My Valentine’s Day – by Nigel Porridge, Man Of The Sheeple

Nigel Porridge pictured in his underwear - not in the pub.

Nigel Porridge pictured in his underwear – not in the pub.

Snuck out of bed at seven this morning, anxious not to wake my wife. Left her gently snoring in bed. Finally decided on what to take her up for a romantic breakfast in bed, then picked up the newspapers.

Great news! We’ve hit the headlines again in three tabloids and two broadsheets. Made pot of tea and a slice of buttered toast with jam. Sat down at the breakfast bar and had a closer look at the papers.

Sterling job from our candidate for Bradford West, George Bull. His announcement that we’ll leave the EU, set fire to Russia, declare war on Greece and clamp down on rogue curry houses was particularly well received by the extreme right. Pity he didn’t mention my suggestion that we open forced labour camps for immigrants and benefit scroungers, probably because IDS mentioned in the House that I was too soft on poverty.

Is it too early for A G&T? I rather fancy a beer but I’m watching my weight. G&T it is then.

Switched the telly on. Do Nothing Dave’s on the lefty BBC again calling me a swivel eyed loon. I’ll have that bastard one of these days. Then he said we were losing all credibility as a party by having that pub landlord bloke representing us. What a plonker! He’s so far up his own backside he can probably lick his own tonsils. The big foreheaded idiot.

I had more gin, but ran out, so I started on the brandy and cokes. Lots of brandy and not a lot of coke. Turned the channel over to Sky News. More twaddle from Russia – I’ve told them how to sort that out. Bomb the buggers. Simple.

Had more brandy. Made vow to start on my wife’s breakfast in bed tray in 30 minutes. Not a minute more, not a minute less. Finished the bloody brandy. Started on the vodka. Had a long look at Page 3. Tidy sort, Janey, 22 from the Wirral. We need more of that in our party. Must remember where I put Karen Danczuk’s mobile number. She’ll be a big hit with the lads when they get both barrels! Ha ha ha!

Started feeling a tad woozy. Stopped chugging the vodka and slowed down a bit by cracking a can of Special Brew. Checked my diary. Couldn’t focus on it. Threw it at the cat. Missed.

Then the wife got up demanding to know what had happened to her special Valentine’s Day breakfast in bed.

Was violently sick in a pot plant in the conservatory, stumbled into the kitchen and fell asleep on the floor.

*Any similarity between Nigel Porridge and Nigel Farage is purely coincidental. Café Spike is not in the business of poking idiots with pointed sticks.

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Dinner With Barking Mad Murphy

Sheep Shagger's Pie With Badger And Coulottes Pictured In The Future

Sheep Shagger’s Pie With Badger And Coulottes Pictured In The Future

Dinner eh? Who is it? What is it? Ah, dinner – the consumption of nutritionists, not to be recommended to excessive three degrees yet portly nonetheless. Frequently enjoyabled by families perched around periodic tables like vultures with forky things pointing at the readiness and all primed to devour.

Lovely.

Some say no interested in fine whining – their loss adjuster. Dinner is good in equal amounts. Beef Wellington boots, chickens or roasted armadillo skins on beds of cress. Even betterment with wine of black grape with extra virgin Olivia Hussey and butter slathered frying panini. Best on Sundays with egg custard and stewed beetroot testicles in pickled dungeons.

Dinner. Who makes it? The man with the pan, or a woman with an inoffensive weapon. Usually in the kitsch. Arboreal danglings not essential but desirous.

Puddings – after dinnerings. Save houseroom or miss shout. All relative. Like daft uncle. Best served discustard with lashings of sugar pie honey bun.

Chop up into unmanageable sized pieces, mix togetherness and insert into throat. No gag reflex or acid refluxation. Better that wayward.

Wash down with soapy water then ride bike up ramp. Better fast. To fail is to fall. Often badly. Richard Hammond.

Job done.

Next time – Parachuting from flying boats in bad weather.

Reporter: Barking Mad Murphy

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We’re All Doomed! Planet Earth To Be Obliterated Within A Year

Worse than this...

Worse than this…

Lunchtime drinker Little Trevor Fountain made the announcement today after losing a game of pool at the Popinjay pub in Basingstoke, Hants. Having been left with six balls on the table in an eight-ball game, Little Trevor wobbled unsteadily to the bar, where he purchased a pint of lager and a double vodka. He made the announcement as he slumped at a table with his drinks.

