mince pie porridge – because Christmas is coming!

Mince pie porridge, because hot-damn if things aren’t getting Christmassy here at Chubby Towers. Cases in point:

  • Paul has yet to tire of me caterwauling my way through ‘Can’t Fight This Feeling’ from the John Lewis advert yet, even in spite of me constantly pointing out that thanks to his dry skin and always-fuming temper, he’s my very own Excitable Edgar
  • we’ve swapped out the candles for some frankincense oils – Paul wanted to try another Christmas oil, but I demyrrhed
    • you can fuck right off – that’s the best Christmas joke you’ll see this year, especially on this sham of a cooking blog
  • our Christmas tree is up and, even better, we managed to put it up without arguments, recriminations or divorces AND without me repeating the time I managed to get a pine needle right down my mucktunnel placing a bauble on the top

See? Isn’t it pretty?

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Yep, we have our tree up!

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Those lights are from Amazon, by the way, and called Twinkly. You can set each colour, have them react to music and, more importantly, if you line them up just right (which we never do) you can spell out words. Unbelievably tempted to hang them in the window and autoscroll JC4PM to the neighbours. You can buy them here.

Anyway! We have some lovely Christmas recipes coming up this month, including this mince pie porridge, but more importantly:

OUR RUDDY BOOK IS OUT NEXT MONTH!

I can barely believe it myself. I’m skedaddling down to London this week to pre-sign some copies and I’ve told it looks absolutely glorious in print. But that’s obvious, because there’s a picture of me in it. It’ll keep the kids away from the swearing. And now, even better, I can present our trailer! Yes, we have a trailer. For some inexplicable reason they’ve added banjo music to make it a touch Deliverance but that’s OK, because these days I only squeal when he wipes himself off on my curtains afterwards.

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Watch Paul effortlessly deliver to camera! It's out, it's out! The trailer for our book is out – and as always, we deliver with our wits and charm.⁠ ⁠ If you follow the link, you'll get our FREE taster complete with three mouth-watering recipes. Share with someone who'd love to get their paws on this. Click on the preview video in our link in bio!⁠ ⁠ .⁠ .⁠ .⁠ #slimmingworldfood #slimmingworldfamily #slimming #sw #drivedeterminationdinner⁠ #slimmingworld #slimmingworlder #slimmingworlduk #slimmingworldfood #swuk #swmafia #swinsta #slimmingworldlife #slimmingworldmotivation #slimmingworldinspiration #slimmingworldfollowers #weightloss #foodblogger#slimmingfoodie #weightloss #healthy #healthyrecipes #food #foodie⁠ ⁠

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So in light of the above, I thought I’d take the opportunity to answer a few questions about the book itself, so you know what to expect. If you’re only here for the mince pie porridge, then forgive my waffle!

What’s in the book?

100 recipes that we used to help us lose weight – all the proper flavourful meals that we’ve always done, easily cooked, no stupid ingredients – meals that you’d want to eat even if you weren’t on a diet. They’re not flash, they’re not fancy: just food to be enjoyed, not endured. Yes, that made my teeth itchy too. But seriously, we’ve always been about good food here at twochubbycubs, and we know that this carried across into our book.

We’re damn proud of it!

The recipes are a mix of breakfast, lunch and dinner ideas, together with sides, snacks and drinks. There’s a few dessert ideas thrown in and – our favourite – a few meals for when you can’t be arsed with dieting anymore and want a ‘blowout’ – indulgent meals that’ll not completely ruin your day but absolutely worth spending your calories on. We’re realists here: being on a diet 100% never happens. Better to have something to keep you going!

Where can we buy it and how much is it?

All good book shops, including Amazon, Waterstones and WH Smith. Thanks to strong sales Amazon have dropped the price to £10, as have the others, and we heartily encourage you to buy it now!

If you click on that banner, you’ll be taken to the Amazon page where you’ll also be able to download a wee Kindle version with three recipes, to give you an idea of what is coming up.

Of course, if you want a signed copy (also £10!) you can buy one from Waterstones! I promise not to write anything too rude in there.

If you’ve been reading us for many years, it really would mean a lot for you to buy our book and have us in your kitchen. The fact that we even have a book at all is beyond my comprehension – people actually going out and buying it blows my bloody mind.

Does it have the twochubbycubs’ humour?

There’s meant to be humour on this blog? Christ almighty, that’s where we’ve been going wrong. No, of course it does – each recipe is accompanied by a little tiny bit of blog or new writing which made us laugh as we go along. There’s some mild swearing, of course, but nothing that would require you to get on your knees in front of a holy man. Like you’d need an excuse.

Does it cater for vegetarians?

Yes: the paper in the pages can be chewed up and washed down with a glass of warm water, although that does create the terrifying idea of a photo of me emerging somewhere unpleasant. I jest: the recipes includes more than a few vegetarian ideas, and where meat is used, you can easily swap it out. Mind, you’ll struggle with the beer-bottom chicken, but use your imagination.

What about syns?

There’s no syn information in the book – quite right too, we’re not Slimming World, and syns are their intellectual property. Slimming World have always been excellent to us and we will continue to respect their decisions! That said, you’ll find that all of the recipes, bar a few ‘blow-out’ recipes, will slot nicely into any diet plan.

We have also included calories per serving, if you need it to work out!

We will publish a full list of recipes and their respective syn values online the day after publication, and across all our social media stuff. We’ve got you.

Will the recipes make their way onto the blog?

Nope – the new recipes in the book will stay in the book, but we will continue publishing on here too. Like anything is going to shut me up.

Anything else coming up?

Yes, we can announce that French and Saunders will be playing us at the Edinburgh Wellbeing Festival at the start of February, as evidenced by this lovely photo below.

Actually, that’s not a bad picture, though fun fact, I had to stand three hundred meters behind Paul just to make sure the scale was correct and my giant five-head got into shot. Also, listen, I was tired, hence looking like I’d been stung by wasps. WASPS. ALWAYS WITH THE WASPS.

Listen – if you’re in Edinburgh, we would love you to come along and hear us gab and speak about writing a cookbook, keeping a blog going and how to enjoy your food whilst ostensibly dieting. We’ll also give tips on how to satisfy your partner and the best way to raise a cat. I mean I’m assuming we’re giving a talk, they might have just accidentally booked us to come push the hoover around, but who knows? Find out more here!

Oh and we absolutely will sign your rack if you get them out.

As for other stuff? Some excellent things coming up! Watch this space, at least before Paul’s gelatinous frame fills it.

Right, that’s enough nonsense and flimflam. Let’s get to the recipe!

mince pie porridgeSee! That’s a bowl of Christmas right there: mince pie porridge for a cold hearted moo!mince pie porridge

mice pie porridge - christmas breakfast awaits!

Cook

Total

Yield 1 bowl

Look, you try making a bowl of porridge look exciting - you can't. But that said, this is warming, low syn and tastes so Christmas you'll be papping out tinsel afterwards. You don't need to add the shortbread on the top if you're feeling really tight with the old syns, but I like it - it adds an extra layer of taste and mouth experience.

Urgh, mouth experience. Even I winced.

Ingredients

  • 50g of porridge oats (HEB)
  • 150ml of skimmed milk (use some of your HEA) (or syn this at 2 syns)
  • 1 level tablespoon of mincemeat (2 syns)
  • half a shortbread finger (2 syns)

Haha, finger.

Instructions

  • I mean, it's porridge, what do you want?
  • but let me help
  • before you add the milk into the pan, toast very gently your oats - gives it a much better flavour
  • add the milk and cook til the porridge is done
  • add the mincemeat and stir through, topping with crumbled shortbread

Notes

Remember!

Amazon have dropped the price of the book to £10, as have the others, and we heartily encourage you to buy it now!

Courses breakfast

Cuisine porridge

Enjoy your mince pie porridge!

You want MORE ideas for breakfast? Sigh. A boy can only do so much, you know…

Enjoy!

J

warming curried cauliflower soup: syn-free and tasty!

Curried cauliflower soup – and syn free to boot – perfect as the winter sets in and Christmas approaches. This is a dual purpose recipe: I wanted to find a soup recipe that took no effort at all AND used a vegetable that is cheap and abundant at the moment. Added bonus: it’ll make your arse so toxic that, should you be like me and have a husband who is constantly knocking on your nethers with Ole Blind Bob, you’ll be given a free pass. A free ass, if you will, though no-one’s ever thrown socks at my bottom. Pity. Anyway, the curried cauliflower soup will follow shortly, but first the usual balderdash.

One thing I haven’t mentioned on the blog lately is that I’ve been gallivanting quite a bit – a veritable blizzard of trips away and driving around the country snaffling a hundred service station sandwiches whilst owlishly ignoring my ‘Service Due’ spanner light on my car. One such trip took me to Birmingham to see Chernobyl Edition Paul who took me along to see Frisky & Mannish. Now, when someone recommends something to me, I’ll often nod and smile and die inside whilst I have to pretend to be interested in something awfully unfunny or just not up my street. If you ever meet me, you’ll see the exact ‘but I don’t care‘ face I pull the very second I ask you how you are and you reply with anything other than the most basic acknowledgement of the question. Honestly, it should be a crime to actually give a proper answer. In the North East we have this down to a fine art, which goes like this:

“Alreet mate?’

“Alreet?”

See? Didn’t even answer the question and then it’s off back down t’pit. Learn from that, people.

Anyway, it turned out his recommendation wasn’t duff at all, and after a few Youtube videos which actually made my insides ache we were booked and ready to go. Now, if you’ve never heard of them, they’re a musical comedy duo act who do shows which play on musical themes and mix pop parodies, jokes and some actual amazing singing. That’s a shit way of describing them, so let me simply encourage you to watch this:

It even won over my stone-hearted husband, who last laughed back in 2014, and even that was mainly acid-reflux.

