Good evening, my ripe little courgettes! My oh my, aren’t you all looking mouthwateringly succulent and green tonight? If I wasn’t quite so shy and reserved, I’d grab one of you, bite off your nobbly tip, spit it out and roll the remaining length around my mouth with an overwhelming sense of luxurious abandon.
Oh sorry. Wrong piece of paper. That was my introduction for the other blog on which I’ll soon be appearing as a guest writer.
My esteemed colleague and friend of plants everywhere, Graybo, has mentioned that this could possibly be the Week of Luuurve on Uborka. Whilst I would dearly like to comply, I’ve already informed Graybo that he is well and truly spoken for. And anyway, I’ve got a headache that will be lasting until Friday. I’m also aware that although I do possess a deeply sentimental side that quickly goes misty-eyed at all things luuurrrve-related, I also have a bitter, cynical and twisted side that regularly beats it into cowering submission. However, you don’t want to know about that.
So in honour of the announcement of Stuart’s and Krissa’s engagement, I shall not be writing about luuuuurrrrrve. No, absolutely no luuuuuuurrrrrrrve here, I’m afraid. Instead I shall be saluting and paying homage to the strangely compulsive web phenomenon that brought our sweethearts together across the virtual ether. Yes, I am of course referring to Lord of the Rings role-playing games. Bagsy me dress as Gandalf.
Oh sorry. Wrong piece of paper again. That should read ‘blogging’. Yes, I’ll be writing about blogging.
With profuse apologies to Ann and Anna for stealing the structure of their fabulous alphabetical week as guests on Uborka, my almost interminable lecture on the mystical art of blogging will take the form of an A to Z. Needless to say, I’ll be missing out most of the alphabet (since I don’t know how to bring either Xylophones or Zebras into a discussion of weblogs). Oh, and there’ll probably be a preponderance of blog-related words centred around the letter B, for obvious reasons.
I can feel you all groaning inwardly and resolving to find something more interesting to read over the next week. Fear not, however, because the thought of self-important articles about blogging nauseates me as much as it does you (and this opinion has got me into trouble on numerous occasions over on my own site). So my intention is that this A to Z will not be serious or po-faced in any way whatsoever not at all not no way and not no how. Innit.
Finally, it only remains for me to ask for your help in this herculean task. Whilst some of the key terms related to blogging are already swirling around in the cesspit of my mind, ready for probing, disseminating and piss-taking on these pages, I would welcome your suggestions too. Particularly if they don’t start with the letter B. I’m not desperate, you understand (no I’m not, really I’m not), but if you would care to leave a comment below, detailing an aspect of the wonderful world of blogging that you would like explained in a way only I can explain it, then I shall reward you with a juicy courgette. Open your mouth, stick out your tongue, and prepare to receive your gift (oh sorry, wrong blog again).
More soon. I’m off to squirt Baby Bio on Graybo’s prize specimens.

Bonjour, mes petits concombres, de Angers en France.
Lamentably, I’m here due to work, and not for reasons of love or passion (although I love my work and have a passion for it) and shall be travelling back to the UK just as soon as I’ve eaten breakfast. However, as this is the wonderful new Week of Luuurve With Graybo and Vaughan (or maybe not, who knows?), I’ve been pondering the curious notion possessed by some people (notably the British and the Americans) that France is a romantic place to be.
Certainly the Loire is very beautiful, even this far down the valley, and Angers itself is an attractive town with wonderful architecture and plenty of good streets for walking hand-in-hand with the person you might want to do that sort of thing with. Paris, I am told, is even more romantic. I’ve never been to Paris. However, I’m travelling through the city to get back home, and will have an hour to kill when there. As I’m passing through Montparnasse station, I’m told that there is a very nice cemetery nearby that is worth exploring. Whether this is a good area in which to discover "romantic Paris", I’m not sure.
My point is this – is France, and Paris in particular, truly a romantic place? Or is it, particularly for the English, a conveniently nearby place to take a short break with a loved one, a place where romantic experiences and memories can be created in an environment that is "foreign" and perhaps even a little exotic – after all, they speak a different language here, and eat funny food.
Or is it just a place for a quick dirty weekend, illicit or otherwise?
Maybe there is something about the atmosphere here, perhaps something in the water or in the wine, that brings out the soft and soppy side in the normally stiff-upper-lip British? I must admit that I’ve been feeling little pangs for my beloved back in Blighty (Hels, not Vaughan, you understand – although I miss Vaughan as well, of course), though that may just be because I’m a soft muppet, all loved-up with a new fiancée who will soon be my wife.
What do you concombres think? Answers on a comment-shaped postcard.

Ah, me. The sweet scent of celebration is in the air today at Uborka, as an eager and thirsty huddle of well-wishers from both sides of the Atlantic Ocean gather together to raise a glass in honour of Krissa‘s and Stuart‘s engagement.

As I pass amongst you with the drinks trays, please extend a warm Uborkian welcome to my able assistant, the lovely Dodo Carpaccio, who will be serving each of you with your personal selection of Rare & Endangered Species Nibbly Things.

(Because, as I hope we have all learned this week, the only way to save rare breeds is to eat them.)

For those of you who are struggling to put a face to the name, here is a picture of Dodo at the height of her success, back in 1971.
(*Ouch* – I *felt* that.)

And here’s how she’s looking, a mere 33 years later.

My, but she’s scrubbed up well.

So, let’s get those drinks and nibbles served toute suite, then.

For Adrain, what could be more appopriate than a Wedding Belle Cocktail, accompanied with a sprinkling of rhino horn?

