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@bon bon wrote:
Potagy
As in the Hungarian for ‘spare bed?’ Spare bed flavour crisps? Nah, they’ll never catch on, unlike – say – ‘Spare pr.ick at a wedding’ flavour..
@the_bulldog wrote:
@forumhostpb wrote:
How about Marmite & Apple?
Better still, Horseradish & Banana custard or for that ultimate “UGH” moment…. Milk Chocolate and Tomato Ketchup.
Marmite n apple ? Thats got a nice ring to it.. In fact, my mouths actually watering here :D
Phwoar! I hope they’ll come in a family-size pack – just for meeeeee!
Ooh yes, I LOVE peanut butter.
Here’s one for crustacean lovers – Lobster and Lemon mayo flavour crisps
Ha ha ha..good to see you me old mucker
though I don’t know whether to drool or barf at the recipe! Strange Fruit
Southern trees bear strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.Pastoral scene of the gallant south,
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,
Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter crop.Sung by the superb Billie Holiday
STRANGE FRUITIt’s a nice choppy cut at the back and the side swept fringe suits your face shape. A success I would say.
THE ZOMBIES..
TIME OF THE SEASONI’m not a fan of BB, but that sequence made me…
The Man Who Dreamed Of Faeryland
by William Butler YeatsHE stood among a crowd at Dromahair;
His heart hung all upon a silken dress,
And he had known at last some tenderness,
Before earth took him to her stony care;
But when a man poured fish into a pile,
It Seemed they raised their little silver heads,
And sang what gold morning or evening sheds
Upon a woven world-forgotten isle
Where people love beside the ravelled seas;
That Time can never mar a lover’s vows
Under that woven changeless roof of boughs:
The singing shook him out of his new ease.
He wandered by the sands of Lissadell;
His mind ran all on money cares and fears,
And he had known at last some prudent years
Before they heaped his grave under the hill;
But while he passed before a plashy place,
A lug-worm with its grey and muddy mouth
Sang that somewhere to north or west or south
There dwelt a gay, exulting, gentle race
Under the golden or the silver skies;
That if a dancer stayed his hungry foot
It seemed the sun and moon were in the fruit:
And at that singing he was no more wise.
He mused beside the well of Scanavin,
He mused upon his mockers: without fail
His sudden vengeance were a country tale,
When earthy night had drunk his body in;
But one small knot-grass growing by the pool
Sang where — unnecessary cruel voice —
Old silence bids its chosen race rejoice,
Whatever ravelled waters rise and fall
Or stormy silver fret the gold of day,
And midnight there enfold them like a fleece
And lover there by lover be at peace.
The tale drove his fine angry mood away.
He slept under the hill of Lugnagall;
And might have known at last unhaunted sleep
Under that cold and vapour-turbaned steep,
Now that the earth had taken man and all:
Did not the worms that spired about his bones
proclaim with that unwearied, reedy cry
That God has laid His fingers on the sky,
That from those fingers glittering summer runs
Upon the dancer by the dreamless wave.
Why should those lovers that no lovers miss
Dream, until God burn Nature with a kiss?
The man has found no comfort in the grave.
‘Tis the redoubtable Pete to thank for my siggy, Shazza.
though I don’t know whether to drool or barf at the recipe! 