telex
- Depeche Mode It's No Good
- Bomb The Bass Winter In July
- David Arnold & Propellerheads On Her Majesty's Secret Service
Do pass the word on, and do remember, when sending in your entry, to make it exactly the same as mine.
This is largely good news
, it seems.
Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak on Thursday described Prime Minister Ariel Sharon as the Palestinians' best chance for peace ...
This is fantastic, really. Call me a warmongering neocon, but I don't think this would have happened without Saddam's ousting. Credit where it's due, though: in describing Sharon as Palestinians' best chance for peace, Mubarak made himself a pretty damn good chance for peace as well. Could it be that Arabs start competing with Israelis over who can be the best chance for peace? That'd be nice.
However, Mubarak also said
... that [the Fatah leader] Marwan Barghouti's decision to run in the elections for Palestinian Authority chairman had damaged Palestinian unity.
"Fatah has nominated Abu Mazen [Mahmoud Abbas] and Abu Mazen, I think, will be the one to win," Mubarak said, referring to Abbas by his nom de guerre.
"There is Marwan al-Barghouti. ... It splits the Palestinian line and we urge the Palestinians that there should be one voice and no differences at a time when we need to stay clear of differences," Mubarak said in comments broadcast on state television.
Here, Mubarak demonstrates very clearly both his understanding of and his attitude towards democracy. Why does poisonous crap like this never meet with outrage; why is it received as if it's just routine diplomatic opinion? Let's just paraphrase it a bit, shall we?
Kim Jong-il said that Michael Howard's decision to run in the British general election had damaged British unity.
"Labour have nominated Tony Blair, and Blair, I think, will be the one to win," Kim Jong-il said.
"There is Michael Howard. It splits the British line and we urge the British that there should be one voice and no difference at a time when we need to stay clear of differences."
Suddenly sounds a tad less diplomatic, doesn't it? I think we all know why a dictator might not think that now is the time for opposition candidates for any given value of "now".
The Palestinians have demonstrated before that they have a pretty good grasp of democracy: there were loads of candidates who stood against Arafat, many of whom didn't routinely kill anyone. Arafat rigged his election, surprisingly enough, and that is largely what led to the problems the Palestinians now face: they have been suffering under an uncompromising, violent, and thoroughly corrupt dictatorship, when they could have had genuine democracy. Their dictator's dead now, and they've got another chance. Let them have it, I say. I don't want to see the Palestinians speaking with one voice. No population of more than about four people ever speaks with one voice; even a jury of twelve has difficulty. Show me a large group of people speaking as one, and I'll show you rule by terror. It's the Tirana Index
So, please, Palestinians, ignore Mubarak: you don't want your country to end up like his. Let al-Barghouti stand, even if he is a murdering bastard whom I sincerely hope the Israelis will never allow out of his cell; and let a dozen or a score or a hundred other Palestinians stand, too. Have a few debates. And good luck to the lot of you.
has posted this link to one of the greatest websites I have ever seen
: lots of photos of puppies, taken with a fish-eye lens. And a couple of kittens. Kittens are pretty damn cute, but not as cute as puppies.
This miniature dachshund
is the spitting image of Phoebe
Dogs are just great.
George Galloway has been exonerated in court.
Well, perhaps "exonerated" is too strong a word: he has won his libel case against The Telegraph
. Back when the damning documents were first published, Johann Hari wrote this:
There are two possible motives for [saluting Saddam Hussein's "courage, strength and indefatigability", as Galloway did]: admiration for Saddam, or gratitude for his cash. Both options stink: either he was paid by Saddam, or Saddam didn't need to offer him cash. I for one will think better of Galloway if he is a crook. If he was just doing this for the old, foul motive of an extra $375,000 a year, he is a bit less immoral than if he backs Saddam's atrocities sincerely.
Absolutely. I said something similar at the time myself (though I wasn't blogging then, so you'll just have to take my word for it). Even if Saddam had paid him (which, I have to say, he most definitely didn't), it wouldn't have been, strictly speaking, a bribe: a bribe is what you pay someone to do something that they wouldn't do if you didn't pay them. Had Saddam been paying Galloway (which he wasn't), it would have constituted gratitude, not bribery. And the important thing to remember (which Galloway seems to be ignorant of) is that Saddam could be grateful to Galloway even if Galloway had never had any intention of helping Saddam. And, for that last sentence, I don't think I need a legal disclaimer.
The judge's decision is interesting.