When Little Trevor’s fellow customers asked him how he worked that one out, he announced that we’d probably collide with Jupiter and be torn apart by enormous gravitational forces exerted by the giant gas planet. Or perhaps get hit by an as yet uncharted asteroid or comet which would probably be about the size of Africa.

“It’s going to be one or the other,” Little Trevor said. “As true as I’m sitting here. Whatever way it goes, I don’t want people to suffer. I’m just hoping it’s going to be instantaneous. Like turning a light off or something.”

Little Trevor said he’d accepted his fate, given up his night shift job stacking shelves at a local supermarket, and that he wouldn’t be paying any bills ever again.

“What’s the point?” he said. “The world as we know it is coming to an end and quite frankly I’d rather spend what little time I have left here on Earth down the pub. The world will have ended before anyone takes me to court. Might as well enjoy the last few months of existence. And there’s no point hiding from it – wherever you go you’ll be killed. The whole planet is going to go BANG! and there’ll be no survivors. No more Earth even.”

Little Trevor’s best mate, Big Trevor told us in confidence not to worry too much, as Little Trevor often gets maudlin after a few drinks and a crushing defeat playing his favourite pub game.

“His missus will kill him when he gets home,” he said. “He was only supposed to go out for a loaf of bread and a bottle of milk at the shops. He’ll be as right as rain in the morning and he’ll probably blame me for getting him mullered. It’s all his own fault though – he should have laid off the vodka. And I’ll never know how he missed that easy yellow in the corner pocket. A blind man off his nut on absinthe could have sunk that one.”

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The Revolutionary Cafe Spike Diet Revealed

Get your day off to a flying start

Get your day off to a flying start

We’ve been asked to list our Editor In Chief’s typical dietary intake over a 24 hour period for a leading international health, diet, exercise and fitness magazine, basically in the hope that others will be inspired to attain a Café Spike level of fitness and mental agility. So what follows is a typical day in the dietary life of our esteemed EIC.

04:30 Crawl bleary eyed and slightly hungover out of warm bed. Go downstairs.

04:35 Promise to shower later. Coffee and cigarettes.

05:00 Breakfast. Bacon, fried bread, fried egg, sausages, mushrooms, fried tomato, baked beans, black pudding slices, sautéed potatoes, toast, chilli ketchup.

05:30 Check emails.

05:32 Cigarette. Open Facebook. Post disparaging comments on posts considered pointless. (99.9%)

06:00 Open Mail Online. Post stupid comments to wind the idiots up. Three packets of crisps, more cigarettes, four cold beers. Stiff brandy.

08:00 Last night’s curry microwaved and served on thickly buttered sliced white bread. (4 Slices) Back to bed for a bit.

11:45 Whisky and double pepperami pizza or cheddar cheese on toast. (4 slices) Try to write a story for the magazine. Treble brandy. Put reading glasses on to prevent double vision. Type rubbish for a few minutes. Give up. Large rum and coke. Doze off in chair watching This Morning.

15:15 Wake up starving. Microwaved corned beef on toast with four strong lagers. Exchange FB messages with Frankie, our staffer in the USA who hasn’t been well recently. Advise Frankie that he needs to switch to a healthy lifestyle.

16:45 Exercises. A brisk walk up the shops. Buy a case of strong lager. Kebab shop – mega doner with salad, chilli sauce, slice of pizza and two deep fried chicken breasts, southern style.

Don't Skimp On The Drink!

Don’t Skimp On The Drink!

17:15 Weight training. Putting beers in fridge.

18:00 More beer. With brandy, whisky and schnapps.

20:30 Up the chippy. Fish, chips and mushy peas, saveloy and pickled egg.

21:00 Neat vodka, box of Dairy Milk. Watch the news for a bit.

22:00 Supper – microwaved KFC Zinger burger with fries beans, gravy and coleslaw that I’d put in the fridge three days ago and forgotten about.

23:00 Half bottle of Merlot and bed.

It may not work for everybody but it works for me.

Martin Shuttlecock. Editor In Chief. Café Spike.

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Everest 2014 – Cafe Spike Expedition Notes – By Blair Gills

"Bit...erm...big...innit..."

