It’s not often that Kittenwar is endorsed by an American Presidential candidate, but blogjam’s Hollywood correspondent has been in touch to reveal that this is precisely the case.

Here’s the evidence.

One of the great beauties of the web is the chance it gives to talentless buffoons like me to pretend to be someone they’re not.

Some examples: I regularly register with dating websites as Lovekitten22, a one-armed transvestite brunette from Nuneaton. Or you can find me on medical bulletin boards dishing out quack advice to teenage hypochondriacs. It’s great fun. Or I’ll pretend that I can cook.

And people believe you. It’s on the web, so it must be true. You claim knowledge, and no-one doubts you. You give the impression of great wisdom, and everyone assumes that you’re wise. Or you rustle up some pepto bismol ice cream and people start to think you’re the next Mrs Marshall.

I can think of no other reason why the Observer Food Monthly have given me a regular slot on their Word of Mouth weblog.

Yes indeed. With a bit of luck, assuming I don’t poison myself mid-quest, Fraser Lewry’s Animal Alphabet will unleashed in bi-weekly installments over the next 12 months. I’d love to be able to claim that the idea was my own, but it’s actually a Rob Manuel original. He is a very clever man, and his diet isn’t nearly as dreary as I suggest in the opening paragraph. Sorry Rob.

I don’t like children. Especially yours.

Apart from the continuing the human race angle, I really don’t get it. They’re ungrateful, noisy, irritating little shitheads, and every time I’m told that Timmy is *soooo* clever for his age reinforces my theory that what these pampered whelps are actually best at is reducing the intelligence of their parents. He’s two years old, for fuck’s sake, which means that little Timothy’s settings are switched to ‘dumb-ass’ by default, no matter how many members of the teletubbies he can identify without being sick on the sheepskin or messing his pants. In a perfect world, fatherhood would consist of a) presence during conception and b) turning up at Wembley to celebrate the first England cap.

Having said that, I’ve been passing a sign on the way home from work this week that damn-near breaks my glacial heart.

I swear I must be going soft.

The thing I learnt this weekend: there are some t-shirts you really shouldn’t wear out, especially when you find yourself in a pub sitting opposite a young lady with Down’s Syndrome, her parents staring at you rather frostily.

Yep, that was an uncomfortable moment or two.

This is the first of a series of semi-regular postings based on the meat mountain in my freezer, detailing the adventures I have turning it all into scrummy food.

This plateful was a month in the making, and my first experience of home charcuterie. Here are the condensed instructions.

1. Take a nice chunk of silverside. Stick it in a plastic box with red wine, salt, orange and lemon peel, rosemary, bay leaves, cloves, garlic, peppercorns, juniper berries, whatever. Cover.

2. Leave it for a week in the fridge.

3. Hang it in a muslin bag for three. It will get quite whiffy, and then it will stop being so whiffy.

4. De-bag.

5. Refuse to be discouraged that it looks and feels like a block of freshly-dug coal.

6. Slice thinly, devour with quality olive oil and a light sprinkling of lemon juice.

Ace.

I cooked for six at the weekend, and made too much. As a result, I am eating the following items for dinner every evening this week. Well, until Thursday at least.

Originally the pate was served with a pear and saffron compote, which was very tasty, but I’ve got lots of mostarda in the fridge, it’s the nicest thing I make, and it goes beautifully.

This is basically a crème brûlée made with yoghurt instead of cream, which gives it a slightly musky flavour, but it’s equally delicious.

I’m tempted to write out the recipes, but none of them are really mine, so I won’t. The pate is vaguely based on a dish by Gordon Ramsey, the mostarda 100% Mario Batali, and the yoghurt gleaned from the pages of the new St John cookbook, a work of triumphant, dizzying genius.

All this gastronomic grandeur was but a sideshow to the main event, some succulent, drop-from-the-bone slow roasted lamb shanks. Oh yes. But that’s all gone.

I will be printing out application forms for my next dinner shortly.

It’s been out in the States for a few weeks, and reports of its presence on the new arrivals tables at Barnes & Noble have been creeping in, but today was what I’d been waiting for: being able to stroll into a shop near the office and buy a copy of the Kittenwar book.

And here it is, racked up at the Islington branch of Borders (disclaimer: I added the flashing arrow to the picture, it’s not real). Immediately I’m filled with concerns that have never bothered me about other books: why is it not discounted? Why is it on the bottom shelf? Why does the sign say that titles are cartegorised alphabetically by author when this clearly isn’t the case? What happens if I sign a few? Will people think I’m weird if I hang around for a while, waiting to see if anyone picks up a copy, before nudging them and introducing myself? Should I pick up a handful and add them to the new releases table?

Anyway, I’m very pleased. And so should you be. What’s more, you should immediately buy a copy. And if you’re American, you should immediately do the same.

Otherwise, I will be very sad.

Brian Wilson returned to the Royal Festival Hall this week, scene of his much-lauded Pet Sounds and Smile triumphs, for the world premiere of his latest opus, That Lucky Old Sun.

Some observations:

1. A man can survive on good will for only so long: the venue was nowhere near full, and this was opening night.

2. The new piece is genuinely absorbing, easily the best work he’s produced for forty years.

3. If you think about it, this isn’t much of a compliment. In reality, he’s not come up with much of any worth since clambering out of the sandpit and into bed.

4. I’d be surprised if he actually had much to do with it. For a man who needs a teleprompter to remember the words of Surfing USA and appears as if he might require help tying his shoelaces, it’s a bit much to expect another ‘teenage symphony to God’ to drop from the sky. That the band-leader insists on introducing our hero as “the man who wrote everything you’ve heard this evening” only serves to reinforce the suspicion that he probably didn’t.

5. He surrounds himself with people who know exactly what they’re doing and, more usefully, exactly what he should be doing. His backing band contain members of Wondermints, a Los Angeles-based power-pop outfit more than capable of compensating for Brian’s shortcomings. From their 1995 debut album comes the following track, Tracy Hide.

Can you see where I’m going with this?

This lady lives with over 100 cats in Novosibirsk, Russia. She feeds them like chickens, scattering dry food around the room. And I can’t imagine what the place smells like, or how long it takes to empty the litter trays, or how much it costs to keep her feline herd in cat-grub, or indeed what would possess anyone to believe that this might be a good idea in the first place.

Bonkers.

This morning I discovered, completely by accident, that it takes precisely the same time to walk to work as it does to listen to Fela Kuti’s You Gimme Shit I Give You Shit from his (no-doubt seminal) Live in Amsterdam album.

Is this some kind of record?