Tag Archives: meat pie

Sheikh, Rattle and Roll

Yesterday I took on Dubai’s ancient streets, and today I explored the newer side of things. The symbol of this rapidly-evolving desert metropolis is the Burj Khalifa, an 828m-tall skyscraper that is the tallest structure on the planet. It really is an incredible building, and standing at the bottom and looking up at it left me feeling queasy at its immensity – even though I flew my paraglider at three times that height two weeks ago. Is that the sound of your panties dropping, ladies?

Dubai has a far more impressive skyline than Wyong

I would’ve liked to go to the top of the tower, but it costs 50 bucks to go halfway and I’m too povvo to pay that. I’ll just get some photos off Google and show them to people if they ask. That’s what I do with dick pics. The Dubai Fountain sits in Khalifa’s shadow, and I watched on, entranced, as the monumental water jets danced in time to some beautiful music. Dubai often feels fake, but it really is astonishing that they’ve been able to turn desert into an aquatic oasis.

Go go dancing fountain!

The Dubai Mall is next to that, and it’s the biggest in the world. Inside the mall are heaps of shops, so if you’re after a new hat or some a whoopee cushion then it’s the place for you. I brushed all that crap, though, and headed to SEGA Republic. With the disappointment of Nagasaki SEGA World fresh in my mind (it totally bombed), I was hoping for the best. It was as disappointing as that crap all-fat-chicks Ghostbusters movie, though, because all the rides were closed and the bloke in the Sonic outfit got shirty when I tried to take a photo of me humping him.

He’s behind you!

I thought it was strange that a massive shopping centre full of sheikhs didn’t have a single shop selling those funny white sheets and towels they wear. What happens if they run out of clean sheets and have a big date to go out on? Do they just grab a doona cover, wrap it atound themselves, and head out for a nice night of dancing?

“We can’t both wear white, it makes us look like we’re part of a softball team”

As someone who hates shopping centres, the Dubai Mall really started to get on my nerves after a while. It’s loud, there are people everywhere, and it takes an hour to walk from one side to the other. Making things a bit more tolerable is the gigantic fish tank in the middle of the place. Sharks, stingrays and octopuses swim past exclusive clothes shops and fast food restaurants, giving some idea what the world will look like when climate change causes the oceans to rise 500 metres and we all drown. It’s really impressive, but I’d hate to be the person who has to clean it. Shit, my tank at home is only a metre long and it’s filthier than a Kings Cross hooker.

Other Arab countries prefer showing off slightly less relaxing tanks

I’m a poor bastard and so I’m staying in a cheap hotel where running water isn’t seen as a necessity, but all the rich picks who come to Dubai stay out at the famous Palm Jumeirah, where rooms run into the hundreds of thousands of dollars a night. I was curious to see what my life would’ve been like had I decided to become a corrupt politician, so I rolled on over there and took the monorail out to the man-made island, which is indeed in the shape of a huge palm. It’s an interesting ride, with luxurious houses, apartments and hotels growing from each of the palm’s gargantuan fronds. I felt poorer the further I went.

Want your palm read?

The Atlantis Resort at the end of the palm is really lovely, but all the beaches are private and there’s not a whole lot for a poor ol’ backpacker to do. I was standing beside a pie truck, looking sadly at a menu full of food I couldn’t afford, when one of those blokes in a sheet beckoned me over to his table. I was a little reluctant to join him, but took a seat next to the fella anyway.

“You look hungry,” he said in a kind voice. “Please, allow me to buy you a pie.”
I was going to put up a facade of arguing, but figured he was rich as shit and so ordered the most expensive roast chicken pie on the menu.
“My name is Sheikh Abdul el Waleed Aly,” he told me as the food arrived. He then went on to tell me how rich he is, how many cars he owns, how beautiful his wife is. I was torn between sucking up to the Sheikh in the hope he’d buy me a car, and telling him to shut the fuck up because he was boring me. I got stuck into the food, and as I was finishing it, Abdul gave me a slimy smile.