Aside from spilling my beer as I sat down and creating a heart-stopping moment when Frisky came speeding out in massive heels and oh-so-almost slipped over, it was a genuinely fantastic show. You know how these things tend to go: there’s nearly always a ‘down bit’ where they try new material and not everything sticks. Not here: I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so much at a live show, and I’m someone who ends up in paroxysms of laughter watching You’ve Been Framed. My benchmark isn’t high. I left that venue with my ribs aching like someone had spent four minutes slapping me about with a pair of fish slices to the key-change in Scared of the Dark by Steps. That’s a musical joke and you know it.

We were given a chance to meet them after and to their absolute credit, they remained entirely unfazed and positive even in light of being hugged by a giant sentient Sugar Puff and his glazed companion. I’d post the picture but I look like I’ve been awake for eight days and that’s not a treat for anyone. However, they were that bloody good that when I returned home I booked three more tickets to see them in Newcastle with Paul and someone who was sick of hearing me bang on about them. They loved it too, and it was great to see them playing to a much larger venue. Actually! Because I’m a narcissistic sod, I wanted to redo the picture I had taken from the other week and they were only happy to oblige:

I’m the one in the middle, in case you didn’t realise. Did I feel guilty about leaving Patrick and Paul outside in the pouring rain whilst I went full Annie Wilkes in the foyer? I did not. Worth it! They’re taking a break now but honestly, if you ever get a chance to see them, you absolutely must.

We also managed to squeeze in to see Jay Rayner on his Last Supper tour when we were both in Birmingham. I’m going to use that as a jumping off point for a fuller blog entry down the line but I’ll say two things now. Firstly, the man was an utter delight – hilarious, self-effacing and full of anecdotes you actually want to listen to. Which leads me to my next point: if you’re attending a show with a ‘question and answer’ element, don’t be that irritating raclure-de-bidet who thinks everyone in the room has come to hear your thoughts on the act as the show goes on. My word, she was bothersome – talking over everyone’s questions, guffawing in that ‘look at me look at me oh god won’t you look at me’ way at everything he said…the list could go on. I sure hope her heartbeat doesn’t.

Anyway, we’ll come back to Jay Rayner another time, but in the meantime, let’s do this curried cauliflower soup, shall we? I can’t pretend I’ve found a way of making curried cauliflower soup look exciting, but damn it’s syn free and delicious. What more do you want?

curried cauliflower soup curried cauliflower soup

curried cauliflower soup

Prep

Cook

Total

Yield 4 bowlfuls

We're trying to spin our meals around whatever vegetables are currently in season here at Chubby Towers - plus, eating meat for every single meal is getting a bit tiresome on both the entrance and exit doors. What can you do with a cauliflower? Some people - we'll call them mental - pretend you can make steaks with them. You can't. You can no more make a steak with a cauliflower than you can make a lamppost with a giraffe. Get ahad of yerself, lass.

However, the good folks at Olive Magazine posted this recipe last year, and although we've adapted it ever so slightly for twochubbycubs and Slimming World, it didn't lose any flavour in our tinkering. We heartily recommend!

We've also included a tip to really speed things up if you're pushed for time, but honestly, there's very little to do here.

Ingredients

  • one large cauliflower - remove the outer leaves
  • few sprays of olive oil
  • one large white onion (we used the cannonball onions from Morrisons, but only because the name got me all a-frisk)
  • two teaspoons of garlic paste
  • one tablespoon of hot curry powder
  • one litre of vegetable stock (made from bouillon powder if you have it)
  • 100g of fat-free Greek yoghurt
  • Worcestershire sauce

Instructions

  • chop up your cauliflower into little cauliflowers - don't waste the stem either, chop it finely
  • save a few shapely florets aside
  • slice up your onion
  • in a nice big pan, gently sweat off your onion and cauliflower until nicely golden
  • add the garlic paste and curry powder and give everything a good stir and cook for a couple of minutes more
  • add the stock and allow to simmer gently for around 25 minutes, or until everything has softened up
  • if you like a thicker soup, simmer for a bit longer to take off some of the stock
  • allow to cool, add the yoghurt and then blend together with a stick blender 
  • taste and if it needs salt, add it and reblend

For the top, I sliced the cauliflower florets nice and thickly and then in another small pan, fried them off in Worcestershire sauce - you want them to have a bit of a bite, but the Worcestershire sauce adds a lovely flavour - totally unnecessary though! I also added a bit of chilli oil because I'm not content unless my arse is melting like a summer ice-cream

Notes

  • you don't need a fancy blender for soup - we always recommend this wee stick blender which does the job and is rarely more than a tenner on Amazon
  • want to speed this up - you can buy already chopped cauliflower in Tesco sold as 'cauliflower rice' - combine with a pot of chopped onions and you could have this done in no time at all 
  • want more fabulous recipes of this scale and complexity - of course you do, you're wonderful - click away!

Click here to preorder our new cookbook! Now £10!

Courses soup

Cuisine vegetarian

This freezes well, I should have said – and what better way to say I want a divorce than present your partner with some freezer-burn soaked curried cauliflower soup? I ask you. You want some more ideas for soup? We got you – here’s all our syn free soups:

Tasty!

J

sausage, onion and potato breakfast hash – better than it looks, I swear

Firstly, let me apologise for something. This sausage, onion and potato breakfast hash looks like something my cat shat out when she was going through the change, and no amount of Photoshop trickery is going to make it look better. But here’s the thing – it was genuinely tasty and I’m sure in more capable hands it would look halfway presentable. But in my defence, I was up at 6am thanks to a combination of Paul’s snoring, Paul’s farting, Paul’s phone going 🎵rit dit dit do doo 🎵- that, with 28 added lusty attempts from him to get some morning marital love outside of his birthday, meant I was super bloody tired. Luckily, I don’t hold a grudge, and I told him I’d grown fond of his face over the last twelve years as I merrily doused the bed with petrol. So, although the sausage, onion and potato breakfast hash looks like shite, I absolutely recommend you give it a go.

Let’s get straight to the recipe with no more chit-chat then, is one of the many opening sentences you may expect from a food blog. However, of course not, it’s us!

Fair warning on this one. The next few paragraphs – whilst not explicit in any way – are a bit more adult than the normal nonsense I post. Bear that in mind if you’re a delicate flower.

I touched on the fact we’d spent a merry weekend surrounded by hurly-burly gay men in my last post, and I feel I should expand on the memory of that. Something I’ve certainly done with alarmingly frequency since being back, for sure. See, every year in Edinburgh, there’s an event called BearScots – which in turn begs a further explanation. For those that div-not-knaa, a bear is a gay man who can’t shop at H&M. It’s where the ‘Cubs’ part of the blog name comes from, for what is a young bear if not a Cub. The theme tends to be hairy, portly and bearded. We’re making the term Cub work bloody hard now we’re both freefalling into the other side of 35, but I’m not changing the name now – we’ve had tea-towels printed. Anyway, it’s a surprisingly international event that puts significant strain on the airframes of low-budget airlines from all over Europe. I’ve always fancied going but, as regular readers will know, I’m a horrendously shy person who hates being looked at. Paul’s even worse, remaining the only man I know who would enjoy waking up in a sealed body bag because at least he’d never have to interact with anyone.

However, we had our arms twisted by a very good friend of ours who promised to look after us and make sure we were tucked up in bed by 10pm with a cocoa. We rashly agreed – somewhat fuelled by alcohol at that point – and before you could say who’s bringing the rubber bedsheets we had rented an apartment with all the laissez-faire attitude to cancellation policies that you’d expect from two frisky tinkers drunk on two sniffs of the barmaid’s cloth. We managed to rope in a couple more to meet up there and in no time at all, we were driving up the A1 to Edinburgh. I say we, Paul was driving and I was feverishly working my way through the many cans of gin and tonic we’d elected to pack instead of toiletries and essentials. It was a long, subdued trip.

Because Paul was driving, the two hour journey took exactly two hours. No stopping for cigarettes, cottaging or a wee mosey around the giftshop, he’s all business. He could be a taxi driver, he’s certainly got the sitting on his arse complaining bit down pat. We met our friends at our fabulously appointed apartment, shrieked at the absolutely tiny shitter (seriously, next time you’re dropping the kids off, try doing it with your legs pressed entirely together), exchanged insurance details and then went out. The first night was CC Blooms and served as an introduction of sorts, just an excuse to have a drink and a catch-up. I admit to being nervous: I’m actually not too bad at being social, to be fair, but it can be quite intimidating walking into a bar with two hundred far more polished hot-takes of yourself. Still, again fuelled with alcohol, I threw myself right into it and can’t deny that I had a maaaarvellous time. Put it this way, I started at 8pm, had already been offered excess and shenanigans by 9pm, and was dressed like this by about 10pm

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CENSORED.

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I know, so demure. They hurt like an absolute motherfucker taking them off, mind you. Paul got into the swing of things almost as quickly, which was lovely. He lost me for about an hour and a half when I ventured downstairs into such a sea of flesh that I ran the very real risk of appearing back upstairs like a spill of mayonnaise rolled in pubic hair. Actually, fair play to me, I kept my hand on my ha’penny all night. Every single person I talked to was an absolute treasure, though, and when Paul and I rolled back to bed early in the morning, I was a very content cub. Mind that also had something to do with the deep-fried Scotch pie that I had smushed into my beard, granted. We stole a pack of Frazzles from the kitchen on our way.

Now, some people can languish in bed fitfully sleeping with their hands smashing all over all day long, but not me – despite having 84% proof blood, I woke at my usual 8am and decided to take the air. Well, that, and I needed fags. Because I’m a prissy bitch, I only like a certain brand, and it took four shops and all manner of blank stares and curious expressions before I found what I was looking for. Not only did the homely wee newsagent provide me with the minty nicotine hit I was desperately craving but also took the time to kindly point out I had a Frazzle adhered to my sweaty bald head from the night before. No wonder I couldn’t get served, I looked as though I was bringing leprosy back.

