Showing posts with label hedonism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hedonism. Show all posts

Tuesday, 7 April 2009

Gimmee chocolate

It's not all doom and gloom and businesses going to the wall. Like sex toys, luxury chocolates are enjoying a sales boom as people look for little treats and put that long-haul holiday on ice.

London's now said to be the chocolate capital of the world, full of famous names like Rococo, Prestat and William Curley. Everyone's snapping up their truffles, pralines and fondants as if there's no tomorrow.

There's even a wine-type vocabulary developing to enhance your taste experience. As William Curley puts it "Good chocolate always has length. If there's an immediate burst and then it dies on you, it isn't made with the best beans."

Always has length? Well, I must say I prefer six inches of chocolate to one inch. A richer sensation in every way. Size definitely matters, I say.

My usual comment of "Good stuff, that" is clearly hopelessly vulgar and proletarian. I should of course be remarking on the superior width and depth and overall dimensions of truffle flavour. While casually running my tape measure over it, naturally.

Not that I eat chocolate for pure hedonistic ecstasy, needless to say. I eat it solely for the health benefits of lower blood pressure, mood enhancement, reduced cholesterol and increased longevity. A large bar of Toblerone is obviously reducing the burden on the hard-pressed NHS.

And how lucky that we humans can enjoy a taste paradise animals can't. Apparently chocolate is toxic to animals because they find it hard to digest the substance theobromine. They could suffer seizures or even death. Cats and dogs included. So keep that king-size Mars Bar well away from Fido.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to Thorntons for some essential medical supplies. Gift-wrapped of course.
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And now the journos are getting all excited about Michelle Obama wearing Dusty Springfield-style false eyelashes. How much more of this tripe?

Tuesday, 6 January 2009

Twin cultures

To many people, Australian culture means things like going to the beach, surfing, barbecues, sport, physical activity and sheep-farming - in other words, modern-day pursuits enjoyed by 'settlers'.

But references to aboriginal beliefs and traditions are now so frequent in Australia that any true idea of Australian culture has to include both aborigines and settlers.

Everywhere you go in Australia there's fantastic aboriginal art, particularly paintings. There're constant reminders of aboriginal respect for the land and its flora and fauna, and how they should be protected and cherished rather than owned and exploited.

There're regular mentions of the customary aboriginal lifestyle with its slower pace and quiet sensitivity, in sharp contrast to the contemporary yen for consumerism, materialism, hyperactivity and worldly success.

Aboriginal values, which existed many years before the settlers muscled in and imposed their own values, are in many ways more intelligent and more sensible and a positive alternative to the frantic hedonism and go-getting we usually think of as the Australian dream.

Many Australians still regard the aboriginal worldview as totally irrelevant and just a tourist curiosity, but it seems to be growing in influence all the time and actively challenging the limitations of the prevailing culture.

Modern-day Australian culture is not even particularly unique but borrows heavily from Britain and America. Britons were keen beachgoers and sports-lovers long before the Aussies.

And as for that great Aussie symbol, the boomerang, it's actually an aboriginal hunting weapon, used to knock animals out of trees or disable them. Right there you have an emblem that goes way beyond the usual sun and sand image.

Alongside the bikinis, thongs and surfboards, there's a much older and maybe richer way of life.

Painting: Awelye by Minnie Pwerle

Tuesday, 11 December 2007

When the cat's away

Well, now that Jenny's away in Canada for a few days, it's all systems go Chez Nick. The wild parties are in full swing, my red-hot mistress is installed in the spare bedroom and the drugs are in plentiful supply.

I'm already exhausted from the non-stop hedonism and self-indulgence. I just haven't done enough of this to build up the necessary stamina and uninhibited abandon. I haven't hung around with enough tearaway celebs lately (of course I'm invited to all their parties but I'm a bit shy so I've missed a few).

The neighbours are already complaining about the noise and disturbance, what with the stretch limos parked all the way up the road, all the glass from the broken windows and the lakes of vomit everywhere. But what the hell, it's only once every six months, why can't the tight-arsed little curtain-twitchers loosen up a little? Jesus, get a life.

The quality of the gossip is first-rate. You wouldn't believe how many secret babies, lovers, drug overdoses, tax dodges and shady business deals I've been privy to. If I got on to the papers, I'd be a rich man. But of course my lips are sealed or my name will be mud and I'll never get invited to Madonna's fiftieth.

If only the paparazzi would restrain themselves a bit, we could really let our hair down. It's a real drag having to rein ourselves in because some cash-hungry snapper is pointing his greasy lens through the front windows. I have to keep the bondage gear and torture equipment well out of sight.

I'm getting through quite a lot of money what with all the booze, the recreational substances and Mick Jagger's private gig. Have you any idea what these people charge? It's a f**king liberty. Isn't his state pension enough?

And the sheer quantity of sexy smalls Ms Bit-On-The-Side goes through is unbelievable. She demands at least half a dozen camisoles a DAY, and even had the cheek to bill me for the new implants. Does she think I'm made of money? I'm not sure how I'm going to explain the eye-popping credit card bill to my dear lady wife.

Still, it'll all have to stop in a few days, and not before time. By then I'll be in a state of total exhaustion, out cold on the shag pile. It's all too much for a sexagenarian, I tell you.

(Some people are spreading vicious rumours that all I'm really doing is cooking chili risottos, reading pretentious books and playing Annie Lennox non-stop. This couldn't be further from the truth. My lawyers have been consulted)