A friend of mine has just returned from skiing; riding the chairlift one clear crisp morn with her Gallic instructor, she attempted some polite conversation (her linguistic skills were weak, to say the least). A confirmed hippophile, she asked him, "Aimez-vous les chevaux?" to which his reply was: "Oui, avec les frites". There was silence. The French (as well as the Belgians and Swedes) have long enjoyed eating horsemeat, which apparently tastes very similar to beef, with an underlying sweetness. As a supposed nation of horse lovers, hippophagy is not too popular here. But Jeffrey Steingarten, gourmand extraordinaire, the food critic of US Vogue and author of the brilliant The Man Who Ate Everything became obsessed with getting his hands on horse fat after hearing, from a highly respected French chef, that cooking chips in this fat provided a "lightness and a true crispiness you cannot obtain with other fats and oils" - in short, the ultimate French fry. He went to great lengths to source the fat in Austria, and persuaded a friend to bring it back for him. Excitement mounted as he awaited her arrival. But, alas, the horse fat did not survive its epic voyage - it became rancid in flight because it wasn't packed in dry ice - and Steingarten was not able to put the theory into practice. But I hear that Sainsbury's is planning to bring out its own range of equine delicacies, so watch this space.
It was exactly two years ago this month that Robin Duvall took over the directorship of the British Board of Film Classification (the board is no longer portraying itself as a body of censorship) from the previous incumbent, James Ferman. Over the past 24 months, a number of previously unavailable, so-called "video nasties" have been passed without so much of a whisper from the usual right-wing hysterics. The two most noteworthy were The Exorcist and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. The former had been unavailable on video in the UK since the mid-Eighties, despite being a mainstream studio horror picture. Ferman had never shown any sign that he would grant the film a certificate. His constant riposte was "If this film is seen by any underage kids, would it be so terrifying that it would seriously disturb them?" But surely, it wouldn't be a successful horror movie if it didn't succeed in doing just that. Children who have sat through such degrading filth as Forrest Gump and Titanic should hardly have problems with a few scenes of light demonic possession.
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre actually has less blood, guts and gore than an average episode of Animal Hospital. Its unenviable reputation was more due to its lurid title and exploitative poster art than its content. As most people who have seen it will agree, it is a masterpiece of cinema verite, gut-wrenchingly frightening, with a dark seam of black humour running throughout. For once, credit is due to the new management. But that is not to say that the BBFC has opened its floodgates to every so-called "cult classic". It is safe to say that such charmingly titled beau-ties as SS Experiment Camp, Cannibal Holocaust and I Spit On Your Grave will remain unavailable on these shores. For the most part, they are so dire and banal as not to rate thinking about. They boast storylines that would make a typical episode of Neighbours look positively Dickensian in its characterisations and plot twists. The sound is poor, the budget even more so. Their main selling point (apart from the eyeball-bursting, stomach-ripping scenes) is their treatment, or rather their mistreatment, of sexual violence. Many advertise the strengths of their scenes of mutilation and rape, etc. For all the cries for increased liberalisation of the censorship laws, I think that we can live quite happily without these little gems.
I am working for a company called Quintessentially. It is a membership club that aims to look after every need of our members 24 hours a day, but a colleague was surprised to receive a call at 4am on a Sunday morning from a lonely member asking if any of us had any "special friends" that we could recommend. We couldn't help him - though we do strive to answer every (legal) need and demand of our clientele, from tables in booked-out restaurants to tailor-made holidays to a comprehensive online shopping service.
I spent last weekend in the country, and on the short taxi ride from Chippenham station I fell into a conversation about Nokia "Xpress on" covers (change your phone cover to match your mood - profound stuff). I complimented Vince on his shiny metallic casing. It transpired that this was not his original choice; he was previously the owner of a Union Jack facade, but was told by his local taxi inspector that it was offensive to non-British people and had to go. My thoughts? Have a guess.
The stripping and dismemberment of dead children's bodies without parental consent is truly barbaric. There cannot be a person in the country who has not felt sickened by this debacle. But the reactions of the hospitals, such as Alder Hey, are equally disgusting. One distraught mother was called into the offices of solicitors representing Alder Hey and found her dead son laid out on the table in 36 parts. She was made to carry him home in a plastic carrier bag. The administrators of these hospitals obviously panicked on hearing that the news had become public (do not tell me that they knew nothing of this practice), and were too busy trying to escape blame and save their own careers to spend a moment on the anguish of thousands of mothers and fathers.
