Germany: Populist AfD calls for aid for local breweries and inns

Germany’s Eurosceptic Alternative for Germany (AfD) party is calling for the government to provide aid to the country’s local breweries and inns, many of which are threatened with disaster because of the ongoing lockdown in response to the coronavirus (COVID-19) lockdown.

Germany, which has a long brewing tradition, is home to many breweries, some of which have been in existence for centuries. And although there had been a boom in small breweries in recent years due to the explosive popularity of craft beers around the world, the sudden shock of a long-term lockdown is now threatening their very existence, as previously reported by Voice of Europe. Pubs and restaurants have all been closed, public events where beer is served have been cancelled, and exports have decreased as a result of border closings.

In response, the AfD is saying that the government must provide financial aid to breweries and inns that does not need to be repaid. “Loans and deferrals do not help them,” Stephan Protschka, an AfD MP from Bavaria, said in a report by Junge Freiheit …. Continue reading >>>

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Another dead news day, here’s a silly .story

I was reminded of this while watching Seasick Steve on Jools Holland last night. Steve is a vintage tractor enthusiast when not making guitars out of old hubcaps.

Fred loved old tractors, he doted on them, vintage tractors were his obession. He spent more time with his collection of tractors than he did with his girlfriend, Roxy.

Roxy was a hottie, she wore thongs, had breast implants and loved expensive restaurants, expensive presents, the most exclusive clubs and big, glitzy shows. She did not rate tractors.

As Fred’s obvious OCD became worse Roxy grew tired of sitting in an expensive club or restaurant or lounging in an expensive hotel room listening to Fred raving on about his beloved tractors when she could have been having sex with someone not as rich but more interesting.

You are dumped she said one night as Fred told her (for the ninety seventh time) about his 1936 Fordson Major “You are more dumped that a skip load of household waste in a landfill. A girl does not want to hear about vintage chuffing tractors …”

” I wasn’t talking about my Gomersall and Bultitude steamer,” said Fred in a wounded tone.

“I wasn’t talking about tractors that go chuff chuff,” Roxy said, looking very sexy Fred though as her eyes blazed and her nostrils flared. “A girl like me does no want to hear about Fordson Majors or Field Marshalls or John Deeres, she wants to hear about holidays in the Maldives and diamond rings and Paris fashion shows.” She got up to leave.

“I was thinking of buying a Ruston Bucyrus mechanical shovel, we could exhibit it at the Paris historical civil engineering machinery show.” Fred called after her. As she passed the bar Roxy grabbed two bottles of vintage Veuve Clicquot Grande Dame vintage Champagne and told the bar tender to put them on Fred’s bill.

The next day Fred sent her red roses, hand made Belgian chocolates and a T shirt with a picture of his 1929 Alliss Chalmers. There was also a message on her answering machine, “Roxy I love you, tell me what I have to do to get you back.”

And naturally Roxy called Fred (well he was incredibly rich) and said, “Give up tractors and I will start seeing you again.”

He sold all his tractors, his books on tractors and his tractor memorabilia. And when he convinced Roxy he was done with tractors for ever she agreed to see him again. Alas, like his Gomersall and Bultitude steamer, the magic had gone.

Fred was bereft. Eventually, feeling he was ready to love again, he found the will to buy a classic MG sports car and to start dating. Having put his details on a website he met Titania, a girl who loved rich men with classic sports cars. On their first dinner date things were going well when there was a kerfuffle in the kitchen. Smoke belched out of the swing doors and the diners fled, all but Fred and Titania, they only had eyes for each other and ears for the conversation they were having about a 1952 Le Frazer Nash. They were oblivious to their surroundings and the efforts of staff to fight the fire.

At last a waiter staggered up coughing and spluttering. “Everybody must leave,” he said, “the fire is contained in the kitchen but the smoke will kill us all.”

“No problem,” said Fred, “Keep calm and carry on. I’ll deal with it.”

And he stood, surrounded by thick, toxic smoke, and began to suck in the fumes. He inhaled constantly for two or three minutes by which time the restaurant was clear of smoke.”

“You’re my hero,” said Titania, hugging him and rubbing her crotch against his thigh.””How did you do that?”

“Easy,” Fred told her, “I’m an ex – tractor fan.”