Mr Justice Eady said: "It was the defendants' primary case that their coverage was no more than 'neutral reportage' of documents discovered by a reporter in the badly-damaged foreign ministry in Baghdad, but the nature, content and tone of their coverage cannot be so described."
Telegraph foreign correspondent David Blair had earlier told the judge how he had found the documents inside the Iraqi foreign ministry.
The judge said that although Mr Galloway was interviewed by telephone on 21 April, he was not given an opportunity to read the Iraqi documents beforehand, and neither were they read to him.
The reporter who contacted him, Andrew Sparrow, only summarised the claims relating to funding of the Mariam Appeal, but did not tell him the newspaper was planning to publish claims about personal enrichment, the judge said.
"[Mr Galloway] did not therefore have a fair or reasonable opportunity to make inquiries or meaningful comment upon them before they were published."
So there's no suggestion here that the documents were forged. Their authenticity has been disputed by the prosecution, but not, it seems, by the judge. The problem is that The Telegraph
didn't follow basic procedures when it came to allowing their subject a fair right of reply in which case, they did deserve to lose this case, as that is totally unprofessional of them, and they should have known better.
I have two questions. Had The Telegraph
given Galloway copies of the documents and allowed him, say, twenty-four hours to respond; had they then printed his response in full; had they published the documents with no editorial comment about Galloway, but restrained themselves to merely providing a translation and saying where they'd found them; would they then have lost this case? And would Galloway's reputation have suffered in the same way?
One thing that any idiot can learn from a quick browse through history is that tyrants take their friends with them. One of the keys to running a successful tyranny is to arrange matters so that it is in everyone's interests that you stay in power: you divide your country into factions and fractions who are guaranteed to start a bloody civil war when you go, ensuring that succession can never be smooth; and you make damn sure that everyone who's on your side stands to suffer badly if you lose power, thus ensuring that coups from within your own inner sanctum are unlikely. Every time you get on the good side of a tyrant, you're taking a gamble on whose career or life will last the longest, his or yours. Tyrants are great believers in solidarity: you can guarantee that, when he goes down, he will try to take you with him.David Blair, who found the documents, said in court
it would have been an "extraordinarily elaborate exercise" for anybody to have forged the document.
"Then of course such a person would have had to hope that someone might chance upon this document from the thousands of pages in the many hundreds of folders within the hundreds of filing-boxes in the room - even if they happened upon the room at all - and that it would find its way to a journalist," he said.
He has a point, but it strikes me that this has implications beyond the Galloway case. One journalist grabs a couple of folders from a choice of many thousands, in a building that's being looted, and just happens to come across incriminating evidence? This is equally unlikely whether the evidence is forged or genuine. My own personal theory is that it wouldn't have mattered which box Blair picked: that every box contained a document that implicated a public figure somewhere. Some of those documents will have been genuine as the oil-for-food scam is making all too clear and others will have been forgeries forged by the Saddam regime itself. But such forgeries would only be made about people that Saddam regarded as allies again, even if they did not think of themselves as his allies and so would still, in their own way, be damning. As a general rule, the less freedom there is in a nation, the more truthful are its paranoid conspiracy theories.
Finally, if I can avoid a libel case for a few more sentences, I just have to pour some ridicule on this
Mr Rampton said Mr Galloway had only met Saddam on two occasions.
"The first time was in 1994 when, as he himself freely admits, he put his foot in his mouth by making some remarks which were open to interpretation - and needless to say were interpreted - as some kind of fawning praise for Saddam Hussein's personal courage and strength.
"It wasn't what he meant to say, it was not in his mind to say, because he had no respect or admiration for Saddam Hussein whatsoever."
Really, just how open to interpretation is this:
Sir, I salute your courage, your strength, your indefatigability.
Not very, in my opinion.
Furthermore, I have seen Galloway speaking in public. Everything the man says is utter bollocks, but he ain't half eloquent. His speaking is assured, confident, unhesitating, well constructed, persuasive, and really quite brilliant. I don't believe he is even capable of accidentally saying something other than what he means to say. And that's a compliment.
Brian Micklethwait has a suggestion:
The politicos are cranking up this London Olympic bid. Well, all those of us who care more about people getting murdered than we do about people running marathons should offer the Olympiacs a deal. You can have your damned games if, by the time they come here, you have got on top of London's crime numbers. If, on the other hand, you obsess about the Olympics and regard harping on about murder as a mere distraction, then we should all flood the internet with "London: World Capital of Crime – Olympians Do Not Come Here – You Will All Be Murdered" propaganda. "London Welcomes The Olympians" – "Now Hand Over Your Wallet Or Die", etc.
