Egon Chips Dies Aged 134

It is with great regret and not a little sadness that we report the death of that much adored, thrice Dunlop starred, super chef Egon Chips.


At the ripe old age of 134 and still plying his genius as only he could, in his Glaswegian restaurant The Fat Bar Steward, Egon keeled over whilst removing a basket of Mars Bars from the deep fat fryer and, in doing so, substituted himself for its erstwhile contents. Connoisseurs will be doubly comforted to know that he shuffled off this mortal coil in a way befitting a culinary institution and, forever multi-tasking, embalmed himself in chip fat at the same time.

Critics, friends and admirers alike have been quick to add their words of praise and condolence as the news spread throughout the gastronomic world.

“This man has done for the ‘Full English what Heston Blumenthal did for food poisoning” said Marco Pierre Black, himself a two star Dunlop.

Of his many previous students Jamie Dodger the ‘Cockney Cocker’ said...” if it was not for Egon I would still be serving pie and mash down the East End. I well remember the year that Dad took us all to Govan for a cultural holiday. It was here that I first came across the delights of unsaturated fat and soon made the lard sarnie part of my staple diet.”

Egon was nutted for his services to tribalism in 1993 when staff at The Fat Bar Steward inadvertently double booked the restaurant between Rangers and Celtic supporters after the New Year ‘Old Firm’ game. He went down in the ensuing mêlée but not before he had dropped a good four from either side. “That was the great thing about Egon, by the way” said wee Jock Strap of the Celtic Supporters Club, “he niver minded who he beat the crap out of and took on all comers. We put it all down to the diet and the partaking of ‘a good bucket’ on Saturday nights."

In accordance with his wishes Egon will be cremated in the world renowned 60 inch single wall oven at The Fat Bar Steward at 3.00pm next Thursday (240C gas mark 9) although the ceremony is not expected to last long given the residue of chip fat he is still covered in. In the time honoured tradition the body will be browned first on all sides before being placed in the oven.

Mourners unable to attend the ceremony are asked to pay their respects by raising their chip butties to their wives at 3.00 pm with the immortal words ‘Fat Bar Steward’.

The Count is Dead; Pass the Wooden Stake

It is gratifying to know that the time-honoured values of modern politics will not be laid to rest on the back of the early demise of David Laws. For whilst this virginal coalition fumbles its way through the minefield of modern political morality and the rituals of spin in its attempt to present the acceptable face of government (if that’s not an oxymoron) ‘Count Mandelson’ will be reworking his version of Machiavellianism in the first volume of his memoirs.


How wonderfully ironic that he has titled this tome ‘The Third Man’ . For just as Grahame Green told of of a social, economic, and morally corrupt post war Viennese society Mandelson’s Third Man offers an insight into a similar ruined, vacuous regime of intrigue and deceit. The difference, however, is that Greene looks back on a sequence of events which inform the reader early on that the story is not a pretty one.

‘Count Mandelson', on the other hand, gave us an insight in last Thursday’s Times that his version of ‘The Third Man’ will be one of...”a mixture of history, autobiography and emotion” and that hope springs eternal through the timeless values of the Labour Party as encapsulated in a party of “conscience and reform” aka New Labour.

If this vignette was meant to whet our appetites for the full revelations of what went on behind the scenes during New Labour’s gestation period, through infancy into maturity and decay it failed to do so. Given that much, if not all, of the machinations of New Labour’s power struggles have been well revealed over the years through a variety of leaks, articles and memoirs it is unlikely that the reader will be offered anything new to get excited about.

Mandelson’s taster gives the distinct impression that volume 1 (if not volumes 2,3 etc) centre’s mainly around his favourite subjects; himself, and the political equivalent of Colemanballs. So, if you are desperate to find out who he did or did not support in the 1994 Labour leadership campaign read on. For, as he puts it, this is still the subject of some debate, although by whom we are not advised. It is also gratifying to know that he has now realised that electing a leader of a political party is much better than simply appointing someone and that difficult choices cannot be ducked. Who would have thought it?

Above all what this article does tell us is that the book will be nothing more than the sum of New Labour’s empty rhetoric over the past 18 years. So, if you are desperate to know that New Labour became more than just... “a party of class or sectional interest to being a broad-based party of conscience and reform,” or that it has...”an outlook that remains in tune with the priorities and ambitions of families across the country,” I urge you to buy the book. However, if you want to know what this verbal garbage actually means take a course in Postmodernism.

The Count is dead, pass the wooden stake..

The Third Man: Life at the Heart of New Labour, by Peter Mandelson is to be published by Harper Press Summer 2010

The Quiet Room

It's quiet in here isn't it? Anyway, at least it's clean and bright and that bed looks comfortable. I'm fine on this chair and I promise not to come too close and disturb you.

You never used to be like this. You were always talkative, lively and happy; and now look at you. Why now, just because you are in this place, are you so quiet? What have I done to upset you?

Do you remember the last time we were in a room like this together, just the two of us. Everyone went out and left us alone. You did the same to me then, just lay there not saying a word or doing anything. What is it about these places and you? Mind you that was 26 years ago and you had just been born.

Lots of people come and go from here, why can't you? You did before, why not this time? Why do you insist on staying here? You know that I love you don't you? Even when we had cross words I always loved you; I only wanted what was best for you even though you thought that you knew better. Well that may be so but this can't be it can it? Just look around you.

No carpets on the floor, only one little bedside cabinet and no wardrobe. A boring stretched window with a metal frame looking out onto a car park; and those dreary vertical blinds. These cupboards with the glass fronted doors don't exactly do anything to improve the ambiance do they? And that smell, where does it come from? Come on love you're worth more than this. Let me take you out of here, what do you say? All you have to do is wake up and we can go home again.

God it's quiet in here. Like a bloody mor.. No sorry, it's not like that at all. It's... it's great because you're here. It would be if we were in a dungeon somewhere; as long as you are here everything is all right. So you see you can't go because... because I love you. Because you are my morning and my night, because you light up my life, because without you a part of me dies.

The man's coming to switch off the machine now and take that tube out of your mouth. I know you're not afraid of going because you told me so three days ago before they brought you into this room. And I know that we will see each other again one day. You can't just disappear forever, I won't let you.

Good night my darling daughter and God bless, until we meet again