When you need a grease hit…

Sometimes your body tells you it just needs a grease hit. This is usually after a night where you remember having a few beers early on, getting a little tipsy by the middle and the end… well the end is nothing but a blur, but you did wake up in your car in the pub car park with your jeans pulled down around your ankles and a heap of five dollar notes jammed into your knickers.

So your body demands a grease hit.

I know the feeling.

“What do I do in such a situation?” I hear you ask. “What advice do you have for us Doctor Grazza?”

I say you must listen to your body, fulfill your body’s needs and get yourself a grease hit by following these easy steps;

  1. Quickly get your ass into the local DVD store (if they still exist, that is)
  2. Pull the 1978 classic, Grease, from the shelves
  3. Pay for it
  4. Get home as fast as your five dollar bill laden ass will carry you
  5. Whack that DVD into your DVD player and press play. Not working for you? Well now turn you TV on too. Damn, do I seriously have to spell it out for you… well, maybe if you’re reading this post I actually do. That’s fine. Today, and only today, you may call me mumma
  6. Fast forward straight to the part when they are singing “You’re the one that I want” for a magical Grease hit

…And for those of you amongst the esteemed collaboration that is the followers of this blog who may not be interested in reliving their mum’s dream of touching John Travolta inappropriately, maybe something to eat is what you need… something containing grease… ah, I get what you’re saying now. Grease for the belly, understandably different to Grease the movie, or even grease to lube up the ass for a night earning a pocket full of fivers.

Some mornings, after a night where someone had clearly informed me that the beer wells of the world were about to dry up and I had decided that I was getting my share of what was left, my brain tells me to drive into town and get a sloppy burger from Hungry Jacks and eat it in my car, in the car park. I think my brain makes me do this because it has received correspondence from my body who has asked it for some grease. I eat it in the car park purely because the crowds can fuck off today. Fast food does the job it is meant for, but I would have to say that my favourite hangover breakfast has got to be the bacon sandwich. And no, I did not forget the eggs. You can keep your effing eggs today, they just torment my belly a little more if that’s how I’m feeling. A bacon sandwich will do me fine… add HP sauce and I’m even better… but today we go all out with the bacon sandwich deluxe, or BLAPT as I like to call it (mostly because it makes it sound like a sound bubble off the old Batman and Robin TV series); Bacon, lettuce, tomato, avocado and pickled chilli. Guaranteed to sort your haggard ass out…

Hungry Jacks has been known to do the job...
Hungry Jacks has been known to do the job…
The BLAPT in all it's glory
The BLAPT in all it’s glory. I’m not sure what the hell  is up with the little photo…

The BLAPT… what you need per sandwich

2 slices good bread, grilled or toasted

2 rashers smoky bacon, cooked how you like it

3-4 slices ripe tomato

4-5 slices avocado

a few lettuce leaves

2 pickled chilli (guindillas)

QP Japanese mayo

Salt and white pepper

Put all of these ingredients together and voila, you have a BLAPT. Unless you manage to end up with the two slices of toast on the bottom, in which case you will have a very strange looking open sandwich… but still a BLAPT I guess…


The Spit Roast… hehem

'nuff said
’nuff said


There are places I could go with a title like that. Places some people might call their happy place while others would call them dark, sinister places. Places that I will be steering clear of today. A moment of compassion? Maybe. Still got a bit of a fuzzy head and really can’t put in the required effort? Most likely. What the hell am I talking about? Read on my friend, read on…

I need help. My brain is really effing sore. I need a bedpan, a bucket, a brush, and a real effing doctor… and I need to try to keep it together long enough to tell this story.
Consuming alcohol like a sixteen year old wasn’t so painful as a sixteen year old. But now, 20 years on and I still have the odd relapse and that shit just doesn’t feel to cool the next day. I mean sure I looked cool at the time, no one would dispute that; I was tearing up the dance floor with John Travolta flair. The witty and absolutely hilarious conversation flowed from my mouth like tears from apprentice’s eyes. Only the bride herself possibly outshined my radiance… And maybe the groom… My wife… The rest of the crowd… Someone’s great Aunty… Fuck it. Lets face it. I probably may not have been the classiest, funniest, best dancer there. But my head told me I had pretty good time.
Disclaimer; there may possibly be people (or monsters or aliens or puppy dogs) out there that are going be thinking, or maybe they’ll even write in, that booze is the devil and you don’t need to drink to be cool etc. etc. Yeah yeah, it’s all been said before. We all know. It is pretty funny from time to time though…

Dan and Ainsley got married...
Dan and Ainsley got married…

And the culprit? What made me do it? The devil? No. This time it was a wedding that is responsible for my sore brain. That’s right, a wedding. It certainly couldn’t be my fault. No no no, that would be way too easy.
Aside from purchasing myself a ripper of a hangover, another thing I did at this wedding was spit roast a little piggy.

My roll
My roll

I ate my pork straight from every different part of the pig as Queenie and I carved it for the masses, which I do declare is a bloody fine way to consume our porcine friend. Also, just to keep the social aspect going on, I had some in a roll with apple and fennel slaw, and chimmichurri sauce. Dericious. There was also plenty of other good shit to eat, but it was a porky dinner for me this day.

The pig resting up before his big moment. Rubbed down with a heap of rosemary, thyme, garlic, salt and pepper all smashed up to make a piggy version of edible body soap… 
The pig's friends
The pig’s friends
All blitzed up
All blitzed up
Mr Awesome, straight from the tanning salon
Our new friend, affectionately known as Mr Awesome, straight from the tanning salon
Queenie carves up our new friend who was affectionately known as Mr Awesome
Queenie carves up Mr Awesome

That’s me done…