Enjoying my complimentary dog’s eye

“It is so easy to buy the time and affection of the poor,” he told me. “I just have to wave a free meal in front of your stupid face, and you sit there like an obediant dog. And what is the price of a meal to a man of wealth such as myself? Nothing. Nothing!”
I let him carry on like that for a few minutes because I was too busy stuffing my face with the pie he’d bought me, and eventually he stood up and swept himself away across the street, laughing. Just then, a truck sped by and splashed mud all over his stunning robes, causing the Sheikh to scream at the heavens. I just swaggered ver to him, licking tomato sauce from my fingers, and said, “Thanks for the food. You can find some clean sheets at the nearest Spotlight, dickhead.” And with that, I made my way back into the city.

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The marvellous meat pie-zza

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I’ve been spending a lot of time with my good mate (and fellow Sri Lankan) Geoff Jansz lately, and me and ‘Colombo’s Coolest Cook’ have been pushing boundaries and changing the world together. Alright, we mainly we just chase each other around the kitchen and gossip about boys, but we’ve also been whipping up some mouth-wateringly unusual meals.

While our urine-infused ice cream and devilled penguin weren’t successful and led to an outbreak of food poisoning amongst our friends, tonight we struck gold. I want to introduce you to the new national meal of Australia – THE MEAT PIE-ZZA.

It combines the meaty deliciousness of a hearty meat pie with the cheesy-yet-healthy beautness of a pizza – and it’s absolutely delectable. Because you probably don’t have a world-class Sri Lankan chef on hand to help you experiment, here’s all the info you need to cook your own meat pie-zza!

Stuff you’ll need

1 family meat pie
Tomato paste
Some garlic
An onion
Cheese
Pepperoni
The tears of a child

How you make it

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Chuck the pie in the oven for however long it takes to get all nice and brown and crispy. Don’t just nuke it in the microwave, ‘cos that will leave it soggy, which is shithouse for a pizza base
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Mix some garlic into a tub of tomato paste (or use that fancy pizza base sauce if you’ve got money falling out of your arse) and slather it all over the pie
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Toss the onions and pepperoni all over it. It doesn’t have to be as beautiful and symmetrical as mine (but enough about my penis!)
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Dump the cheese on. Don’t go easy on it – if you wanted something good for your heart, you’d be eating a fuckin’ carrot
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Put the whole thing back in the oven, or into a pie oven if you’ve got one. Take it out before it turns black or else it’ll taste like shit
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Stand back and marvel at how awesome it looks. Don’t eat it too soon, or you’ll burn your tongue off and have to talk like a retard for the rest of your life
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Enjoy it whils looking really sexy!

 

I put a bunch of mini pies into a big pie and then ate it

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Go fuck yourself, Manu Feildel, and choke on a bucket of cocks, Jamie Oliver, because I’m the best chef in the world now. That’s because I recently cooked the greatest meal of all time, by putting a whole bunch of bite-sized mini meat pies into a full-sized meat pie and cooking the whole thing.

I was sitting around, hungover and hungry, wanting some excitement in my life, when I decided to do something different. After ruling out hitting my cock with a hammer, I decided to create a monstrous meal, the likes of which has never been seen before.

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They probably don’t even make these things anymore

I have a pie cooker, and I love making dog’s eyes full of spaghetti, curry, pizza and other wacky stuff. I was digging through the fridge for something to chuck in there when I came across a long-forgotten packet of Pie Bites, tiny little pies that are a favourite of midgets. The packet had been in there for nearly 18 months and the use-by date was long gone, but nothing was going to stop me from creating history.

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Tiny and delicious, like my penis

I fired up the cooker, lay in the pastry, and then stuffed in as many Pie Bites as possible. I topped it up with gravy, popped another layer of pastry on top and then, laughing maniacally, closed the lid. I sat, barely able to contain my excitement, until the crust was golden brown and the meal of the god’s was ready.

