WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME?? 

I AM A FUCKING BLOB WHO CAN'T STOP EATING.

Junk In My Trunk — Bank Holiday Special

So, predictably I just got fat over the Bank Holiday. Well, everyone else was treating themselves — why shouldn't I? My boyfriend was stocking up on multipacks of tomato ketchup flavour crisps, and my friend came down from Leeds so we were buying nice food and desserts… Recipe for disaster, but like we all kept saying — "Fuck it, it's the Bank Holiday!" 

And now I am paying the stupid price.

To be honest, I don't feel that bad — stuffing your face on holiday is to do with human rights or something. I had planned on being more mindful, but only because my mate was staying and we agreed that we wouldn't/shouldn't go mental on foodstuffs and would instead try to be good. She has been doing WW for over a year and has now lost a total of 72lbs. Yes, it is amazing and I hate her. (I kept joking all weekend, "You jammy cow… You're so skinny… Don't lose more weight… GET OUT OF MY FUCKING FACE YOU STUPID SKINNY BITCH!" — too much?) 'Being good' went out the window, ooh… about 34 minutes after she got to mine on Friday. (FYI — it went out the window because we went out and got wrecked, NOT because I kept shouting abuse at her. Probably.)  But I was fine with the decision to pig out because, secretly, I wanted to eat as many different forms of potato as I could all weekend. And lots of melted cheese.

In an effort to line my stomach before we all went out for another friend's birthday, I ate my own body weight in pasta. I mean, seriously — I'm surprised I managed to get drunk at all. I remember shovelling it in past the point where I was comfortable, but I kept thinking "It's your first meal today… You need the energy… You will feel sick if you don't… etc", and just kept lifting my spoon right into my gob. Thank fuck I was wearing a billowy top. A good night was had by all — if you get a chance to go to an Ultimate Power club night at any point, TAKE IT! It's fucking awesome. And not a wanker in sight — I promise. http://www.ultimatepowerclub.com/

I also visited another friend over the weekend to finally see the baby she had at Christmas. I must admit, she was very cute and hardly cried at all (I love a well-behaved baby), thus moving me closer to getting over my baby fear. However, she did fart on my lap, so it might be more of a 'one step forward, two steps back' kinda arrangement.

But let's get to the good part!

Great things I ate this weekend: corned beef pasta with cheese (it is brilliant), a homemade fry-up, a pub Sunday roast, mum's chicken curry, two luxury hot cross buns with butter, a wedge of billionaire's cheesecake, a pretty fucking awesome smorgasbord, more buttery food round my mum's, and chip shop chips. Ooh, and salt and vinegar sticks.

Shit things I ate this weekend: Burger King Whopper.

Fuck me, I can honestly say that was the worst burger I have ever eaten in my living memory. I mean, it's worse than a crappy frozen burger you made at home yourself with your eyes shut, worse than something from a dodgy van — THE WORST. I had gone shopping with my mum and we stopped at Burger King for lunch. I was toying with the idea of a cheeseburger (I'm obviously lying. You know fine well that I was eyeing up the Bacon Double Cheeseburger — it's the Bank Holiday, remember?), BUT THEN my mum made the point that for the same price we could get a Whopper. For some reason, I agreed, but I wasn't quite comfortable with this decision… Now I know why! The initial excitement of seeing the giant Whopper box quickly died when I saw that the bun wasn't toasted (I don't think it's supposed to be anyway) and it was just crumbling everywhere (TOO MUCH BREAD!), there was loads of ketchup in it and friggin' lettuce all over the shop. And I bet it wasn't hot either. URGH. And because bad food choices make me unreasonably angry, I blamed my mum for the whole thing. In fact, my constant moaning put her off her Whopper entirely — she didn't even finish it. But I assured her that it was shit anyway.

In other news, I totally forgot to tell you about a new American cake I found out about — The Icebox Cake! I was reading something on the Huffington Post website and I stumbled across it in an article and did a bit of research — and by the end of it my mouth was watering so badly that I knew I had to make it 'on the immediate' (I stole this line from Girls). It's a very simple cake that requires no baking, but it does need a night to set. Traditionally, it is made with a thin type of biscuit that is very similar to the biscuit part of an Oreo, but they are hard to source here, so I found a recipe that used chocolate-covered digestives. You layer some on a plate, they spread lightly whipped cream on them, then layer more biscuits, then more cream until it starts to resemble a seven-layer heart attack. I then grated chocolate over it and sprinkled some glitter, cos I'm fancy like that. And the results are below.

You creamy little fucker…

The overnight wait was pretty brutal. I just wanted to eat the bastard thing, and no amount of fridge-opening and dirty looks in its direction was going to make it speed up. But by the next night, when I poked it with the giant butcher knife I had been brandishing for the last 24 hours, I could tell the biscuit had absorbed the cream and it was finally ready to slice. OH MY GOD. It was epic — a really, REALLY good cream cake, best served with copious amounts of warm chocolate sauce. So my boyfriend and I did what any two sane people would do — eat so much of it that we were almost sick. Yup — by the end of the evening, I was already thinking who I could give it away to because the thought of it (accompanied by the strange smell of warm cream on my top lip) was making me want to vomit. So, we set aside quite a big portion to give to my mum the next day — this rash decision was one that I would soon come to regret… 

After a night's sleep, we were ready for Round 2 with the ice box cake and suddenly what was left in the fridge seemed pretty paltry for two people in the mood for a creamy, chocolatey, biscuity fix. In fact, my mum had to prise her portion out of my clammy, digestive-covered hands. But that aside, I was pleased that the results were as good as they were. With a bit more decorative piping-bag work, I think I would happily serve this to guests. But I do have a confession to make — I got so obsessed with this dessert that I ended up doing some regular (but secret) cake-scaping of my boyfriend's remaining piece… It was worth standing in a cold kitchen for, I tell you. 

Although… if I had been caught, it might not have been worth it. Picture: me. In pyjamas. Shivering by an open fridge. Stealthily stuffing cake into my mouth. With my utensil of choice — a bright green plastic knife from a picnic set. Nuff said.