The day was spent mooching about, feeling sorry for ourselves (now I’ve reached the age where I get hangovers, I start to sympathise with my mother’s short temper at Christmas) and then having a restorative afternoon tea which was terrifically fancy. Naturally, I managed to get Creme Patissiere in my beard and drop my tiny sandwich on the floor, though I maintain we made a good impression with the two lovely Norwegian bears who had decided to sit with us. I heard the words ‘Ukulturerte sviner’ but we can take that as them choking on a flake of puff pastry. We were joined by Patrick, all smiles and startled from the night before, and we left for a couple of pints in Dirty Dicks before nicking back to get changed for the big event. On our way back an absolutely stunning man (tall, bearded, bald, arms like Christmas hams) walked past with his wife (mousy, plain, only in it for the money, definitely having an affair) and attracted all three of our gazes at once. Paul and Patrick are subtle, I’m most certainly not – I span my neck that quickly that the resulting crack of my bones smashing brought the street to its knees. So vexed was the wife by this attention lavished on her husband that she yelled ‘ALRIGHT LADS, YOU CAN STOP GAWPING NOW‘. Only she said it in a broad Scottish burr so actually, it was entirely incomprehensible – for all I know she was hailing a taxi. The chap did smile though. He knew. He knew we would father his children at a moment’s notice.

The evening event was the big one – around 400 blokes packing into The Caves, an underground, multi-level gorgeous place normally reserved for weddings and fancy dinners. It tickles me absolutely pink to think of some wedding nana sitting down sipping her Asti Spumante in the same place where someone was having their ring tested in an entirely different way. The theme for the event was ‘TAPS AFF’ which I’m told means tops off, with everyone being encouraged to take their tops off, wear a kilt or some fetishwear and just have a bloody good time. This was my effort:

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Please, put a towel down.

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I know, the casting for the Bring It On reboot is spot-on. I look like the campest Goal Defence substitute you’ve ever seen, I appreciate that. And yes, I went without my knickers on, a mistake I realised later when the steamy underground air – raised by the exothermic reaction of so much panting and sweating – left my balls clattering around my knees like a set of 90s Clackers. Paul won’t let me post a picture of him in his kilt even though he actually looked great. Poor sport. My top was off before I’d even clambered out of the taxi, the chilly Edinburgh night air no match for my Geordie approach to weather. I break a sweat wearing an earring, let alone wrapping up warm. I shan’t go into detail because it was just eight happy hours of pleasantries, drinking and warm embraces. I’ll say this though: I’ve never – in my absolute entire life – felt more confident in my own skin, back-hair and moobs all included. We both went down well.

Serious bit now. The reason the event is such a success is – from at least what I can see when I’m not gazing at myself in my phone – no bitchiness. I didn’t see a single person looking miserable, or alone, or down at his shoes – just everyone having a bloody good time and mixing wonderfully. I’ve been lucky enough to mince through my life either not experiencing – or rather, not noticing – any hassle about how I look or what I’m doing – but as with most large social groups, you always get a few bad apples. They must have stayed at home turning themselves into bitter applesauce because there was none of that there and it was just absolutely brilliant. We made a tonne of friends who – shock horror – we’re actively staying in contact with. Hell, one especially charming fella is sending me something I absolutely can’t wear for work, and that’s very exciting indeed. Fetch the talc and Momma’s pryin’ bar.

Sunday was the wrap-up event where Mr Bearscots was crowned – a very deserving winner who had crocheted his own kilt – but I had my eyes on one of the runners-up (who luckily visited last week, so we were able to commiserate his loss together). Paul held me back from storming the stage and offering myself up as a consolation hole, which was very decent of him. And of course, because I’m me, I now definitely want to enter Mr Bearscots next year. If Miss Congeniality has taught us anything is that hilarious antics will ensue and I’ll end up being crowned to the strains of ‘One in a Million’ (easy joke there) after I do my ‘making 18″ disappear’ trick.

In all, then, it was an absolutely tremendous weekend, and I’m so glad we rolled the dice and went up. It helped having such lovely company, of course, and the fact that the whole event ran so perfectly is a credit to the organisers and the volunteers. We will be back, in a heartbeat, and we’re also signing up for Bears on Ice next year – the same type of event but in Iceland. Those of you who have been with us a long time may remember our previous escapades in the Land of Fire and Ice, if not, have a click through here and take a look – that’s part six of a six-part blog story of an absolutely amazing trip, with links to all the previous entries included.

Ah, what a time. And here’s Paul’s cheery hangover face, to finish you all off:

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Paul's face when you fuckers suggest synning anything.

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See, he does exist! For all his many, endless faults, I do love him so. You’ll note he’s wearing my hoodie in that picture, which he liberally coated in oil from his pizza. That was his face when I dared to raise it to him. I’m sick of living in fear, if I’m honest.


Now, speaking of living in fear, I’m terrified by how rubbish this looks. Well no obviously I’m not, but please forgive me. Onto the sausage, onion and potato breakfast hash…

sausage, onion and potato breakfast hash

sausage, onion and potato breakfast hash

Prep

Cook

Total

Yield 4 servings

This is actually a Nigel Slater recipe that we've tinkered with slightly to make it less buttery and better for your arse. Enjoy. We do spoil you.

Ingredients

  • 6 syn free sausages
  • 3 medium potatoes
  • 1 onion
  • 4 eggs

Instructions

  • First, squeeze the sausagemeat out of the casing into 3-4 roughly shaped balls per sausage (don't worry, it doesn't have to be neat)
  • Spray a medium sized frying pan with a little oil and place over a medium-high heat
  • Add the sausages to the pan and cook until browned all over
  • Meanwhile, peel finely slice the onion
  • Grate the potato (with the skins on) with a cheese grater
  • Drop the grated potato into a sieve and squeeze as much moisture out as you can
  • Add the onion to the frying pan and cook for 3-4 minutes, until starting to turn golden
  • Add the potato to the pan and cook for a further 10-15 minutes, stirring occasionally until golden
  • make four divots and crack an egg into each one, cover with a lid and cook for a few minutes until the egg has cooked to your liking
  • Got an Actifry or a Halo? PERFECT! Cook the sausages in the pan with the paddle removed, shaking occasionally, for 5-6 minutes until starting to brown. Then add the paddle back to the pan and then chuck in the potato and the onion, and cook for a further 10-12 minutes until done. 

Notes

Courses breakfast

I know love, I know.

More breakfast recipes:

Enjoy!

J

Slimming World peppercorn sauce – only half a syn!

‘ey up duck! Listen, I’m not going to lie – we’ve had quite the hectic month including a weekend surrounded by about five hundred equally chunky, hairy and mostly nude gay men. You can forgive us for taking our eyes off the ball, though to be fair said ball was normally clattering off my chin alongside its brother. Oh stop.

Tonight’s recipe is for a Slimming World peppercorn sauce to go with steak – it’s simple, but damn is it tasty. If you want to go straight to the recipe for Slimming World peppercorn sauce, we understand – just click the big button below and you’ll be whisked right there. You snooty moo. Everyone else, we have part two of our recentish trip to Hamburg. We love feedback on our holiday reports, do send us a message!

click here for part one (it’ll open in a sexy new tab)

You may or may not recall from the last entry that we’re combining two trips to Hamburg in one sexy trip report here – so forgive the back and forth of the highlights. Or don’t, you’ve already clicked the page and given me the ad revenue now, so what can you do?

Kunterbunt and Tom’s Saloon

During both visits, we took ourselves for a few drinks in the night. A lovely night was had by all, with particular reference to the two places above. We couldn’t walk past a place called Kunterbunt and not go in, could we? It was tiny inside and exactly what you’d expect a gay pub in Germany to be like – not especially good beer and colossal screens showing explicit, vanilla porn in 480p. I haven’t seen an arse that pixelated since the heady days of being a teenage boy with a dial-up connection and trying to bust one out to some knockoff X-Files photoshop. One video being screened depicted some long-since-dead twink getting boffed on the bonnet of a moving Land Rover to which I had nothing but admiration – I get distracted to the point of crashing just pushing my glasses up my nose, let alone having to do a three-clench turn on some leather-bound Adonis.

The barman – a charming, hyper-excitable bear – recognised us from the first visit and stationed us at the end of his bar so he could feed us knock-off Jagermeister and scream HOLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH at me every time I came back from the toilet. He was a delicious affront to my senses and even brought Paul out from his shell. We spent many hours in there and I made significant progress on my German oral – it’s always been a language I was keen to get my tongue around.

Tom’s Saloon was better, although I felt they ought to have had a whiparound for some pennies for the ‘leccy box – at some points it was almost pitch black and I didn’t know where to put my face. I’ll give you an insight into my hamfisted (steady) pulling technique here though: I caught the eye of, and received a smile from, an absolutely stunning older bloke who was dressed head to toe in leather. Unless it’s on exactly the right person I’m not usually a fan (there’s lots of blokes – me included – who look like a discarded back-alley sofa in leather) but this man, with his beard white as snow and arms like swollen tree trunks, spoke to me on a primal level.

Buoyed up with the confidence that too much booze and too little lighting can give to a fat bloke, I sauntered over to introduce myself with the classic line ‘I fucking love your outfit, mate’. Outfit, though. I mean, the poor bloke would have struggled with his talc and zips and buttons all evening and here’s me leering at him like he’s come tap-dancing down the stairs like Satine from Moulin Rouge. Which is ironic, actually, given I was the one left breathless. Once I’d apologised for my language faux-pas the ice was broken and we enjoyed an hour of pleasant discourse culminating in him giving me his number and me being invited back to Norway. I’m not suggesting I was keen but I had klm.com loaded before he’d even finished explaining his playroom layout.

You mustn’t worry, by the way, Paul was making his own fun. Which admittedly sounds like he was fapping at the bar, but please, have a bit of decorum – this is a family blog.

Scooters

Tangentially linked to the above, we were left with a difficult decision when 4am rolled around and we realised that no Ubers were going to our hotel. We could walk, of course, but fat and unsteady through unfamiliar streets? What if we got kidnapped and subject to all sorts of nefarious unpleasantness – or worse, what if we didn’t? The solution was right in front of us – take a scooter.