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Gypsy Schnitzel, Prostitute’s Pasta, In Austria they eat some funny stuff.

Austria has long been a country that goes it’s own way and thus follows a rather eccentric path through the modern world. The country gave us that zany comic character Little Addy Hitler and also a style of dancing that involves men dressed in tight leather sorts smacking each others bottoms.

And Austrian restaurant menus offer somwe pretty startling choices too. Zigeunerschnitzel (gipsy schnitzel) or Mohr im Hemd (Moor-in-a-shirt, a chocolate and cream confection) are tasty and wholesome enough meals but menus can confuse foreigners, especially those with cannibalistic tendencies because there are no people, gypsy, moroccan or otherwise in the recipes.

Unfortunately the Austrian branch of the International Politically Correct Thought Police has decided to step in and put a stop to this harmless fun. They say it is no longer acceptable to include these items on menus.

Another dish causing some consternation is Negerbrod (work it out for yourselves), a type of black bread. The Thought Police describe this as particularly derogatory and say it should should be consigned to history.

It is not just German names that they want to ditch – they also object to “spaghetti alla puttanesca”, literally “prostitute’s spaghetti”, so named for its rich, spicy taste – chilli is added to the recipe of tomatoes, olives, capers and anchovies.

Anchovies? Hmm. Are there a lot of fans of Napoleon Bonaparte in Austria? The recipe makes me think of “Ne te lave pas, je reviens.” Napoleon’s consort Josephine was in fact a courtesan before getting into the Empressing business.

It is reminiscent of attempts by the british Thought Police to force a name change for back pudding which has been around at least since the medieval era. In a typical show of ignorance, insenitivity and self righteousness they tried to insist it be called “blood pudding”.

Actually there are three types of blood sausage in Britain, black (pig’s blood, red (sheep’s blood) and white (clave’s blood) pudding. So in view of the fact that Muslims and Jews cannot eat anything pig related and Hindus casnnot eat anything cow related wouldn’t the removal of that simple distinction be a tad … erm … you know … RACIST?

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Should It Be A Crime To Kill Your Aged Parents?

There has been much said and written in the media recently about ending lives that are coming to an unfortunate but lingering conclusoan.

Yoof in Asia seems to get people at the BBC more excited that civil rights abuses in Africa while assisted suicide has really opened up a can of ethical worms.

Still, I’m not talking about either of these things, I am talking about murdering your parents. Or to be specific me and fatsally’s Dear Old Mum, our Dad having shuffled off this mortal coil already.

It is a topic my sister and I have blogged on before.

Let’s be right though, we really do love our Mum but sometimes, just sometimes …

Yesterday for example. We went up to Morecambe to buy Mum a lunch as it’s her birthday quite soon. Now the thing about Morecambe is whenever you go there, to quote a club comedian of the 1960s and 70s, it’s closed. So finding somewhere to buy Mum lunch has been a bit of a bugbear. We would be seeking a classy restaurant or bistropub and turn to her for advice as she’s the one with local knowledge.

Unfortunately that local knowledge only exends to places that do a ‘pensioner’s special’ three course lunch for £1.99.

But anyway, thanks to a feature in The Guardian a few months ago which I’d bookmarked for future reference, we found a promising looking place. The Hest Bank Inn, built in 1543, a traditional English public house complete with uneven floors, low ceilings, several legends (concerening highwaymen, witches, public hangings and Bonnie Prince Charlie), probably a ghost, and a decent menu at what I consider reasonable prices. It is is about three miles out of town towards Carnforth in a delightful and secluded setting. Ideal for a Brief Encounter one might think.

We examined the menu. Cleo Hart who was chauffeuring us to work off her debts to the Boggart Blog crisis fund and who likes seeing her Grandma almost as much as she loves driving my car, it still catching up on her eating after another winter on pasta and tomato sauce in seasonal workers’ shared accom. in the alps and so opted for a steak. Teri and I made our choices and then I turned to Mum who was grizzing about prices.

“Look, I’m paying and I’m not bothering about the price I told her.”

“Well I fancy a hotpot but it’s £11.95. Twelve pounds for a hot pot, that’s outrageous, I told you we should have gone to the Shit Shoveller’s Arms for soup, sheperd’s pie and sticky toffee pudding. It’s only £1.99 for three courses.”

