I’m partial to the Air France one. Far classier than American Airlines’ jumbled mess.

Jesus Christ, Taylor, find the “on” switch on your rabbit and flick it on, sweetie. What the hell?

God, that was a shitstorm of mediocrity....

Yeah, doesn’t stain Becky’s veneers...

Chicken stock is almost like some sort of wicked alchemy. Mind you, for real fun times, try making beef/lamb stock the way my grandmother does (roasting bones! Maybe chuck in a lamb skull in if you can!) or...fish stock. I have nightmares about the time I pulled off the lid from my grandmother’s ancient Le Creuset pot…

“Just let me know how much you want,” she said as she grabbed the serving spoon—a move that, considering what was in the spoon, I should’ve considered a threat.

And a lack of joy. Don’t forget the lack of joy. It should sing of the gulag...

Love the crockery. Nothing makes the demonaic love-juice look paler than a 90s throwback platter...

Hailing from the UK, white gravy isn’t something you’ll find over here. That said, I know of several family members and colleagues who have been lucky enough to survive visiting the USA and return to regale us with tales of the afore-mentioned Satanic jizz-juice.

Get thee to Netflix, young fusillade, where you can enjoy Avasarala tearing holes in idiots in full-on stereo sound!

My Grandmother’s roasts look like a resurrected nuclear blast victim. Yeah.

Granny Mordor insists on serving the scalded bovine flesh with a dollop of what we call “school gravy”. I dunno if you’re in the UK - but it’s made with an instant gravy called Bisto, which is usually all shades of wonderfulness, but it’s thickened with flour and boiled repeatedly until reduced to the texture and…

Or, as my Grandmother would think, when you’ve cooked the damned flesh so much that it’s approaching a level of impermeability that would make a rubber boot manufacturer weep with envy...

I think it’s a cultural thing, as in, which culture you’re raised in. My father’s family are Italian and we all learn to cook in that family (we’re talking the real deal, no meatballs-and-spaghetti, carbonara-is-the-work-of-Satan-herself), whilst my mother’s family are...well...limited.

I had the biggest crush on Ethan Embry. Good gosh. Him and Johnny Whitworth. Rawr.

I remember being really excited that The Breakfast Club was coming out on Netflix as, well, for years I hadn’t bought it on DVD and my old VHS copy got recorded over by a vengeful sister with nothing but back-to-back episodes of Tellytubbies (you old sow. I’ll get you. You and your little dog too...) and I sat down…

Yes, I think we really, really should. I would have punched Duckie until he stopped twitching, to be honest.

Ah, yes. I’ve just had to resort to Google to look up this abomination - you’re right. It appears to be your Becky, sorry, basic chai with a splodge of steamed milky froth on top. Still looks repulsive, mind you.

It goes a bit more nutty-wanky than that. I was informed that when you order chai tea latte at Starschmucks, what you’re saying is “tea-with-milk-tea-milk”. The redundant words are “tea” and “latte”, likewise “tea” would be redundant with “chai tea”. Not as nutty-wanky as the mouthbreathers who insist on eating…

*files nails*