See, Hamburg is one of those up-and-coming fancy tech cities and as a result, is utterly awash with electric scooters that you can unlock with your phone and zip around the cycle paths with. They’re really very handy because you can pop out of any U-Bahn station and glide gently to your next destination. As someone whose ankles swell getting off the toilet, they appeal greatly. But see: when you watch the locals use them, they make it look effortless – swishing past in efficient German clothing balancing all manner of things on their back and ne’ry glancing at where they’re going.

Us, exceptionally drunk, badly-dressed and with all the coordination of a plane evacuation, do not. We gave it a go though, with the memories of both Florida (where a Segway beeped alarmingly at me when I climbed on with scant regard for the weight limit) and Tokyo (where a motability robot actually shut down under my corpulent frame) totally ignored. We were quite something! We didn’t fall over once – perhaps the alcohol relaxed us to the point that we mastered balance and speed with no issue. I don’t doubt we looked like two wardrobes given life, but hey – we made the 4km back to the hotel with only one very quick diversion to avoid the police. Gangster as fuck, us.

How’s this for an obscure quote?

CHOCOVERSUM Chocolate Museum

When this popped up on our Google recommendations you best believe that we were first in line the second it opened. I mean, a tour of a chocolate factory coupled with the promise of free chocolate? Excited? I was dilated like a rejected bagel. I do think it doesn’t do to look too keen in situations like this, but damn, we had a coach party to get in front of and anyway, this was a hurried weekend: no time to lose!

The tour itself was actually – surprisingly – really interesting, with a host who flitted between German, French and English with the consummate professionalism you’d expect from someone who has spent years trying to keep the interest of forty people who really just want free food and a chance to rub themselves off in the molten chocolate room. No? Just me? Regardless, she seemed to take a liking to me – this always happens for I am simply irresistible and/or always volunteer questions and cheesy smiles – and kept inviting me to show off how easy it was to make chocolate. Either that or she was holding me up to the others as a stark warning about the dangers of calorie excess. Meh, I don’t care, I got more samples than anyone else and brought everyone together with effortless jokes and slapstick – they should send me to sort out Brexit.

The best part came in the room where you got to pour and then adorn your own chocolate bar. Having been so terribly burned by our ‘exciting tour’ of Cadbury World a couple of years ago I held no hopes, but no: it was a full size bar and – her words – any topping you could possibly want. Alas, I didn’t have time to google what the German for ‘brutal, relentless and don’t call me afterwards’ was and she brought out a tray of marshmallows instead. My bar was topped with sea salt, crunchy sugar and some other chocolatey detritus they’d swept off the floor, Paul went for something cloying and some heavy breathing. They were whisked away to cool whilst we were shown how cocoa beans were pressed, but I think she knew at that point she had lost us to hankering after our creations because she wrapped things up remarkably quickly.

I wish I could tell you that we kept the bars as gifts for when we returned home but I don’t think we were out of the gift shop before they were pawed clumsily into our Augustus Gloop mouths. Ah well. We tried.

St Pauli and the Reeperbahn

Hamburg has an especially salacious district known for sex and excess, so naturally my feet were twitching from the second we set down. We went for drinks in a bar just outside whilst things started to liven up, then decided to have a wander about once the sun had gone down. Not a euphemism. Well goodness me: all I can say is that I’m sure if you were a young straight lad you’d have a smashing time, however, there wasn’t much for the lightfooted amongst us. I felt more than a pressing concern for all the (admittedly usually stunning) ladies of the night who called to us (and literally everyone else with a cock) as we walked past. I wanted to cry out that it was ‘nothing personal, you’re beautiful, but I could cheerfully undercut your fees for anal’ as we wandered on, but Paul pointed out the many muscly man-thumbs who were patrolling the area with stern expressions on their faces. As if that would put me off, I’d end up slipping notes in their shirt pockets as they choked me out. We carried on through without engaging though – Paul’s hand on his ha’penny and mine on my wallet.

I did find something to scratch an itch though.

Something that definitely didn’t happen

Paul and I rarely argue – especially for a couple who have been together for twelve years – but when we do, it’s always an absolute corker. Holidays, alcohol and my tendency towards out-of-the-country profligacy does tend to bring out the ire, though. I mean, can you imagine an argument spinning so far out of control that one of us ended up storming off in the dead of night, buying a full-price ticket for a plane ride home and getting all the way to the security gate at the airport before they finally backed down? Was such a thing possible? Imagine such a nonsense! Mahaha. It took several bags of Haribo and rounds of nuzzling to right that wrong, I promise you. Although it definitely didn’t happen, eh, Paul? We laugh about it now, even if I’m still pouring broken bits of glass into his coffee when he’s not looking.

Overall

We can’t recommend Hamburg enough: it’s an absolutely gorgeous, perfectly German city. We spent hours wandering out, buying snacks (including a 5am haul of pastries from one of the U-Bahn stations) and just soaking in the city and whilst it isn’t my favourite place in Germany (Berlin, which we are revisiting soon), it’s high up on places I’d cheerfully buy a flat to use as an occasional blowout pad. I’m sure that there’s all manner of historical and beautiful places to experience there that we didn’t touch on – though we did visit the art gallery and fell asleep walking up about ten minutes in – but what little we saw, we adored. As a bonus, flights are dirt cheap and hotels seem reasonable enough, so if you’re fancying a weekend away, do it!

A shout-out to srprs.me (we paid for our own holiday, so not an ad) – we can’t get enough of this. Paying someone else to send you on an entirely random, unscripted holiday is quite the risk but they have absolutely never failed us, always choosing unusual hotels in places we would never have considered. If you’re someone who likes to control-freak every aspect of your holiday then I implore you to roll the dice and give it a go – I bet you’ll be pleasantly srprsed. I’ll see myself out.

Hamburg, done.

Right, lovers! Let’s do the recipe for Slimming World peppercorn sauce.  Ready?

Slimming World peppercorn sauce




Slimming World peppercorn sauce



Slimming World peppercorn sauce

Slimming World peppercorn sauce

Prep

Cook

Total

Yield 4 splashes

Now look, I'm not making a claim that this is exactly like a proper peppercorn sauce, but damn we got it close. We were inspired to make this after buying the Slimming World peppercorn sauce in Iceland. They do some lovely food, apparently, but lord knows this wasn't it. Hopefully you'll enjoy our version! This makes more than enough for four servings - Paul applies his sauce somewhat liberally, as you can see. Mind, that explains why I have the face of a 24 year old.

Ingredients

  • one really large onion
  • tablespoon of lazy garlic (if you like it particularly honking - feel free to dial this back)
  • handful of button mushrooms
  • beef stock cube dissolved in 100ml of boiling water
  • absolutely tonnes of black pepper from a grinder or, if you're a fancy bitch, use your pestle and mortar
  • 100g of Philadelphia Lightest (4 syns)

Instructions

  • firstly, divven't be adding salt to this recipe - the stock cube takes care of that
  • chop your onion and mushroom as finely as you possibly can - this is the fiddly bit, but worth doing right
  • sweat off the onion in a few sprays of oil on a low heat - you want them softened ever so gently
  • add the garlic and the mushrooms and continue to sweat (both the food, and you in general, because if you're anything like me you'll be chewing your gusset wanting yer dinner) a minute or two
  • add as much black pepper as you and your weak pelvic floor muscles dare
  • pour in the stock and whack the heat up, let it bubble away and reduce a smidge, then turn the heat down
  • add the Philadelphia and stir it through and allow to gently thicken
  • slop it over your steak and chips

Notes

  • Philadelphia Lightest is fine for this, but - shock - we used Philadelphia Light as that's all we had. I know, we're sluts, but it still makes a tasty Slimming World peppercorn sauce
  • want more fabulous recipes of this scale and complexity - of course you do, you're wonderful - click away!

Click here to preorder our new cookbook!

Courses sides

Cuisine steak

Canny eh! A Slimming World peppercorn sauce done just perfectly! Right, you want some more recipes? Don’t we all. Let’s take a selection from the beef section. Here’s 28 beef ideas, all syn free!

  1. saucy beef chop suey (syn free)
  2. deep dish lasagne (syn free)
  3. the DILF burger (syn free)
  4. bacon cheeseburger sloppy cubs (syn free)
  5. steak, feta and veg wraps (syn free)
  6. pizza stuffed meatloaf (syn free)
  7. rainbow beef (syn free)
  8. roast dinner (syn free)
  9. stuffed onions (syn free)
  10. philly cheesesteak sliders (syn free)
  11. crunchy steak bites with smoked cheese (syn free)
  12. sizzling rainbow salad (syn free)
  13. slow cooker lasagne (syn free)
  14. sweet potato and spinach beef bowls (syn free)
  15. easy peasy beef curry (syn free)
  16. sloppy joe mac and cheese tater tots (syn free)
  17. mince ‘n’ mash (syn free)
  18. steak au poivre (syn free)
  19. absolutely perfect chilli (syn free)
  20. potato crust meat pies (syn free)
  21. asian garlic beef (syn free)
  22. speedy spring roll bowls (syn free)
  23. steak bake (syn free)
  24. meatball masala (syn free)
  25. taster night tiny tropical towers (syn free)
  26. reuben burger (syn free)
  27. philly cheesesteak stuffed peppers (syn free)
  28. sloppy joe tater tots (syn free)

Enjoy! See you soon!

J

we are coming in your ears

Ooh, matron.

Paul here – just to let you saucepots know that we have had the absolute pleasure to appear on a special bonus episode of ‘The Secret World of Slimming Clubs’ podcast! You can listen to it right now on Spotify or wherever you get your podcasts.  Click on their mushes below to go straight to their Facebook page, and don’t forget to tell them we sent you! And also while you’re there don’t forget to subscribe – you’ll get a fabulous episode every week full of the trials and tribulations of a weigh-in class and it’s an absolute hoot! Put a towel down first, mind, because you will piss yourself.