“Bit…erm…big…innit…”

The biggest challenge I’ve ever faced since working for Café Spike has been, without doubt the 2014 Café Spike staff attempt on the summit of Mount Everest. As Café Spike’s resident survivalist expert I wasn’t surprised when I received an email from the European Alpine Society challenging Café Spike staffers to launch an attempt on the summit of the world’s highest peak – Mount Everest.

When I replied to the email, politely pointing out that Mount Everest is actually in the Himalayas and not in the European Alps and requesting an immediate end to such silly requests the EAS responded with some vicious online taunting and stick prodding, stating quite firmly that Café Spike staffers were somehow lacking testicular presence.

To say we were collectively annoyed would be an understatement. We were infuriated. So infuriated in fact that we immediately held an impromptu office piss-up before taking to the internet in an upper case and exclamation point fuelled rage and giving just about everyone who’s ever got on our nerves a proper beasting. This took several days.

But the idea had taken root.

So we discussed it over a few bottles of blended malt and we decided to go for it.

The Fatal Full English Training Diet

The Fatal Full English Training Diet

We held a staff meeting in the Garlick Club in London’s prestigious Grosvenor Square and selected a seven man team over several glasses of brandy and some fine Cuban cigars. Seven because it’s a lucky number apparently, although four of the team were arrested on the way home from the Garlick Club for breach of the peace after getting involved in a heated exchange with a stroppy taxi driver over quaffing Cristal champagne from the bottle in the back of a moving vehicle.

I was nominated Team Leader, and my teammates included:

El Colonel, a former military man of Bolivian extraction whose allotted task was to promote debate and optimise the use of foul and abusive language among the group.

Monsignor Francois DuBois, a defrocked Jesuit priest who was tasked with all matters spiritual and unarmed combat.

Dr Lynton – aka The Professor. Team doctor and cunning linguist.

Peregrine Tripp – Resident travel advisor, restaurant critic and navigator.

Churchy – A man of letters, team secretary, diarist and keeper of the log.

Martin Shuttlecock – Self-appointed high altitude mountain guide, piss artist and idiot beyond compare.

Training commenced immediately, with all team members performing outstandingly over four weeks of intensive drinking at The Coal Hole in the Strand, with Dr Lynton performing superbly after being called upon (on a veritable multitude of occasions) to treat cuts, bruises and scratches sustained principally by team members falling over following bouts of over-indulgence.

Tripp, being the most practical team member suggested that we stock up on camping gear, mountaineering equipment and essential supplies before leaving for Nepal. Doc Lynton was in agreement. Unfortunately the idiot Shuttlecock argued that shipping all that stuff out to Nepal would prove prohibitively expensive, arguing that the team ought to travel light and buy the necessary gear in Kathmandu.

Training Went Well.

Training Went Well.

A fierce argument then broke out, during the course of which El Colonel suffered an anxiety attack upon discovering that the bar was denuded of Merlot. He was attended immediately by Doc Lynton who applied a poultice and set up an IV feed of Chianti – which seemed to placate El Colonel yet had little impact on the angry exchanges.

It was at this point that Churchy intervened and suggested to the team that we consult Monsignor DuBois on matters spiritual. After due consideration DuBois uttered one word: “Whisky.”

Over several bottles of single malt, the team agreed upon a departure date and bade farewell to the pub before separating as a group and repairing to their individual residences. Seemingly without a care in the world. No casualties were reported apart from the idiot Shuttlecock who got on the wrong tube train and wandered the streets of London aimlessly for a couple of hours before succumbing to a bout of altitude sickness at High Holborn.

As it transpired all went well.

Back at my hotel suite I was a worried man. The team were obviously inexperienced, and Everest is a dangerous place; it even has a death zone. I know that because they mention it on the Discovery Channel and National Geographic every time there’s a documentary on about high altitude mountaineering. I pondered as to whether our team were actually cognisant of the reality that our very survival would be at stake?

With that in mind I pitched the tent on the floor of the hotel suite, chopped all the furniture up with an axe and started a fire using my survival flint and kindling extracted from the furniture stuffing before settling down in my sleeping bag for the night.

I slept well save for the smoke which irritated my mucus membranes, and dreamt of dolphins for some peculiar reason.

Blair Gills.

London 2014

To be continued…

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