On the pope in the UK

The pope is defiling our shores with his hateful presence and this makes Sparky not happy indeed.

I’m not the biggest fan of the Catholic church and certainly not of the current pope (nor, however, do I follow this fawning over the last pope either – he was also a grotesque bigot whose words, actions and policies left deep scars on the land) and I can certainly rant at length at how the millions of pounds we are spending to host this vile man is setting my teeth on edge.

But, yes, people have expressed their rage and contempt for the Pope – but I want to express my ire at something else that is repeatedly happening – the whittering over the ZOMG “DISRESPECT!”

For we are disrespecting the pope and this is a bad thing.  Bad bad naughty people. How very dare you!? Scantily clad gaydar angels? Yumm.. I mean SHOCKING! Homoerotic Catholic themed adverts and pregnant nuns? Take them down right now! How could you do something so tasteless! What has the pope done to earn such… oh… yeah.

Even as he came here he launched an attack on our Equality Laws, one of his aides referred to Britain as a “third world country” and now he has tried to equate atheism with Nazism – we still have people hyperventillating because he is not being respected enough

I ask this again – how much respect does this man deserve? After the ongoing (ye gods, Belgium estimates that the child molestation scandal there has touched almost every Catholic congregation in the country – AND the Pope is outrages… by the investigation) child molestation scandal, the repellent misogyny, the overdone almost to the point of comedy homophobia and transphobia and the, and I say it with no hint of hyperbole, genocidal attitude towards condoms in AIDS ravaged nations (and the rest of the world for that matter). How much respect is this man owed? Because I’m still of the ideas that not screaming obscenities in his face is showing him

In the past I – and certainly others, have referred to the Pope as “Pope Palpatine” and similar labels. I’m not going to do that in the future (though, you have to admit the resemblance is very very good). Not out of respect – but because it’s redundant. You don’t need to compare the Pope to an evil fictional character to demonise him. His own actions are so grossly inexcusable, so utterly wrong – so totally evil – that he demonises himself. His own name, his own self, his own actions is sufficient demonisation for any man – and there is little insult given in comparing him to another – his own actions are more than damnable enough.

Beloved and our food stocks

These past few weeks I have been extremely appreciative of my habit of stocking up vast amounts of food and freezing it. Fruit and veg in season? Buy a tonne and freeze it! Tomatoes in cheap? Make a huge vat of sauce that you could bathe in! If I don’t have enough tinned goods to survive an apocalypse and at least a full cow’s worth of frozen meat I get worried.

It’s a family trait, you will be judged if your stocks are found lacking for the next apocalypse. If there is going to be rationing initiated tomorrow then we’re set up to be the ultimate black market. There is a huge competition to see who can store the most food in BULK. All the family will envy you because you have found pickled onions in gallon vats.

Of course this leaves you with a dreadful dilemma at times. Because if you find a secret supplier of gallon jars of pickles, you are torn between displaying said jar and making it clear to the whole family that you are an awesome hoarder deserving of awe, acclaim and worship – AND hiding said jar so you are not forced to reveal your supplier. Because that would be bad, because they would then buy the vat of pickles or the metric tonne of cabbages or those towers of tinned goods on sale. They would steals our hoards!

There follows awkward conversations where the collected family desperately tries to force out the secret supplier of the pickly goodness and the dance of trying to answer as vaguely as possible. “Uh, I got it in town. Where in town? Oh, one of the markets. One of them. Somewhere. NO YOU CANNOT TOUCH MAH SACRED PICKLES!! GET BACK!” It can be very very very fun to watch.

Of course, this will not stand – the family knows you have a secret pickle supplier and will watch you. Suddenly shopping trips become Mission Impossible style runs with everyone trying to be stealthy while carrying gallon jars of pickles or a brace of whole turkeys. Followed by other relatives crying “That’s Jane, with pickles! FOLLOW her, stealthily!” *queue the theme tune*

It surprises me that more family members aren’t arrested for shop lifting.

But I digress. Yes, I have huge stores of food, I cannot fight my family training and when there’s an apocalypse I can be sure that I will have more pickles than anyone! Ensuring the end of the world will contain a lot of indigestion.

On the plus said, it has spared me Beloved having to cook most of the meals (defrosting and reheating is easily within his skills. Sorta.) – and while he has an interesting idea of how to defrost things (either 3 days left in direct sunlight, or 1 hour in the fridge) it hasn’t put too much of the cooking burden on his less than skilled shoulders and culinary disasters are limited.

The problem is it reminds me yet again just how totally domestically inept Beloved is. Including freezer stacking. So when filling a huge great chest freezer, what goes on the bottom?

Soft loaf of bread. Cake. Delicate meringues.

And what goes on top of them? A full frozen turkey. Sacks of roast vegetables. Half a damn cow. Lead bowling balls. 8 tonne weights. Anything he can find to squish them all to wafers or crumbs.

Ah, I despair of that man sometimes. *Pokes deformed bread*