Image may contain: 3 people, people smiling, text

The Secret World of Slimming Clubs

In other news – we’ve been really busy working on our book so ever so sorry that we’ve been quiet. The good news is it’s nearly done and on-track to be coming out for the New Year and we can’t wait for you to see it! If you haven’t got your greasy paws on one yet you can preorder from Amazon, or if you’re feeling particularly fancy you can also preorder a special, limited SIGNED copy from Waterstones! Ooh, get you!

Click here to preorder our new cookbook!

Thanks to all of you for sticking with us and allowing us to cram our shite into your eyeballs every so often, it means a lot to us. We really hope you like our cookbook and it helps you on your way. We’ll be back to posting on here more regularly as soon as we can but also (hopefully) we’ll working on another cookbook for you so if you have any ideas of what you want to see, tell us in the comments below. If you’re ever stuck for ideas, don’t forget we’ve already got 600+ recipes for you ready to go, just click here to go to the index!

Cheers!

P x

pumpkin spice overnight oats, for which we apologise

Pumpkin spice overnight oats. Listen, we’re going to level with you, we hate the whole pumpkin spice thing, not least as I always want to type blumpkin instead – and let me tell you, if you have a blumpkin spice, it’ll not be nutmeg you’ll be brushing out of your moustache, love. Fuck me that was a sentence and a half, wasn’t it? Nevertheless, it’s been a bloody age since we rattled out an overnight oats recipe and although Paul would buckle the wheels of the even the strongest carriage, we’re jumping on the bandwagon. Don’t judge. One for the basic bitches out there. Like us.

We had a fabulous day out yesterday, in Nottingham of all places. We had been asked to guest star on The Secret World of Slimming Clubs, a podcast by the ever-so-talented Victoria, Katy and Jo all about slimming. Never missing a chance to talk about myself, we promptly agreed, and so a date was set. Rather than fussing about getting down in the morning we elected to drive down the night before, and (for once) the drive was entirely uneventful. I let Mr Mercedes take the wheel and busied myself with a bag of salted caramel M&Ms, which if you haven’t had them, are absolutely wonderful. Put it this way: they’re the favourite of a friend of mine and the last thing that registered on his 94% asbestos, 6% acid tongue was a packet of Spangles. They’re that good.

Next few paragraphs contain a bit of adult content, mind: if you’re a fusspot, do scroll to just past the bullet-points.

Oh wait! I’m selling the trip short. We stopped at Ferrybridge Services for me to have a wee. Paul didn’t need to go so elected to stand outside, only I didn’t see him when I shook off and came out, and, thinking he’d gone into the shitbox himself, I went for a gamble on the slot machines. Slot machines in service stations are the worst idea you’ll ever have, but I’m a sucker for flashing lights and a chance to cast supercilious glances at the poor sods stuffing £20s in. Stuck a tenner on a Rocky-themed slot and some free spins rolled in, which in turn won me £320. Shock? I nearly shat. I texted Paul to tell him the good news and to come and find me, but no reply.

I had to wait an absolute age for the machine to spit out sixteen twenty pound notes, but still no Paul to share the good news with (babe – no siphoning fuel for you today!), he’d disappeared. Flush with cash and good fortune I fair sashayed back to the car to find Paul sitting there with a face like a slapped arse. Nothing new there, but I noticed he wasn’t eating his back-up McDonalds so something was definitely awry.

Turns out that he had been loitering outside of the toilets (the ones I’d already left, mind you) for so long that a member of staff had asked him what he was doing. Once he had replied ‘waiting for my husband’ (alright, Cinderella, your time will come), they took a pitying stare at him and asked him to please leave the building, clearly suspecting that he was cottaging*. With good reason: there’s a massive gloryhole** in the end trap in the men’s cubicles (right next door to a lorry park, mind you, I’m thinking of asking for a secondment) and Paul does have that waxy-skinned look of someone with troubling sexual predilections. He was furious with me, creating one of those rare arguments in our house where I’m in trouble for not ruining the night by having extra-marital sex. I can’t keep up! I tried to reassure him that I must have walked right past him – I didn’t fucking apparate out of the shitter like a morbidly obese Harry Potter – but he was having none of it. Wasn’t until I stuffed £320 into his heaving busom that he thawed and confessed he’d bought two bags of Haribo for the journey ahead.

  • * cottaging – old slang term for when gentlemen used to meet in public toilets to rut, back before apps and openness made it an altogether more niche activity
  • ** gloryhole – hole cut in the cubicle wall for you to pop your knob through for action, though I suggest trying to ascertain whether the chap on the other side is game, because nobody likes a surprise penis when you’re trying to find the shit-tickets

Saturday’s radio show was just terrific fun – and coincided with our anniversary(ish) for five years of twochubbycubs. The ladies were hilarious, and the hour flew by. I had concerns about being in front of a microphone but who knew that chatting about ourselves would appeal ever so much? We managed a few anecdotes, gabbed on about our new cookbook (pre-order here!) and managed to not make total tits of ourselves. Won’t be the last time we do it, and I can’t wait for you lot to hear it! We will let you know when it comes online. Follow them on Facebook!

We had cocktails and tapas for lunch – Paul successfully ordering more than one tapas (there’s a reference for the long-time readers) for once, and both cocktails being fruity and fabulous. Paul’s cocktail was on fire when they delivered it to the table and he didn’t realise when he took a sip, which meant the smell of frying bacon pervaded our lunch, but it was still charming.

Another highlight from the day? Another escape room, this time at Escapologic. Called The Butcher, it required the two of us to work together to escape the home of a deranged evil monster. Excellent theming and tricky puzzles, though with a twist – a live actor came bursting into the room thirty minutes in which necessitated us hiding. I threw myself into a tunnel under the desks and Paul hid in a closet (no, don’t) whilst this chap clattered about in the darkness. Worse still, the ‘actor’ knew my name from the booking – even if you don’t scare easily like us, there’s something unsettling about hearing your name in strained hisses and coughing sibilants in the dark. Though I maintain it’s hard to make ‘Jamie’ sound anything than festive. We escaped with minutes to go, with me accidentally tearing a foam boob from a dummy that was the double of Paul’s Sainted Mother as we left. Me and my magic fingers!

All in all, it was a great trip out, I can’t deny, and was a nice circle around to our anniversary. Five years we’ve been doing this nonsense, and it’s only in the last two years that we’re really seeing it take off. If you had told James of five years ago that him and his ‘skinnyish’ husband would have 500,000 followers, a cookbook coming out and all sorts of lovely things in the pipeline, I’d have smiled politely whilst backing away. There are doubtless some classic twists and turns coming down the line, but as Starship wailed, nothing’s gonna stop us now.

Right-o, let’s do the pumpkin spice overnight oats, and may God have mercy on all of our souls. It’s actually very tasty to be fair, and uses a couple of new ingredients – if you don’t have them to hand, you mustn’t worry. Substitutes are noted.

pumpkin spice overnight oats pumpkin spice overnight oats

pumpkin spice overnight oats

Prep

Total

Yield 2 servings

Really, all pumpkin spice is a delicate blend of ground cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, cloves, and sometimes mixed spice. Naturally, there's bot-all delicate about us here at twochubbycubs, so we've thrown in what we think tastes good.

Pumpkin puree is easy to find in supermarkets now - you'll find it in the baking aisle - but if you can't, swap it out for a crushed up ginger nut. Don't forget to syn it though, else I'm calling Mags.

Ingredients

To make two:

  • four tablespoons of pumpkin puree on the bottom (syn-free) mixed with a tablespoon of honey (2.5 syns) - if you can use the honey flavoured with cinnamon, all the better
  • 100g of porridge oats (2 x HEB)
  • toffee flavoured yoghurt (make a syn-free or low-syn choice)
  • lighter squirty cream (25g) (look, I just put a good squirt in each, I don’t care) (3 syns)
  • pinch of ginger, cinnamon and ginger

This makes enough for two, so let's call it 2.5 syns each and we'll tell no-one about that extra half syn sneaking in.

Instructions

  • make the bottom layer by mixing your pumpkin puree with honey and spooning it into your glasses
  • mix together your yoghurt and oats with just the smallest pinch of the spices
  • pop it into your glass and, at this point, either chill it straight away or use a chopstick to lightly stir the two layers together
  • when ready to eat, top with squirty cream and a pinch of the spices

When you are eating this, get a bloody spoon in there and mix everything together before you do. It's filling and lovely but works best all mixed in.

Notes

  • ginger nuts make for a decent swap for the pumpkin puree, though watch those syns
  • we use Baking Buddy pumpkin puree from Tesco - syn free
  • remember, we have lots more recipes in our upcoming cookbook - click here to order!

Courses breakfast

Cuisine twochubbycubs

Yum right? Hmm. Anyway! You want more overnight oats perhaps? Let us go down the rabbit-hole!

Enjoy!

J

Actifry salmon and dill croquettes

Howdo!

Part two of our Hamburg trip coming up on the next post, but first, a new recipe for all of you out there sat with an Actifry and wanting some inspiration. Just to be clear, this is a sponsored post (in that we get paid oodles of delicious money to post a recipe) but as usual, it doesn’t change our recommendations or suggestions. Regular readers will know we’ve been recommending the Actifry for years now, so it’s not as though we’re just doing it for the money. We work hard for the money. So hard for the money.

Quick detour first (because it’s us!) – we’re just back from the most fabulous wedding of a very close friend and some brass he picked up in Wolverhampton. I’m joking, her name is Sarah, she’s gorgeous, and her Band of Gold years have long since passed her by. She works hard for the money, so hard for the money. You may recollect we don’t have good form with weddings – we fell asleep for the entirety of our last-but-one, and the last wedding ended up with us being interrupted in flagrante by a burst of Gina G. The last thing you need when you’re at Billy Mill roundabout is her caterwauling away about wanting a little bit more. Don’t we all love.

It was a fantastic time though. I usually prefer to solemnity and cheer of a good funeral (plus black is terribly slimming on the husky gentleman) but this wedding won me over: anything with a six course meal and a room full of rugby players will tend to do that to me. I kept being mistaken for the groom: not an insult by any stretch given that he’s six foot of muscle, beard, twinkling eyes and has buttocks like the Mitchell Brothers hugging in a storm. That came to a head when I woke up next to his wife and she was pre-emptively piddling on a pregnancy test. Unless that baby comes out high-kicking its legs and wearing a sash, it isn’t mine.

