January 14th - Frank's Fun Oven.

Hello again my disillusioned friends, yes I'm back to harangue you on more inconsequential subject matter. As I write this I feel a little dirty as I have joined the ranks of the self-important techno twat twenty-somethings by sitting in a corner, sipping a latte with my laptop in a wi-fi enabled public house. I know. I know. It could be worse though, I could be writing a screenplay based on some post-modern concept or a comic vignette hilariously satirising society's obsession with reality tv or some shit like that. My personal appearance is especially unattractive today, my clothing is scruffy, my hair a mess and by the looks of my complexion you could easily be forgiven for thinking that all I've had to eat for the last couple of days is a can of monster and a methadone sandwich.

I'd like to bond with you kids by lying and saying that my current physical state is a result of me staying up all night as part of some hedonistic, booze-filled, self-abuseathon but the truth is I was baking. Yes baking. Now, those of you who know me are likely to exclaim at this point, "Baking Frank? But you are such a shining beacon of raw masculinity in the muddied contemporary waters of metrosexuality, straightened hair and skinny jeans!" Its ok my children, I'll explain. You see, I rather like baking and if I do say so myself I'm pretty good at it. The problem comes with me being so incredibly perfectionist and pretentious with the aforementioned activity that it siphons all joy from the process. By the time I had finished my flourless dark chocolate truffle cake I was so mentally and physically drained I felt like one of the scientists working on the Manhattan Project.

*Disclaimer: I had nothing to do with the development of the atom bomb. However, considering the amount of butter, double cream and chocolate in the cake, side effects may include type 1 diabetes and cardiac-based turbo death.

I'm drinking Earl Grey now. Ponce.

Anyway, after I solved the equation of cake I proceeded to do what any self-respecting man does after he has achieved something of minuscule significance and that was to spent the rest of the night bloody harping on about it and declaring myself the messiah of puddings.

Half a pint of Wainwright.

Whilst we are on the subject of things of a culinary nature I came up with an idea for a new food-based tv show. Now I know that telly is already swamped with cookery toss but hear me out. I would host a deliberately ambiguously-titled programme called something wanky like 'Food.....Yeah!' to appease all those stickle-pricks in the marketing department. The format for most of the show would be fairly generic, I'd have to adopt some faux enthusiastic, fuck-puppeted twat persona and chat shit about why food is important and great and essential and blah, (you know, like we haven't worked out in the last few hundred millennia of our species' existence.) The twist would come at the end, when each week I would have a celebrity chef on the show as a special guest. So far, so who gives a cock, right? Well picture this if you will. Whilst I'm enduring banal smalltalk with perma-pious frigbiscuit Jamie Oliver I would be simultaneously whittling asparagus tips into mini organic prison shivs with which I would choose an opportune moment to hurl myself towards him and repeatedly stab him until I pierced the vital organ(s) responsible for his insufferable, dirigible-lipped smugness. No? How about getting Worrall-Thompson on then? He could test out the skin-flaying properties of my revolving 'Rack O'Pineapples' (tm) using fruit he had stolen himself. Oh the cruel irony! Then, as we saw the life extinguished from his bloated, gnome-like body I could edit in a laughter track and cue credits. It's just an idea. Incidentally, does anyone have Living TV's number?