Bah, humbug!

[j4]

New in the snack-machine today: Walkers turkey and stuffing flavoured crisps, with "Merry Crispmas" emblazoned across the front of the packet.

*

In a probably-doomed attempt to swim against the tide of tinselled tat, I'd really like to get to a decent Nine Lessons and Carols service this year. However, I haven't really had much to do with churches in Cambridge, for obvious reasons, so any recommendations welcomed. Not sure yet whether I feel like going the whole way and queueing for the famous one, though.

It's particularly at Christmas that I realise how much I miss chapel choir, actually. Does anybody know of any Cambridge college chapels who let non-students (not even ex-students of Cambridge) sing with their choir? I sing alto/tenor, can read pointed psalms, and can sight-sing reasonably confidently (though less so in auditions, natch).

Comments

[j4.livejournal.com]

With us, the problem is flapjacks. They always have the nice flapjacks (plain; cherry and coconut; apple and sultana) behind things like "strawberries and cream flapjack with yoghurt topping", or "cappucino flapjack", or apricot-and-mango flapjacks, or excessively-chocolatey-slice-type-things.

I'm just fussy about my flapjacks, okay? :)

[kaet.livejournal.com]

Oh, that's perfectly understandable. Flapjack flavours are one place where I have strong opinions, too.

I have the impression that in times of yore trusty peasants living in mud huts would collect oats and golden syrup from the finest green-metal-tin tress and make wholesome lovely flapjacks for sale at þe markete for a goat and a groat a hundredweight.

And sometimes they'd want a little more than goats and groats, like a nubile noble's daughter's hand in marriage, so they'd have to try a little harder, and rescue an apple from the pig's trough, or barter with monks for raspberries, or buy three raisins in exchange for a cow. And then they'd make the worlds finest flapjacks which would be eaten at christmas to the sound of much cheering and bunting rustling in the cold wind constantly blowing, mysteriously, from the estate of the evil squire.

But then there came the industrial revolution, and Mill Owners, who would dangle young orphan lads in front of rotating knives for days, in exchange, in a Faustian pact, for a half-ounce of Halfzware and a bottle of good claret, decided that they must drown the poor but honest flapjack-making folk in order to make evil masterrace of world-conquoring flapjack with beady cold blue eyes and the inability to pronounce our ð's or þ's. Like Frankinstein's monster, these chimeric whorish flapjacks of soliciting yet ultimately unsatisfying combinations resulting from an over-rationalisation of desire, combinations of chocolate and cream and strawberries and yogurt put together mechanically without regard to the complexities of longing, accompanied by strangely well-endowed steam-powered gynoid robots which will help sell this film to channel five, who would be the only ones stupid enough to buy it, embark on a quest to conquor the world.

Only a small separatist commune of soil-association approved organic nut-whittlers from the outskirts of Wisbech stand between them and world domination.

[jiggery-pokery.livejournal.com]

*giggles*

This whole posting is full of really cool comments, as it happens. Plus this one.

[ewx.livejournal.com]

Plain flapjacks are the one true flapjacks.