Finally, does anyone know whether it is actually true that if you stand up and say something – even as a joke – during the service, they have to stop and wait for thirty days? I was itching to stand up and explain that the groom and I had been having a long, passionate affair punctuated by moments of brutal tenderness, but I didn’t want to upset the bride / my husband / my readership.

Anyway, enough of that. Let’s get to the sponsored bit. Actifry have asked us to take part in their second spin class, where you spin the wheel, choose a recipe from their (genuinely very good) app and make it for our adoring public. We were happy to oblige, and thankfully, the wheel finally landed on a recipe that was easy to adapt for our slimming audience. These wee salmon and dill croquettes are a doddle to make in the Actifry, but even if you don’t want one, whack them in the oven instead. We won’t tell. We served these with some leftover yoghurt mixed with tartare sauce and a load of capers because we’re fancy (and want the space in the cupboard back). Let’s get to it!

I’ll say this though. We’ve been using our Actifry for years, mainly for chips because: obesity, but it’s genuinely our favourite kitchen gadget we own. It does exactly what it is supposed to do, with minimal fuss. It doesn’t leave your kitchen stinking of fat and it’s easy to keep clean, given all but the base can go in the dishwasher. It’s like the antithesis of Paul. There’s plenty of cheaper alternatives out there but – and mind this is rare because we’re usually all about not needing to spend money to eat well – this is worth spending your money on, even if you get a smaller or older model. Buy cheap, buy twice, and plus I’ve seen the clip of some of the models you can get in B&M and it looks like someone’s parked a coke-ravaged R2D2 on your worktop. Nobody wants that, now do they?

Find out more about the Actifry and the Spin Classes by clicking here, and don’t you fret, lover – it’ll open in a new window.

salmon and dill croquettes

salmon and dill croquettes   salmon and dill croquettes

salmon and dill croquettes

Actifry salmon and dill croquettes

Prep

Cook

Total

Yield 16 croquettes

One of the easiest, tastiest recipes we've done with our Actifry in a long, long time! Simply measure out your ingredients, mix, shape, bread and cook! Easy! We're putting this at 2 syns for four fat croquettes but actually, it's probably a lot less than that as you won't use all of the breadcrumbs when you're coating your croquettes.

The original recipe called for making the croquettes entirely with breadcrumbs but to bring them in line with Slimming World, we added leftover mashed potato. Enjoy!

Mix up the amount of ingredients - as long as you end up with a thick, claggy dough, you're fine!

Ingredients

  • 320g chopped salmon
  • 120g leftover mash
  • 60g fat-free yoghurt
  • one egg
  • 50g panko (9 syns)
  • two tablespoons of dill
  • one lemon

Instructions

  • if your Actifry has a setting, preheat it
  • throw everything bar the panko into a mixing bowl and mix mix mix until you get a good thick dough
  • spray the Actifry with a little oil
  • shape the croquettes in your hand and then roll in salt-and-pepper-mixed panko
  • take the paddle out of the Actifry and place the croquettes in
  • cook for about fifteen minutes until they firm up, and then pop the paddle in
  • cook for another ten minutes or so until browned and crunchy
  • serve with whatever you want - we mixed tartare sauce with yoghurt and capers

Courses snacks

Cuisine Actifry

Looking for something more to do with your Actifry? Sure!

J

quick chicken kebab wraps – fakeaway style!

Hiyaaaaaa! Urgh, stop. Before we get to the super-quick chicken kebab wraps, I’ve got a tale to spin to you. It involves Germany, and it’s a holiday post. If you’re here for the recipe, click the heart below and it’ll dash you straight there. Otherwise, settle in – it’s a long one, but you can take it. Meanwhile, cookbook coming along lovely, thank you: we’re now locked in and ready to go! You can pre-order it here.

Goodness, it’s been a while since I rattled out a holiday post – not because we haven’t been gallivanting, mind you, I’m always working on my suntanned wattle – but it’s been an age since I could sit and type something other than recipes. This holiday post takes us all to Hamburg and is unusual in that I’m combining two separate trips into one. The first time we went was back in April courtesy of srprs.me (more on that later) and I booked the second one in one of my atypical ‘go fuck yourself’ huffs. Some people spend days poring over brochures and cooing at hotels.com before they pick their next adventure – with me, you just need to wait until someone cuts me up on a roundabout or I stub my toe on the settee and I’m straight onto easyjet.com filling in my API with rage-a-tremble fingers.

This trip was our fourth with srprs.me – a simple concept where you pay a travel agent a discreet sum of money and they book you a holiday somewhere exciting and wonderful. You don’t find out until you’re at the airport, where you scratch off a scratchcard, enter a code on their website and find out your gate number and destination. It’s all terrifically exciting and indeed, we videoed our last reveal in the hope of sharing it with you all. However, the 4am start and general rattiness of me being at Newcastle Airport betrayed us and when our destination of Malaga was revealed, I announced ‘for fucks sake, fucking MALAGA’ and promptly knocked my coffee over with that touch of the dramatic I know you all love. In my defence, I was confusing it with some super-rough beach resort that I vaguely remembered seeing on those 90s reality shows like Fingerblasts Uncovered where walking flesh-envelopes of fake-tan spilled Blue WKD into their nethers and gurned to camera.

It was actually a superb place, since I mention it. But no, this trip was to Hamburg, and quite honestly, I knew nothing about the place other than it was in Germany and sounded delicious. A quick google reveals some interesting details: it has one of the largest seaports in the world (I shan’t make an awash with seamen joke), the most bridges of any global city and, every three months, hosts the Hamburger Dom.

Coincidentally, on my second trip, so did I.

It was the trip to the airport on the second trip that bears discussion, so we’ll start there and from now on, I’m just going to flit between the two without further clarification. Our flight was 6.45pm from Manchester Airport and, after a fitful morning, we set away at 12 noon, planning on stopping for lunch somewhere fancy en-route. Six hours to travel 180 miles of motorway – even in a Smart car laden with two fat blokes – surely no problem?

So you’d think. But every single citizen of the United Kingdom had clearly decided to go out for a leisurely crash of their cars at precisely 12.01 and what should have been a simple, uncomplicated jaunt became a nailbiting exercise in clock-watching, screaming myself hoarse at the backs of lorries and listening to Paul’s music. It was the last part that almost finished me off – I’d promised not to say one word about his music in exchange for him doing the long drive (I was tired from having my hair cut) and my god, in all honesty, wrenching the steering wheel from him and swerving us under an Iceland articulated lorry has never been so tempting. So much sad guitar chords and female warbling. The only thing that stopped me was the indignity of being cut out of the wreckage of a Smart car whilst chewing my way through a Sara Lee gateaux that had wedged itself up my arse.

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HAMBURG: car journey with my beloved

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The gates closed promptly at 6.15pm and I’ve seen enough sweaty-jowled businessmen being shouted at on Airline to know easyjet are merciless with their deadlines. For years I’ve watched that programme taking sweet satisfaction from families being denied their holidays or some person missing out on a liver transplant because they’d parked too far away to make check-in, but now I was at risk of missing out, I was manic. We threw our keys at the meet and greet parking people, apologising profusely at 200mph for being in a rush, and sprinted through fast-track security and the departures lounge.

I say sprinted. I don’t sprint. I’ve got good long legs that allow me to move with purpose and my general size and my face all-a-tittylip means people will get out of my face with minimal need for cursing under my breath and punching old folks to the ground. Paul, on the other hand, moves with all the urgency of a man selecting a slice of toast for a weekend breakfast, and I grew ever more furious with him as he delicately tip-toed around folks and ‘ever-so-sorry’ allowed people to get in front. Things came crashing to a head as he slipped over on an incline and fell fat on his face with an almighty moo.

I am, I admit, a terrible person. An awful husband, a cruel lover and a heartless soul. I burst out laughing. My weakness, if you ever need to make me laugh, are random jerky movements and people falling over and hurting themselves. Others watch stand-up, I watch You’ve Been Framed with a smirk and a semi. We didn’t have time to spare so he picked himself up, looked at me with a face that made it clear I’d have to spend twenty minutes later making pained expressions of fake remorse, and off we went. We made it to the gate with one whole minute to spare, according to his now heavily-scuffed smart-watch.

Thank god we made it though, otherwise we wouldn’t have been able to enjoy the subsequent twenty-five minutes of standing at the gate peering at our plane and wondering why we couldn’t get on. That was never explained, though it did give me plenty of time to smile coquettishly and have a mutual eye-wank with a lovely German bear a couple of steps down the queue. Ah, German men. There’s something so alluring about an accent that sounds like they’re coughing up gravel even when they’re “whispering sweet nothings” into the back of your neck.

Our flights were uneventful – prompt, comfortable and with minimal fuss – though my trip was made all the more comfortable by the four gins I downed, ignoring the fact that the bill came to more than I’d paid for our flight ticket. We’re on holiday, such extravagance is to be encouraged. Clearly easyJet has its knockers – she served me the drinks – but damn I love them. We landed, breezed through security in that almost effortless manner we currently enjoy thanks to being part of a fantastic union of shared responsibilities and agreed border processes – what absolute melt would begrudge that – and then we managed about four hundred meters before we sat down and had a sandwich.

See, there’s another reason why we love Germany. So. Many. Sandwiches. I know they all come from the same processing plant and have probably sat there so long you could escape from prison using the bread as a file, but I care not: they’re delicious. It’s like living in a sandwich buffet and I’m all for it. My choice was a sandwich with so much smoked cheese and ham in it that I had to call for special assistance just to lift my fat-ass back out of the seat. My apologies, I should really call him by his first name, Paul.

Paul’s sandwich had an entire section of Lidl pressed into it:

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HAMBURG: the first sandwich we ever had.