The other Adrian would like a glass of Bollinger for the toast – and, in lieu of his canapé, a tiger juice cocktail. I think you’d better leave your car keys with me, Adr… oh, I see that Dodo has already snatched them off you. Hmm. You’ll have trouble retrieving them from down there, I think.

Over in the beer drinkers’ corner, Hanni would like nothing more exotic than a pint of the old Guinness. A pint also for Doctor Pockless, along with an exotic melange of Northern Muriqui Paté and Kakapo Egg Salad. Rather you than me, Doc – but chacun à son gout and all that.

While Adrian is happy to settle for a mere glass of the stuff, Vaughan would like a whole bottle of Bollinger (plus straw) – and who are we to begrudge him? To be honest, I think he’ll need a whole bottle in order to wash down that Lesser Spotted Tibetan Spotted Yak vol-au-vent. A tad on the chewy side, is your Tibetan Yak.

Binge drinking would appear to be the order of the day, as I hand Porny Boy Curtis his pint of Bollinger (I knew there would be a run on that stuff), accompanied by not one but two slices of Yellow-Eyed Penguin Liver Pâté on toast.

Ah, there’s Elisabeth! Come in hon, and make yourself at home. Elisabeth would like a Kir, made with fresh raspberry syrup, (instead of the usual Cassis) and Laurent Perrier (thus upgrading it to a Kir Royale). Tell you what – I’ll have myself one of those as well. I’ll just pop it on the side for later.

Keeping it simple for S, who would like nothing more complicated than a Bucks Fizz and fresh strawberries. A classic choice.

Hi Jason! I don’t believe we’ve met before. Glass of champers, was it? And here’s your spotted owl paté. Enjoy!

Wotcher, Mr.D.! Mug of vodka coming up, and my, that cheesy ocelotsis looks good.

Why, here comes our landlady – and the Biggest Excitement Of Spring 2003 – Karen, who has already necked her glass of sour grape wine (without flinching once, I might add), and is now ready for her glass of bubbly. I’ve got her tequiwi on ice, ready for later.

As in the final acts of all the best Shakespeare plays (at least, the ones where everybody doesn’t drop dead), we have something of a double celebration here, as two of our other favourite bloggers cement their union by moving in together tomorrow. For Anna, an uncharacteristically restrained two bottles of Veuve Clicquot (because she “likes the box”, apparently) – and the same again for Bo, her beau.

(Do you see what I did there? OK Dodo, you can stop giggling now. It wasn’t that funny. Just hand Anna her panda kebab, and give Bobbie his impala paté. There’s a good girl.)

Finally, we turn to the happy couple. Stuart would like a glass of Bollinger ’63, accompanied by a couple of scrumptious Coelacanth finger pastries. For the blushing and giggling Krissa, a glass of the same fine vintage, served with Dodo’s “signature dish” – some truly divine miniature giraffe quiches.

OK, gang. Has everyone got their glasses?

(Hold on – Dodo’s just topping herself up with Mateus Rosé.)

Can I have a bit of quiet please? Because Stuart has a few words to say to you. Over to you, Stuart.

*brief respectful pause, as everyone searches for their hankies*

OK. Please raise your glasses, people.

TO THE HAPPY COUPLE!

CHEERS!

(No, Dodo. Now would not be a good time to “showcase” songs from your new album. Those plates won’t wash themselves, you know.)

Can someone help me get this pinney tied on at the back? Thanks.
Apologies for the short delay. We value your business, customers.
There can only be one theme for today’s cocktails.
The theme of LURVE.
And you all know which LURVE we’re talking about, right?
Well, of course you do.
A couple of days ago, Stuart and Krissa – Blogland’s newest Cutest Couple, and Uborka readers both – announced their engagement simultaneously, on their respective blogs. The ensuing jubilation, on both sides of the pond, has been quite deafening; the Biggest Excitement Of This Week, I would venture to say.
So let’s mark this happy occasion with an Online Engagement Party, shall we? Please place your orders for suitably celebratory toasts.
(I’ve had some extra fizz shipped in, by the way, so there’s no danger of running out. I’m anticipating something of a run on the Bollinger.)
To accompany your toasts, and since it’s a Special Occasion, I am also taking orders for complementary canapés and snackettes. However, these must feature at least one Rare And Endangered Species.
(As for the non-meat eaters amongst you, I’m afraid you will have to settle for snackettes featuring endangered vegetables. Or rare fruit. Or I suppose the chef could do you an omelette.)
The canapés will be served to you this afternoon by my glamorous assistant, the lovely and fragrant (despite the pervading whiff of ammonia) Miss Dodo Carpaccio. (Many of you will doubtless remember Dodo from the 1971 Eurovision Song Contest, when she represented Sardinia with the immortal Ding-Dunga-Dodo-Doo.)
Dodo and I will return later.

Dodo en croute with a fweet chilli jam, ferved on a polenta and wafabi oatcake.
Firft, catch your Dodo.
Decapitate and bone.
(If boiled for many hourf, ye bill may make a fuperlative and nourifhing – if, alaf, fomewhat noxiouf – ftock.)
Roaft your Dodo in a clay oven, until ye characteriftic odour of urine ftartf to prevail.
At thif juncture, ye flefh fhould have developed a fine patina of verdigrif, fuch af will glow e’en in ye blackneff of ye night.
ftick ye Dodo in fome paftry which ye have preparèd earlier.
(A thoufand pardonf. My culinary fkillf are but meagre.)
fmear fome jam on top.
Plonk ye Dodo on ye oatcake.
Enfure that your gueftf have been furnifhèd with a goodly fupply of nofe pegf, with which to hold ye foul ftench at bay.
ferve.
Retire to vomitorium at leifure.
Whereupon ye might care to contemplate ye wretchedneff of your lot.