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Stuffed in like Indians in a bus

I took it outside, took a deep breath, and prepared to break boundaries and change the way the world works forever. I sliced into the flaky pastry with a sharp knife grasped by an unsteady hand, and the delightful aroma of the pies-in-a-pie enveloped me. I pierced a chunk of the meal with my fork, lifted it to my mouth and popped it in.

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More gravy than a fat chick’s drink bottle

The taste was unbelievable – like a pie, but multiplied a thousand fold. It was like eating a pregnant pie full of pie babies, and it gave me a high more intense than any I’d had before (yes, even that time I shot heroin into my doodle in a Bangkok brothel can’t compare). When I finished, I felt as satisfied as a Chinaman with a bellyful of rice, and sat back to contemplate how wonderful the world is.

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I rock at plating up

I highly recommend making your own pies-in-a-pie, but would suggest that you use mini pies that are still within their use-by date, because I ended up shitting myself not long after finishing the meal. Still, it was a small price to pay for immortality.

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Ladies, if you become my girlfriend, you too can enjoy meals like this!

The Big McPie (and how it almost killed me)

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Once upon a time, fine dining restaurant McDonald’s ran a promotion where, in return for voting for some shitty YouTube videos on their website, one received a voucher for a free Big Mac. Of course, I rigged the system and ended up with an unlimited supply of the burgers, and decided I’d eat nothing but Big Macs for a month.

Alright, so that’s pretty much the plot to Super Size Me, but who gives a shit. Nobody whinged when Steven Spielberg stole the plot to Brokeback Mountain off me, so fuck Will Smith.

I don’t usually eat fast food, so after a few days I was feeling a bit rough. I was going through six or seven Macs a day, and despite putting on a bit of weight and sweating out grease every time I moved, I still wanted more. They were free and I was poor, so I kept travelling around to the various Maccas that were within waddling distance of work, smashing into the gooey messes.

Despite my cravings, it wasn’t long before I was thoroughly sick of the bland-tasting burgers, so I started spicing them up with chilli sauce, chicken nuggets, and even vegetables. Alright, I lied about the vegetables – I actually popped a hash brown and a few bits of bacon on there.

By Friday I was really feeling pretty crook. My toilet habits were similar to that of a South African mongoose, my skin wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Year Nine photo, and I was scratching myself like a junkie without a fix. It wasn’t all bad, though, because it led to something amazing.

The Big McPie.

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This bad boy is basically a pie (and sauce) wedged between the layers of a Big Mac. And, despite sounding like the last meal of a fat bloke, it’s absolutely wonderful. The mince in the pie plays well off the Mac’s special sauce, and the cheeky crunch of the pasty meshes perfectly with the juicy beef patties. It’s a well-rounded meal that simply must be tried, and I thoroughly enjoyed eating it.

That was the final Mac I had, though, because that afternoon I had something of a mental breakdown. I became paranoid that people were out to get me, sensitive to sounds, and found that talking to anyone was the most horrendous thought I could have. It was actually really scary, because whatever bullshit they put in Big Macs was seriously messing with my mind, and I didn’t feel at all like myself. I scurried out of the office without saying goodbye to anyone, hid myself in a corner of the train on the way home, and spent the next day locked away at home. I haven’t been to McDonald’s since.

After one week on the Macs, I had become a bloated, hideous, anti-social cretin on the level of Rebecca Wilson or Clementine Ford. I wouldn’t recommend anyone do it, but have a crack at the Big McPie – it’s a ripper.

My mate Pieman and his all-pie diet

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I’ve got this mate called Pieman, and he’s a really good bloke and is always the life of the party – at least, he used to be, before a bizarre and tragic decision changed his life forever.

Growing up, he didn’t mind a pie, hence his nickname. But he played footy, enjoyed breakdancing (he even appeared on an episode of Hey Hey it’s Saturday, where his head-spinning routine gave Molly Meldrum a boner that lasted for days) and even broke a unicycling world record. But all that ended a few years ago, when he made a drastic and dangerous choice. We were drinking heavily at Erina’s Woodport Inn when he told me of his plan.