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The German public transport system is another joy, once you get around the fact the map looks like a Michael Bay action thriller where some sap has to cut just the right wire to defuse a bomb. I’m sure it’s easy to follow and indeed, after forty minutes sweating, crying and deciphering the beast we managed, we were on our way, but jeez does it make you realise how shit our system is. We’ve got two lines on our Metro system in Newcastle and trains that still have George Stephenson in the cab. But mustn’t grumble: you pay £5.20 to be told by a pleasant soothing voice that the trains are delayed and you can expect to arrive three stops short by the summer equinox.

The hotel that srprs.me had chosen was a delight – the Hotel Jufa, down on the docks. Ostensibly a ‘maritime’ hotel, though the lack of filthy-handed sailors was a disappointment, it was full of ships to play on and curious little tchotchkes alluding to the port. That’s all well and good, but I’m not Alex Polizzi (there was a PUUUUBE, DAAAARLING) (hi Adam) and there’s no need to review the hotel here save to tell you the three most important facts:

  • the breakfast buffet was plentiful, varied and everything fabulous about a German breakfast;
  • the room had decent air-conditioning and none of those silly double mattresses which are two normal mattresses zipped together – very important when you’re our combined weight and turning over in your sleep means both beds careering to either end of the room; and
  • it had a homophobic shower. Seriously, hoteliers, sort your shit out so I can sort mine. Mind, I made the most of it…

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HAMBURG: it was like I'd just stepped out of a salon!

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Hotel done, we’ll switch to the various activities we took part in – no chronological order, mind you, this isn’t Sherlock.

The Saw Escape Room by EscapeDiem

You know how much we love escape rooms, yes? It had been a while since Original Flavour Paul and I had done one and well, what extra level of tension could having all the instructions in German add?

Turns out, a lot. But: what a fantastic room. Based on the Saw movies, you start off in the bathroom from the movies – filthy toilet (and yep, you need to put your hand in) and all. Clever tricks abound – heat sensitive paints, heartbeat locks, false rooms…all marvellous. Then the twist halfway through: you had to go inside the walls. There was a tiny vent to crawl through – now I’m not claustrophobic so I was generally fine with that – but then you had to loop back over yourself and climb up. They’d built a multi-level maze in the walls in the almost pitch black.

Scary, but doable, yes? Well think of me for a second – I was lodged in a wall, barely able to move, with Paul – all many, many stone of him – perched right above me with only a thin sheet of plywood holding him up. It wasn’t Jigsaw or being stuck I was scared of but rather being reduced to atom-wide jam by the weight of the clumsiest fucker alive crashing down on me. It actually felt like a Saw movie, especially when I slashed Paul’s throat for getting the combination wrong at the end. Lolz – caught up in the moment wasn’t I! We escaped the room with a couple of minutes to go and our already strained marriage in tatters.

Miniatur Wunderland

A museum devoted to life in miniature: sounds deadly dull, but it was bloody brilliant. Tonnes and tonnes of teensy-tiny recreations of cities with working trains and tiny interactive models: we loved it. Me for the sheer mechanics and level of detail, Paul because he actually felt like a normal sized human for once. I galloped through like Glumdalclitch’s daddy, Paul went tip-toeing through the roses, letting himself into the matchbox-sized houses and taking a breath on a bench made from four cocktail sticks and a pin.

He’s not even that short, you know, but it makes a change from the fat jokes. Poor Paul, I love him really.

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HAMBURG: Paul's spiritual home

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It was fun though: I’m all for an exhibit where there’s buttons to press and this place was awash with them. For example, you pressed a button and a tiny version of a concert started playing, complete with miniature lighting rigs and hundreds of wee humans bobbing to the beat. There was a scale version of Hamburg Airport with planes taking off (disappearing neatly behind a curtain of cloud) (cotton wool) and if you pressed the button and waited, a UFO would touch down. I mean, haway! If that was the UK, each exhibition would have an out of order sign and the only buttons you could press would be on the chip-and-pin machine as you paid your £44 entrance fee.

Actually, the UK was represented with a tiny version of London, replete with lots of top-hat wearing guards and a ding-donging Big Ben. Newcastle wasn’t featured, which was a shame, because I’d have loved to have pressed a button and seen Gemma-Marie, Marie-Marie and Lisa-Marie rolling around pulling each other’s hair in a puddle of their own foamy piss. As I said, the attention to detail was really quite terrific.

Now, honestly, we’re almost at 2000 words. Let’s cut it short there and come back another day.


You came for the quick and easy chicken kebab wraps, didn’t you? Who could blame you? We’ve seen loads of hot-takes on our recipe for chicken doner kebabs, but this is the easiest one yet. Inspiration came from quite genuinely the best fast food we’ve ever had, pushed down into our gullets at 4am on a crisp Hamburg morning. Because I was drunk and a walking horn at this point, it was a case of finding anywhere that was open, dispensed food and was staffed by sultry looking men with a kebab shaver. Wasn’t hard to come across one, though we did have to pretend it was raita when a customer came in. This is something that takes no time to throw together – you could probably make a marinade yourself with lots of ingredients but honestly, pick one of these sauces up for 60p and hoy it in the cupboard for when you just can’t be arsed.

chicken kebab wraps



chicken kebab wraps



chicken kebab wraps

super quick and easy chicken kebab wraps

Prep

Cook

Total

Yield 4 big wraps

We've done wraps so many times over, and make no apology for it. If you're controlled and sensible you can keep a load of wraps in the freezer and defrost as needed - then chuck any old shite in there. The sweet raita is what makes this dish though - don't be afraid to get it made. This makes loads - freeze any leftover meat! Enjoy our chicken kebab wraps!

Ingredients

For the wraps:

  • whatever wraps SW have decreed syn-free as your healthy extra
  • five chicken thighs
  • one packet of Blue Dragon Sweet Chilli & Garlic Stir Fry Sauce (10 syns)
  • one small red onion
  • one small white cabbage
  • half a cucumber (if you're looking for something to do with the other half, pop it up your blurter)

For the sweet raita:

  • 250g fat free greek yoghurt
  • 2 tsp turmeric
  • 2 tsp lemon juice
  • 2 tsp mint sauce
  • pinch of salt

Instructions

  • dice up your chicken thighs into very small chunks - doesn't need to be uniform, but go nice and small
  • marinate the chopped thighs in the sauce and leave as long as you like
  • when it's time to eat, tip the marinated chicken into a hot pan and cook it quickly - keep stirring so it doesn't stick, but you want the sauce to get nice and sticky
  • whilst that's cooking, shred your cabbage, thinly slice the onion and chop your cucumber
  • make your wraps by adding a slick of raita to the wrap, add your meat, chopped veg and wrap away!

Top tips:

  • speed this up by using shop-bought raita
  • this makes enough for four big wraps with plenty of chicken left over - you can freeze the chicken once cooked
  • we served ours in a folded up naan bread, but we don't count our syns with bread

Notes

Courses fakeaway

Cuisine deliciousness

Looking for something else to stick in your yeast pocket? I bet you are, because you’re filth – but why not try:

With all my love forever more,

J

cheesy pea soup – yes, just like The Fast Show

Cheesy pea soup sounds revolting, and what better way to open a blog entry about food than with that line? I know, we’re awful, we took a month off to concentrate on a few things – most notably for me (it’s always me, James, who writes the blog) was half-heartedly walking away from a career in law, only to be tempted back in with the promise of working from home one day a week and condensing all my hours into one day in the office. Well, as someone who likes to sit at home and pick his bum, how could I refuse? It gives me a bit more time to write the cookbook and ogle at our gardener. Speaking of cookbook…

chicken, chorizo and seafood paella

It’s been a sad day near Chubby Towers with the passing of one of our neighbours. It’s inevitable, yes, when the average resident took their pension before the Boer War, but still, nobody likes to see a private ambulance trundling into the street early in the morning, do they? Especially when they park in my parking spot, but I didn’t think it was the time to cause a fuss. I’ll send a parking fine later with some white lilies. It did cause a slight moment of discomfiture when I realised I knew the name of the lady who had passed, but not her husband. The only time he’s ever talked to me was to ask me to remove my Vote Jeremy Corbyn sign, which to be fair to him I’d only put up to be mischievous given we live in a sea of Tory voters. You have no idea how much I want to put a pole up and hang a BEAR PRIDE flag up, if only so we get a few confused questions from the less enlightened. There’s one neighbour on the street who I hope to tempt over to the dark side and literally nailing my colours to the mast might just do it. Me going out in stretched hot-pants and wearing a permanently surprised look hasn’t done it yet.

Anyway. Not knowing the name only became an issue when it came to sending a Deepest Sympathy card. How do you address such a sensitive card when you don’t know the name of the recipient – it’s not like I can do my usual name-fudge and pop ‘soz she’s popped off, Chief‘ on the envelope, is it? In the end, after much agonising, I put ‘Sorry for your loss’ on the card (which seems incredibly disingenuous, as though the poor chap has mislaid his car keys or dropped a bank card down the drain) and signed it ‘Love James and Paul’, which I also immediately regretted because it looked piss-taking. Least I didn’t stick a xoxo on there. Sympathy and human emotion is just too much hard work. In retrospect, signing the card in glittery silver Sharpie probably wasn’t the most elegant move either, but look, it’s all I had to hand. I live in a very camp house.

I can’t imagine we’ll be invited to the funeral.

Which frankly, is a shame: I look splendid in black and I’m all for a wake buffet. Hell, we accidentally gatecrashed a wake in Oslo and only realised our error when we were shooed out by some hurly-burly bearded Norwegian whilst we filled our pockets from the koldtbord. Honestly, the grieving can be so touchy. Only been to three funerals in my time. My nana’s was a particular highlight: both Paul and I suffer from nervous laughter and even though I was genuinely distraught, the absurd sight of her coffin right in front of me whilst the entire church lurched through the eight-hundredth verse of All Things Bright And Beautiful really tickled me. Half of the congregation was made up of her equally elderly friends who were all on the last double-digit breaths of their life – I’m surprised we didn’t lose any. Plus, despite being 31 years old at the time, I still guffawed when the lavender crowd burst out in raptures about the purple headed mountain. Me too, loves. The vicar kept getting her name wrong too, which added an air of tension between the sobs – she didn’t even look like a Norman. I bit so much of my cheek that I can stay lying on my front when Paul wants a blowie.

