Fergus Henderson Is Trying To Murder Me

Do you know this man?


His name is Fergus Henderson. I hardly know him. I met him a few times at his restaurant, St. John in St. John Street. He seemed like a nice chap for a restauranteur but alas I was mistaken.

Examine closely the photo below. He is quite clearly contemplating murder and the possibility of light rain.


Why me you may be asking? Well to cut a long story short he seems to have decided to poison me for no apparent reason.

 

It all started when I innocently picked up this book written by the lunacidal maniac Henderson himself.

Or …

A KIND OF

BRITISH

GENOCIDE MANUAL

Amongst all his goulishly macabre food goings on, is one recipe that particularly raised hells alarm bells. A recipe for a sinister cocktail.

It professed to be a hangover cure. “Poppycock, Snake Oil” I cried.


Here are the two satanic ingredients

Only a meat cleaver wielding maniac wearing David Hockney's glasses would mix these two together. He tells the reader not to be “put off by the colour.” No wonder, when mixed it turns to a vile shade of gangrenous swamp syrup, and upon first taste one is convinced that a sadistic practical joke has been played.

And indeed it has.

Because it bloody well works. The hangover disappears as if by Black Magic. It works so well that anybody who tries it will be placed under the spell of Fergus The Poisoner.


I am now a slave to its toxic allure. This fatal elixir was passed on to a younger Fergus Henderson by his father, who may or may not be a Doctor, and may or may not have created it in a medical lavatory. Fergus has now come up with an icecream version so that he can kill your children.

Be warned

Below is a poster for the sort of film Fergus might dream of appearing in, or it might be just something made up using a shitty free app on an iPhone.

 

 

 

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A Minor Alteration (Brutal Tailoring in Andaluz)

It doesn't happen too often thankfully, given my propensity for frequenting bars of notoriety, that I get into an unresolvable disagreement with a fellow fool. Thus it was last Saturday that a gentlemanly disagreement compelled me to turn a chair over a chap of minimimilist logic. He left quickly.

I felt badly afterwards but felt much worse when a fellow patron of the bar pointed out the poorly executed alteration the fleeing fuck-wit had made to my jacket. I was however relieved that I managed retain some dignity; my silk pocket square stayed in place during the entire cuffufle.



I usually remove my hat before embarkation, as this usually signals to any fellow wrangler of my unhappy intentions, i.e. To instill a firm understanding of “The Gooobye Look.” He shall be hearing from my Tailor!

 

An Unnatural Alliance

Apologies to anybody who gives a shit about what I post, but I have not had much desire to use the internet in the last few months due probably to enjoying a more visceral and less virtual life. No disrespect to WWW intended.

This rather poor photograph details a strange incident a week or so ago when I found myself accidentally managing a Tribute to Manchester United Football Team in Spain, makes a welcome change from another Fink Ployd, Ned Zeplin or Arcade Monkeys.

I am sporting what I consider to be respectable atirment for the position. I can be seen swigging from a bottle of budget flavoured rum I retrived from the icup they are holding. My training of the team and tactical methods were brutal and basically involved group Cruz Campo Lager drinking before and during the match, but forboten alcohol post match. Thus the team Imbibed like Trojans, and of course we won. I loath football but always enjoy a good win.