“I’ve made a major life change,” Pieman explained, before taking a huge gulp of beer. I edged away from him, in case the ‘major life change’ involved a burning desire to root me up the blurter. But the truth was far more shocking than that.

“I’ve decided to go on an all-pie diet.”

I let that sink in for a second, took a sip of my beer, then shook my head. “What the fuck are you on about?”

“I’m on an all-pie diet. It means that all I eat are pies. Meat pies, chicken pies, egg and bacon pies…”

“But… why?”

“Well, I just really like pies, and whenever I’m eating something that isn’t a pie, I wish it was a pie. So, yeah, I’m not gonna bother with other shit anymore.”

I finished off my beer and headed to the bar, returning to the table with ice-cold two drinks and a packet of cheese and onion chips. I opened the bag and Pieman politely declined, before looking longingly at a week-old pie sitting sullenly in a warmer.

“But you can’t live on pies alone!” I reasoned, while Pieman sat there licking his lips. “You’ve gotta have vegetables or you’ll die.”

“Fuck mate,” he responded, swigging his beer, “what do you think tomato sauce is?”

I left it at that, and went off to pick up (and have disappointing sex with) a blonde spunk with a Yosemite Sam tattoo. Three weeks later, I was back at the Woodport, when a massive hand dropped on my shoulder. I looked up to see a fat bloke with a pallid complexion, sunken eyes and a slight twitch. I only vaguely recognised him.

“The all-pie diet’s doing wonders for you, Pieman,” I squeaked.

“Thanks mate,” he replied, then let out a rancid fart that would kill a Chinaman from 20 paces. “I’ve never been happier. I’ve just bought myself an industrial-sized pie oven, and the local pie shop delivers a fresh batch of pies every morning. I’m living the dream, brother.”

“What about work?”

“We had to part ways,” he nodded, fishing a party pie out of his pocket and guzzling it. “They didn’t understand my philosophies, and I’ve also been a bit short of breath lately. Must have a cold or something.”

“Must be that. Certainly isn’t the 30,000 calorie-a-day diet.”

A few weeks after that, I was at the shops buying Bryan Brown’s autobiography, The Lyfe of Bryan (it’s brilliant), when one of those mobility scooters almost ran over me, and I looked up to see that the fella behind the wheel was the size of a bus. It was Pieman, his fat rolls oozing over the sides of the scooter like a melting birthday cake. It smelled like he was sweating gravy. With him was a woman old enough to be his mother, who possessed a face that looked like Dave Warner had been using it for batting practice.

“This is my lover, Darla,” he explained, before tossing a chicken and garlic pie into his mouth. The thing next to him reached into her handbag and pulled out another pie, which she placed in Pieman’s blob of a hand. Seconds later, it was gone. “As I like to say, crusts get the busts.”

“I like a real man,” the thing said, then licked her lips in a way reminiscent of a lizard. “Skinny men can go to fucking hell, I need a proper man with some meat on his bones.”

The old lady was a fucking feeder! She’d latched onto Pieman, and was stuffing him full of pies so as to make him as fat as possible! I had to do something!

But then I got drunk and forgot about it, so I didn’t hear from Pieman for another couple of months. When I did, it was via a phone call on a wet and windy August evening.

“I’ve been in hospital,” he heaved. I barely recognised the voice on the other end. It was pained and troubled. “I had a bit of a heart attack and they had to take me away so I didn’t die. They had to carry me out on a stretcher made of bed sheets because the normal one wasn’t big enough. I guess I’ve put on a bit of weight since going on the all-pie diet.”

“Yeah, you could say that. So what did the doctor say?”

“He told me that if I stay on the all-pie diet, I’ll be dead within a year.”

“Sounds about right. So you’ve gone off it?”

“Yeah. It was magical while it lasted, but I have to put my health first. So I don’t eat pies for every meal, and I feel better already.”

“Good on you, mate! You’ll be back in shape in no time. So what does the new diet involve?”

“Well, it’s easy, two days a week, I don’t eat any pies,” he said, before pausing to catch his breath. “So on those days, I eat sausage rolls instead.”