It has got me thinking about what I want when I die. No fancy funeral, big coffin, lots of jewels – none of that. Nope, sell off all my chintz and bibelots, stuff me full of fireworks and pop a pipe cleaner somewhere indecent as a fuse and then push me out to sea. I want people to remember me how I lived – damp, colourful and usually on fire. No fake solemnity, no wailing, no dabbing daintily at your eyes whilst you remember times past. It’s an open invite to you all that, should you read in the paper of me dying in some tawdry fashion (it’s more inevitable than you can imagine), you can all come to the service. Just make sure you stop by Iceland first because fuck me, it’s going to have to be a good buffet.

What might not make it onto the buffet is this cheesy pea soup, which is a bloody shame because considering how quick it was to make, the fact it is syn free and actually tastes bloody good, it doesn’t deserve to be betrayed by the fact it looks like something Grotbags would cough into a handkerchief. Please, give it a go, and if you don’t like it I’ll take a personal responsibility for your loss. Hell, I might even send you a With Sympathies card. Written in silver Sharpie, natch. Snatch.

cheesy pea soup cheesy pea soup

cheesy pea soup - syn free, and tasty, I swear

Prep

Cook

Total

Yield 4 big bowls

There's no way I can make that look appetising and for that, I'm sorry. Unless you like sink trap soup. But it's one of those meals that looks appalling but tastes nice, like moussaka, or Paul. Plus it's low in fat, like moussaka, or unlike Paul.

This does take no time at all to make however, uses only a few ingredients and is just the thing for those summer evenings when you have nothing in and the takeaway menu is just a shade out of reach.

Ingredients

  • one big old lettuce from the shops, or garden, if you please
  • 400g of frozen peas (I used petit pois - not for any culinary reason, but just because I couldn't be arsed to find the proper peas at the back of the freezer)
  • two large cucumbers
  • one large bunch of spring onions
  • 1 litre of chicken stock
  • 80g of extra mature cheddar (two x HEA, but this serves four) (and listen, you can totally get away with adding 160g, I'm just being polite)

Instructions

  • slice your spring onions - including all the green stalk - and gently fry off in a little oil
  • cut the lettuce and cucumber up roughly - it's all getting blended so no need for neatness
  • once the spring onions are softened, add the stock, lettuce, peas and cucumber and boil for about 10 minutes until everything has softened but still stays green
  • carefully blend the soup with a hand blender
  • stir in the grated cheese until everything is thick and tasty
  • serve adorned with cress and cheerful wishes (and a lot of black pepper)

Notes

Courses soup

Cuisine syn-free

Enjoy that? Of course you did, you saucy bugger. Want more? Click.

soupsmallnaughtyfooddrinkssmallbbqsmallonepot 

J

eggy bread cups – a syn free breakfast idea

Syn free eggy bread cups – possibly one of the easiest recipes we’ve ever done, but if you’re looking for a quick, healthy breakfast, fill your boobs. Not a typo.

So, here’s the deal folks. We need to knuckle down and focus on our fabulous cookbook, which is coming out in December.

Coming up with eighty-six jokes about willies per paragraph is taxing on the old fingers, I can promise you. But we can’t leave you without something to read of an evening, and as a result, I’ve decided to publish a chapter from the other book we’re writing, a memoir of our month in Canada last year. Our travel blogs, like your dear writer, always go down well.

Canada has been on my mind a lot lately, so it’s always nice to revisit it. Seems like a lifetime ago, but it’s only been nine months. Anyone got a contact for Bernard’s Watch? Anyway.

If you’re here for the eggy bread cups recipe, scroll right to the bottom and you’ll see it right there!

We landed at Toronto Airport in double-smart time and, after a restorative coffee and a mental note of all the airport shops available to us for the end of the holiday ‘get rid of the Canadian money because I’ll be buggered if it’s getting added to the drawer of mystery money at home’ dash, we made our way to the car rental place to pick up our motor for the brief trip to Niagara. I had asked for an exciting car, something with a bit of zip, something that an NHS dentist wouldn’t drive. They gave me a Nissan Qashqai that, if it were represented by a sound, it would be that little sigh you make when you bite into an apple and it’s soft. I mean, it’ll do, but. Toronto to Niagara is about a two hour drive if you drive like Paul, about an hour if you drive like me. By drive like me I mean furiously, with scant attention to road-signs, other users and the fact I was falling asleep at the wheel because I was so, so tired. Who would have thought that thirty days of travelling would catch up with me so suddenly?

Luckily, Canadian motorways are wide, many-laned and never particularly busy, so I was able to get some shut-eye for a good few miles before Paul’s screaming and wrenching at the steering wheel rudely brought me around. He can be a very selfish passenger. Oh, I should preface this by saying I asked him to drive but he couldn’t because he was tired. But we couldn’t play loud music because he had a headache. He also wouldn’t talk to me to keep me awake because he was sulking because I wouldn’t let him wear my sex-trophy hat. So actually, had we rolled the motor and shuffled into the afterlife, he’d have only had himself to blame.

After our brief sojourn onto the hard shoulder Paul made me stop for a coffee. I immediately poo-pooed this idea because the last thing I need when I’m trying to nod off is caffeine and instead made a swap for a Dairy Queen Dime Bar Blizzard. Listen, if you’re at a computer, look into flights to Toronto right now and get one of these into you. I’d cheerfully push the Scottish rugby team off my bumhole to have another bash at one of these. It’s worth losing a foot over, I promise you. It’s like they blended a whole bag of Dime bar miniatures with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food and rubbed it across my prostate for a solid ten minutes. I’ve never had a dessert give me a full stonk-on.

Back in the car, absolutely smashed off my tits on the sugar, the rest of the drive flew by in a blur of metal and me screeching along to Cher. Paul laughed as his ears bled.

Our hotel was the Sheraton by the Falls. It’s called that because of the amount of old people I pushed over in my haste to get in (there was a much, much better joke there originally, but in this age of hysteria, I pulled it). Gosh no I’m kidding, it’s a wonderful hotel that overlooks the falls – if you’re fancy and pay for an upgrade you can gaze out of your window at the majesty of the falls. Which sounds just lovely and indeed it is, but it comes with a significant downside. Being so near so much thundering water means everything is ever so slightly damp. It’s like a hen-party with an aged male stripper. This in turn creates an overwhelming smell of foist in the room, which admittedly was alleviated a little once Paul and his toxic arse settled in. Something to consider if you’re planning on booking it: great views, deathly smell. twochubbycubs in a nutshell!

We farted about in the room for a bit – the usual, you know, Paul has a dump, I have a browse through the porn channels and lament that yet again, the Hilton have failed to cater for us delicate souls who can’t get off unless there’s stuff on there that would make a jury wince, then made to go out. I got as far as the bathroom before I realised – through a haze of Paul’s effluence – that the bath was one of those fancy doohickies with bubble jets and all sorts of fancy buttons to pulse your sphincter and make your boobs jiggle. I couldn’t let that go, so promptly set the taps away, adding just a drop of Molton Brown for that luxurious black pepper scent. Nipped out to give Paul some ‘we’ve been married twelve years, let’s get it out of the way’ disinterested attention, and came back to the bathroom to wipe the shame off my hands only to find the room absolutely awash with bubbles.

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Bubbles.

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It was fantastic. I climbed into that bath and entirely disappeared into a cloudscape of gently popping bubbles. I’ve never felt gayer. With my head just poking through the bubbles I looked like the campest meringue you’ve ever seen. I must have been cooing and oohing too loudly because Paul came in (maybe he thought I was finishing myself off? Cheers, Mr ‘And I’m Done’, for the concern) and shrieked. Nothing spoils a peaceful moment like one of Paul’s shrieks. He explained that we’d probably be charged for wrecking their plumbing and pointed to a tiny sign on the wall which implored folks not to use bubble bath with the jets turned on. Please. The sign was the size of a postage stamp: you’re talking to someone who needs all his focus to hit the bowl when he has a pap. The bubbles showed no sign of abating – possibly because I still had two of the jets focused on my cock – so I dried off and out we went, deciding to worry about that problem later in the night.

That’s enough for now. Part two coming soon! Let’s do the syn-free eggy bread cups!

eggy bread cups eggy bread cups

syn-free eggy bread cups

Prep

Cook

Total

Yield 4 eggy cups

The cheek of us calling this a recipe, honestly. But sometimes, you just want something quick in the morning so you can spend all your time outside pushing a couple of weeds around so you can surreptitiously gawp at the one hot neighbour pushing his lawnmower around with his shirt off. No? Just me? OK, quick and easy so you can get back to your stories.

Ingredients

I'm making the recipe enough for two egg cups - enough for one person, I think you'll agree. Scale up accordingly.

  • two slices of whatever bread Slimming Would have decided is alright for you that week (your Healthy Extra B choice)
  • two large eggs
  • salt and pepper

Instructions

  • preheat the oven to 180 degrees
  • get a deep muffin tray and spritz it with some spray olive oil
  • cut the crusts off your bread and then cut each slice into two
  • layer the two halves into one of the muffin spaces and crack an egg into the middle
  • give a couple of grinds of salt and pepper
  • repeat as many times as you like and then cook in the oven for fifteen minutes (runny) or twenty (firm)

Notes

  • gussy these up by adding a sprinkling of cheese
  • I threw a load of cherry tomatoes into the muffin tray to let them roast whilst the eggs cooked
  • we're a huge fan of silicone in this house - you can just pop these right out once cooled - Amazon have a good selection but you don't need to spend very much
  • remember we have a cookbook coming!

Courses breakfast

Cuisine dunno, what am I, an atlas

I know, it’s a travesty but damn these eggy bread cups were good!

Want more breakfast ideas? I remain your loyal servant:

J