Nosferatu

A colleague today brought in a heart rate monitor that fits on a finger.  Apparently I have a resting heart rate of 59 beats per minute, lower than everybody else in the office.  And almost on a level with an athlete (see chart on this page http://www.netfit.co.uk/fitness/test/resting-heart-rate.htm, I'm nearly 50). As I am clearly not an athlete, I think this may mean that I am one of the undead.

Chocolate Review: Wonka Crème Brûlée

Wonka Crème Brûlée - and, yes, they do include all the accents - looks much like Wonka Nice Cream, but tastes more like coffee and has gritty/ chewy bits in.  In fact, the taste is very similar to Wonka Millionaires Shortbread (see http://blogtoffee.blogspot.co.uk/2013/11/chocolate-review-wonka-millionaires.html).
Hence, the overall conclusion is that this bar is a bit pointless; looks like (Not)Nice Cream, tastes like Millionaire's Shortbread.   In general I have found Wonka bars disappointing, and I do realise that they're not actually made by Oompaloompas, but I was expecting something a little more out of the ordinary. I'm assuming that this has the approval of Roald Dahl's estate, or is the Wonka name now property of a film studio ?

Chocolate Review: Wonka's Chocolate Nice Cream

The usual Wonka packaging, and yet again no golden ticket.

Overexposed pack shot

The bar itself is rather 'flat' tasting and doesn't seem as sweet as most British chocolate.  The cream filling isn't particularly creamy, more the consistency of shaving soap, and the whole experience is rather disappointing.  Even the savour test fails to make it any more enjoyable. Having consumed the full bar I was still not tremendously impressed.  There is an 0800 phone number on the back of the packaging to ring.  Could I just phone and say that I think using the word 'nice' is against advertising standards ? Or maybe it's named after the city in the south of France.


The Blackstone Code: Episode 3

The story so far:  Padraig O’Riordan , Professor of Football Cryptography at the University of Liffey, has been summoned by Detective Inspector Freddie Flintoff to the National Football Museum.  The museum’s curator, Jack Salter, has been murdered, but not before mutilating himself in order to leave a cryptic clue.  The police’s Football Crypotrographer, Tara Farmer-Palmer, has persuaded him that he must escape … Now read on…

          Despite this latest turn of events, O’Riordan was wondering who would play him in a film: Liam Neeson, preferably, or James Nesbitt, possibly, but only with the Viva Zapata moustache.  But definitely not Colin Farrell.  He was still trying to think of names to use in his sideline as a pulp novelist.  He had always admired the Carry On films, with names such as WC Boggs, Sir Rodney Ffing and Sir Roger Daley. 

          Farmer-Palmer eased the fire exit open, setting the alarms off.  “Quick,” she said. “Run.”

          “Where to ?” said O’Riordan, aware that there wasn’t an Irish embassy in Preston.

          “Kimberley Barracks.”

          “Where ?”

          “Just down Deepdale Road,” said Farmer-Palmer.

 

“Sir,” said Detective Constable Jeremiah Fuzzyduck.  “Professor O’Riordan appears to be trying to escape.”

          “Let him go,” replied Flintoff. “We’ve got him tracked, let him run.  And turn that bloody alarm off, it’s giving me a headache.”

 

          O’Riordan and Farmer-Palmer burst into the office at Kimberley Barracks.  A startled, spotty youth, in Combat 95s, reading the latest issue of Nuts (Caution: May contain traces of Exeweb), sprang to his feet.

          “What do you want ?” he sputtered.

          Farmer-Palmer replied first.  “I am Captain Farmer-Palmer of the Queens Lancashire Regiment Volunteers. I need a vehicle urgently.”

          The youth snapped to attention.  “Ma’am, I am 24703614 Private Parts of the Lancashire and Cumbria Volunteers, ma’am.”

          O’Riordan was reminded by the word “ma’am” of the time he was due to meet the Queen.  His faculty had been told that “ma’am” rhymes with ‘spam’.  When he was about to be introduced to the Queen, he ran away as he was sure that, after the initial “Your Majesty”, he would call her “Spam”.

          “Ah, Pte Parts,” said Farmer-Palmer. “I need a vehicle.”

          Pte Parts looked towards the wall on which a series of hooks hung underneath brass plaques reading ‘Land Rover’, ‘4 Tonner’, ‘All Terrain Vehicle’ etc. All the hooks were empty save one.  It was marked ‘Chieftain Tank’.

          “Erm, ma’am,” started Pte Parts hesitantly. “The unit is on exercise.  I’m the Rear Party.  All the vehicles have been taken on exercise.  Except the Chieftain.”

          “That’ll do,” snapped Farmer-Palmer (or T F-P because her name’s taking up too much space).

          O’Riordan looked at her as if she were mad.  A Chieftain Tank ? On the streets of Preston ?  Liverpool in the Eighties, maybe, but Preston ?  Even in the early hours it wouldn’t be easy to make their getaway unnoticed.  

          Pte Parts handed the keys to T F-P and directed her to the Chieftain’s hangar.

          “Could you look after this ?” asked T F-P delving into Professor O’Riordan’s jacket pocket and handing its contents to Pte Parts, who put it in his own pocket.

T F-P and O’Riordan ran to the tank. 

“Have you ever driven one of these ?” O’Riordan enquired sceptically.

“All the time,” responded T F-P.  “Get in.”

O’Riordan clambered through the hatch in the top of the Chieftain.  T F-P followed him, sliding into the driver’s seat, she started the tank with ease, using the foot pedal to move through the gears and operating the tiller lever that steered the vehicle.  O’Riordan was impressed with the way she handled the vehicle.  He was even more impressed that she hadn’t hung her handbag on the tiller levers.

“Where now ?” queried T F-P.

“Anywhere that’s out of Preston,” answered O’Riordan.  “Then I’ll explain everything.”  The pulp novelist in him thought “And about time, too”, but it would make a useful cliffhanger for the next episode.

 

Fuzzyduck looked up from his laptop. “Sir, the tracking device has been static for some time now.”

“Right,” replied Flintoff. “Time to reel him in.”

 

The Chieftain drove on through the night northwards towards the first stretch of motorway built in Britain.  The pulp novelist in O’Riordan was musing on how you sometimes have to insert an irrelevant paragraph to give the effect of the passage of time.  He did not know when he would next sleep or eat.

 

Flintoff and Fuzzyduck burst into a small office in their search for the fugitive O’Riordan.  The room was empty, except for furniture, of course.  Fuzzyduck checked his laptop.  “The tracking device is behind that door, sir.”

Flintoff, without checking the door, kicked it in.  Behind the door, now with shards of wood in his hair, Pte Parts was sat on the toilet with the latest issue of Nuts (Caution: May contain traces of Exeweb) in one hand open at the page with a picture of Babestation’s Jamie Lee (Who she  ? – Ed).

“Where’s O’Riordan ?” barked Flintoff.

“Who ?” said Pte Parts.

 

To be continued…