The good thing about this arrangement is that I believe that it would work spontaneously. No one would have to be in charge of anything. But, if any of the people who do think that they are in charge of the Olympic bid tell us that we are being unpatriotic if we go on about crime in London instead of ignoring it and suffering in silence, they will be spontaneously attacked, and in a way that will really hurt them, with globally circulated (especially in Paris of course) bad news about what an appallingly unsuitable city London would be to hold these stupid games. Shut up, they will say. And the reply will be: no. Either you help us, or we screw you. That will be our message to them. And I think, after they have had a taste of it, that it might prove rather persuasive.
I don't think for one moment that this will work, but it will be fun to take some small revenge on the bastards who have done so much to help create the crime spree we all now live in.
I suffer from migraines. Always have. They're a fascinating subject, except when you actually have one, when they're just shit.
I've been getting far fewer of them lately, largely thanks to chiropractice. One of the major causes of migraines is neck muscle tension, as the muscles in your neck stretch over the top of your scalp and down your forehead to somewhere around your eye sockets, so screwed-up muscles in your neck can cause agonising pain behind your eyes. Usually, sufferers don't even realise that their neck is in pain at all. Chiropractors do a great job of lowering the number of migraines you generally get: regular chiropractic treatment has lowered my rate from at least one a week to four or five a year. Anyway, the upshot of this is that a bit of a neck massage can cure a migraine, which is very handy to know.
Another good treatment for individual migraines is ibuprofen, miracle painkiller extraordinaire. Aspirin's good, too. Aspirin's frowned on these days, because it makes your stomach bleed, apparently. People who've never had a migraine in their life simply don't appreciate the extent of the pain. Not only do I happily take a drug that rots my stomach if it'll only stop the pain; if it was guaranteed to cure migraines, I'd take a drug that kicked me in the kidneys, chopped my legs off, and broke my spine.
If your doctor is sympathetic, you can get something called Naramig on prescription, and it's just fantastic. It's not a painkiller: it addresses the actual cause of the pain (something to do with blood vessels). By sheer coincidence, it also works well at alleviating neck tension, so helps that kind of migraine too.
There was some interesting research done on caffeine recently, which revealed that it is a better headache treatment than ibuprofen though combining the two works best of all. The interesting thing is that a lot of caffeine in your diet can cause migraines, but, if you avoid the stuff generally, a big dose of caffeine can kill a headache stone dead. I now drink caffeine-free Diet Coke, but keep some of the normal stuff in the house, just in case. It's really worked very well.
So, when I get a migraine, I take some ibuprofen, drink loads of Diet Coke, and ask Vic (my wife) to give my neck muscles a tweak, which she's very good at. I always think it'd be great to know which of these methods works the best, but the overwhelming desire to get rid of the pain has always stopped me experimenting: the last thing I want to do is try just one method in isolation and it be the one that doesn't work at all.
But there's another interesting side-effect of migraines: they shut down your digestion. This is why I stopped taking Naramig. I didn't want to waste a precious pill on a minor pain that could be got rid of with a bit of aspirin (which is about 50 times cheaper), and, by the time I'd realise that I needed the big guns, it would be too late: the Naramig would just sit in my stomach, which would defiantly refuse to digest it.
So I got home in agony last night. It was one of those sneaky ones that zips from a minor twinge to hell itself before I realise what's going on. I took some ibuprofen, drank over 2 litres of Diet Coke, and got a superb-as-ever neck massage from Vic. And the pain went away pretty quickly. Result.
Unbeknownst to me, however, the migraine hadn't been cured at all: only the pain had. Migraines are complicated and surreptitious phenomena, and they pull this kind of stunt sometimes. My stomach had been well and truly shut for business, and I, thinking the lack of pain implied cure, had a nice big meal. Oops. I stayed awake, feeling sick, until about four this morning, then I vomited for a while, then I had insomnia until about ten minutes before my alarm went off and I had to go to work. And they tell me there's a God.
The point of all this (yes, there's a point) is that I finally did my experiment, albeit unintentionally. I can exclusively reveal that a neck massage alone is enough to relieve migraine pain. Neither the ibuprofen nor the Diet Coke were ever digested.
To say that this important discovery adequately compensates me for the way I feel right now would be a lie.