“Mother! If you fancy a hot pot have a hot pot. Have two hotpots if you want. It’s your birthday treat.”

“I’m only thinking of you, you’ve always had more money than sense …”

“This is not a poor persons dinner in the Great Depression mother, it’s a gourmet Hot Pot served in a bitro pub that features in good eating guides; traditional English dishes are all the rage at the momen with foodies.

“Yes but it’s made with the cheapest cut of lamb or mutton with a few potatoes, carrots and onions.”

“Just shut the f-f-f… … … … just order.”

Eventually we ordered the Hot Pot

It looked delish. It smelled delish and if Jesus had had access to such a portion he would have fed 50,000 instead of 5,000.

Cleo was so enraptured with her steak she looked ready to shed all her clothes and ascend to a higher level of being, my steak baguette was wonderful and Teri’s roast beef was about half a bullock’s worth of prime Cumbrian meat.

Mum wasn’t entirely happy however. Her Hot Pot was made wth prime tender lamb fillet and not ‘scrag end’ as proper Hot Pot should be.

“But people will not eat scrag end now, it’s all fat and bone and gristle. Poor people used to eat it because they could afford nothing else,” we all told her. It was to no avail, she was off on a misty eyed reminiscence about poverty, hardship, badger’s arse stew and rickets – none of which affected her family as it happens, although Grandad Redfern could only afford to drive round in a bull nosed Morris Oxford rather than a Rolls Royce throughout the great depression. Yes Mum has known real hardship.

For all it’s lack of scrag end Mum polished off the Hot Pot, leaving nothing on the plate. She did insist on lecturing the waitress about the joys of scrag end however. Teri notoced my finger start to twitch as I gazed affectionaltely at Mum’s neck and gave me a sharp kick. The poor serving wench who was about 18 hadn’t a clue what the mad old woman was on about. She did pick up on our rolling eyeballs and stifled laughter however and ran away giggling hysterically.

As we made our way across the car park Teri commented that as we’d left the £5 tip in cash to get rid of some coins she hoped the same girl cleared the table.

“Five pounds,” Mum said, “You left five pounds tip? When I was that girl’s age five pounds was a weeks wage for a grown man.”

She turned and set off like a whippet to retrieve the week’s wage and leave a more reasonable sixpence but fortunately Cleo deftly tripped her and pinned her to the ground with an armlock.

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The Thought Police Coming To A Restaurant Near You

Ever wondered how many calories are in your meal when you eat out? Or in the snack you’ve just chosen in a vending machine? Or indeed your Chokka Mokka Jabba Lokka Fishwife I Am The Walrus Goo Goo Ga Joob latte with marshmallow floaters? Thought not. You’re more interested in whether you are going to get a shag / want to shag this person or not. You very shallow people.

Well whether you worry about calories in your Korma or not makes no difference, Nanny State is going to step in and save you from yourself.

It has started in California, the global capital of stupid, where else. Authorities in the Fruitcake State are now proposing that the amount of calories on each item on a restaurant menu be clearly posted for customers to see. Like anyone is going to be looking except for the fat fucker who says, “This burger is priced at $5 and only contains 1000 calories. That’s two cents a calorie, you’re robbing me.

Under new labelling requirements, restaurant chains, bakeries, grocery stores, convenience stores, coffee chains and even vending machines will have to clearly post the amount of calories in each item. The calorie counts will apply to the estimated 280,000 establishments in California that were required to register with the state authority as part of health overhaul legislation signed into law last year.

If it comes to the UK (and if it is happening in America you can bet the Ban Everything brigade of the Nanny State Thought Police will be pressing for it to happen here) it will cripple the restaurant and catering industry. For example, in the UK, restaurant owners already need to check the temperature of their fridges four times a day and keep records for inspection by the Religious Health and Safety Police. Restauranteurs interviewed anonymously have admitted checking a couple of times a week or simply making up numbers so we can trust their calorie estimates as far as we can trust politicians to keep their promises.

Sadly however the Thought Police operate a zero tolerance policy and will be shutting down restaurants caught cheating / thinking about cheating / complaining about the expense and increased workload.

