If I knew you were coming I’d have baked a cake…
Wise word from the person who wrote those words, with a pen or perhaps a typewriter. It is unlikely they would have used a word processor they were only used by aliens back then.
So when is it appropriate to bake a cake for somebody who is coming?
What flavour of cake should it be?
Is it advisable to be always baking a cake, just in case somebody comes?
These are questions that the song leaves unanswered. Probably a good thing really; no one person should have that knowledge, it would drive them quite mad.
Where was I?
Ah yes dieting.
For the last few weeks I’ve been try to lose some weight and have succeeded in loosing half a stone. To achieve this I’ve been eating around 1600 calories a day – which is slightly under the recommended amount for chaps but not enough to cause any health problems. On top of this I’ve been walking everywhere and where possible I’ve walked up some stairs. So why in the name of all that is good, after a weeks of loosing weight, have I started to put it on again? Last night I went to bed weighing 13 Stone 3 Lbs and woke up weighing 13 Stone 5 Lbs. How the hell did that happen!? Perhaps lardy spiders have been running into my mouth while I sleep or perhaps sleep itself is fattening. If so can I get some low cal sleep please?
Then again should I bother dieting; maybe I should just keep eating until I become the size of a house. They may even make a Five documentary about me, which would no doubt be called ‘The Fat Man Who is the Size of a House’. It may even become possible for me to become the size of Jabba The Hut or that fat vampire off of Blade. The NHS would need to send a couple of burley men around, twice a day, to hoist me onto a massive lavatory before pressure-washing my anus.
It would be a fantastic way to live and I could live on pastries and biscuits. The only down side would be type 2 diabetes and the giant horse needles, required to get the insulin through layers of yellow fat and cake crumbs. But it would be worth it because I would be the fattest man in the world. When I died I would be hollowed out, tattooed with the Virgin logo and filled with helium to become the latest promotional tool of Richard Branston’s and his pickle kingdom.
Hmmmm where’s that celery?