They will also be sending customers who cannot recite the calorie count of every menu item to Room 101 where those people will have to face the thing they fear most (in my case a plate of Cadbury’s Smash)

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Where not to find good food that is easy on your pocket.

Long before I cancelled my regular order for a print copy of The Guardian I had begun to wonder what planet the meeja types who write it actually live on.

Today the Guardian website ran a feature titled Britain’s best budget restaurants. Budget my arse, unless we are talking about a government department’s budget.

Follow the link below, open the “Selct City” dropdown list and choose Lancashire Coast. In the results that appear to the left of the page you will see Rotunda Cafe. This is in The Midland Hotel, Morecambe, the town where your Boggart Bloggers Dear Old Mum (and grandma in Cleo’s case) lives.

Cheap. Fatsally and I have both been in. £3.50 for a cup of very ordinary coffee. Three pounds fucking fifty? Cheap?

Britain’s Best Budget Restaurants

If you ever go to Morecamber either because you have elderly relatives there or because you have taken leave of your senses Boggart Blog recommends the Waterside Restaurant in the Clarendon Hotel, Marine Road West. You can get an excellent meal, (starter and main course, Mrs. T and I don’t do desserts) for under thirty quid for two people and the excellent coffee is £1.70 a cup.

And remember if you want to find good food at prices that will not bankrupt you, don’t look to the Guardian for help. The food writers will direct you to The Restaurant At The End Of The Universe because they don’t live on this planet.

Did Snail Porridge Kill The Fat Duck

Did Snail Porridge Kill The Fat Duck

Conehead chef Heston Blumenthal the culinary alchemist and gourmet cook who gave the world such dubious delights as snail porridge has suffered the indignity of having his best known restaurant, The Fat Duck at Bray in Buckinghamshire, closed by the local environmental health department. News of the celebrity chef’s embarrassment reached us yesterday and we sent our top newshounds to investigate.

For two weeks punters have been putting in complaints that the day after eating at The Fat Duck they have suffered Bray belly, a Home Counties version of Delhi belly with stomach cramps, vomiting and the squitters.

After the environmental health inspectors failed to find a cause although complaints continued to be thrown up along with food, officials had no alternative but to close the restaurant. Stool samples have been demanded from all the staff. If you didn’t have any misgivings about what might go into snail porridge you will now. But let’s not get into spreading fear and panic, the problem is simply someone with a bad case of piles forgetting to wash their hands after scratching their arse.

All the suggested causes so far though are based on unsubstantiated allegations. No likely culprit has been identified.

As usual when these mysteries arise we consulted our resident team of experts. Cookery correspondent Marge A. Ryan said cooking food properly rather than simply waving a blowlamp at it might help while betting guru John McIrritant says Snail Porridge looks the best bet.

Our editors advice though is to stick with pie and chips at the local greasy spoon.

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The Daredevil Diners of Tsuruoka

In some parts of the world eating out can be an experience only daredevils and people with strong stomachs can handle. You may be offered a sheeps eye in the middle east for example, the lightly sautéed entrails of chicken in Brazil, monkey’s brains in Indonesia or a floater pie in Australia.

The Japanese can top it all of course, well they’re weird aren’t they? But fair play to them, they’re always up for it whatever “it” may be, especially if not to be would mean losing face in front of your mates. Here is a tale in which eating food becomes a game of Russian Roulette.

Three men from a group of seven who decided to dine out together are still in intensive care after eating a dish of Fugu fish testicles in a specialist rastaurant. Diners who choose Fugu or blowfish have to sign a disclaimer confirming they have been warned of the risks and accept full responsibility for their actions. Even with that precondition the fish can only be prepared by specially trained, licensed chefs. In spite of the precautions and safeguards a lot of people think it should be illegal in Japan for restaurants to serve fugu, (species of blowfish found in other parts of the world are not dangerous.) The internal organs of the Fugu fish contain a poison far more powerful than cyanide and the highest concentration is found in the testicles.

I always said sushi was a load of bollocks.

So why would anyone eat fugu bollocks anyway? It’s like putting a fully loaded gun to your head and pulling the trigger then wondering why your brains are scattered across the wall. Well apparently the testicles apart from being the most poisonous part are also the tastiest.

You need balls to eat Fugu fish balls though.

Rest assured, Fugu will not be replacing cod in our fish and chip shops any time soon.

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