#postman basil

[hee-blee-art]

part 2 of the new postman! alfred is nervous :)

[ <- part 1 ] [ directory ] [ part 3 -> ]

[ID: Five comic pages of a colourful cartoony toyland.

Basil, a black and white cat marionette, is walking down a small road. He reaches a large castle-looking wall with tall golden gates and gatehouse towers on either side. Beyond the wall is a sprawling city. Basil stops to take it all in in the morning light.

BASIL: [whistles] Well I’ll be. Kinda fancy ‘round here. Got a wall with a big gate and everything…

Sir Alfred, a nutcracker doll dressed in a red uniform and black cap, is sitting in one of the towers, engrossed in reading a book titled “The Mystery of the Emerald Spectacles.” He spots Basil through the outward facing window of the gatehouse and quickly sets the book aside and goes to the window, a little flustered. 

ALFRED: Oh! Hello! Good morning! Ahem—what can I help you with, good sir?

B: Well, opening up the gate would be a good start.

A: Right! Yes. My apologies, it’s usually open by now, I was just busy with, ehm—here—just a moment.

Alfred cranks the gate open and then joins Basil on the inside of it, now breathless from working the gate crank. Basil marvels at the city.

A: Welcome—huff, huff—to Toyhouse Corners!

Alfred dashes over to Basil and holds out his hand. 

A: I’m Sir Alfred, the gatekeeper and the town guard. And who might you be?

Basil looks at Alfred’s hand but doesn’t shake it. 

B: …Basil. Uh, Postman Basil. 

A: Postman? Is Gertie out sick today? 

B: Nope. I’m the new postman for this area—so, mostly your fair city, it seems. 

A: Oh! Hm. I wasn’t informed there was to be a switch up. What happened to Gertie?

B: [shrugging] Dunno. Maybe she kicked the bucket?

A: Good heavens! Well, I… I mean, I suppose she was getting up in years… oh my, how very dreadful.

B: Hold on, you said you’re Sir Alfred, right?

A: Uhm, yes, I am.

Basil digs around in his delivery bag.

B: You’re my first delivery.

end ID.]

[butchjesus]

typical behaviour

[image ID: a two panel comic of cartoonish toy characters. in panel 1, basil, a cat marionette, is angrily standing off with alfred, a nutcracker doll. basil says, "who died and put you in charge?" alfred: "someone has to be, and it certainly isn't going to be you." in panel 2, mac, a tall harlequin doll, leans down to whisper with foster, a ragdoll. foster: "are they about to kiss?" mac: "I don't know..." end ID]

[gremmlinchild]

Ngl I just wanted an excuse to draw a bunch of my favs in one drawing.

[jadiereal]

weezr..,.. bt its [some] of my kin charactrs.,,.,. i didn't draw roxy for comical reasons.,,.

[toyhousecorners]

🌈 Welcome to Toyhouse Corners! 🌈

In the cozy walled city of Toyhouse Corners, plush and plastic citizens lead happy lives full of friendship, local drama, the occasional mystery, and lots of silly antics. When new postman & cynical outsider Basil arrives in town, he is baffled by how perfect everything is—until it isn’t. Along with the town guard Sir Alfred and lots of other new friends, Basil will discover there are far more complex & sinister things going on in Toyhouse Corners than its cute & sugary facade would suggest. (a comic by @hee-blee-art)

[ read from the beginning ]

[ issue 1 — the new postman | part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 coming soon ]

[ special short — humbug ]

[ read toyhouse corners on webtoon ]

[r1ghtt1mewr0ngplace]

PLEASE tell me about your ocs 🤲

so this will be a quick summary of everyone I ever mentioned on here (they are not the only aa ocs I have):

- umaru keigo: a medic, a prosecutor, a criminal, a postman, a coward, an incredibly courageous person, the kindest soul, the servant of evil and a malewife all rolled into one. I have a separate post about him and his story! fun fact he lived with manfred von karma. for fifteen years.

- hanma tsumugi: I don't think the world is ready. not yet. but long story short she's a villain she's a tragedy she's irredeemable and unlovable but only because she decided so she's a monster because she kept choosing to be she kept choosing to be a monster because she thought she had no other choice. she's too far gone and I'm not just saying this to convince you she's not, she truly is. she thinks she's the lesser of all evils and does what she need to do to keep her power. she does absolutely horrible things. she thinks she will crumble the second she's left without her power. the sad truth is, it's true.

- basil bonerath: the worst one to ever do it, professional sherlock holmes impersonator, except his sherlock is an absolute dickhead and doesn't even have a watson, a detective in the police force who constantly says all the cops are unreliable corrupt idiots and he's only here because he couldn't make it as private, I unintentionally wrote him to be the most adhd person in the room at any given time, he views all of the events around him as his very own detective story and all the people around him as fictional characters, he assigns most people the role of the background idiot aside from when you impress him, in that case you're either his Villain, whom he has a passion for bordering on erotic, or his mythical Equal who he will never miss an opportunity to pleasantly chat with, meaning he will talk your ears off, and if he deems you as Equal he will inevitably at some point be disappointed in you

- olivia gant: damon's daughter who he loves so so much but unfortunately he could never protect her from the truth! an aspiring social worker (I also thought about giving her a change of majors and getting her to go to politics instead but I'm thinking about it!)

i have many more characters, but I'm kind of not in the space to talk about all the other ones right now,,! but thank you for asking

[everythingiread]

The postman hardly looked puzzled. People working at the Grand Central Post Office grow used to strange remarks. They hear so many. They never stop hearing them; they simply stop sending the messages to their brains. Like talking into a telephone with no one on the receiver end.

From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, E.L. Konigsburg

[sunnysduet]

nobody understands me when i say concept art basil/rowan looks like a mail boy or a postman whatever they're called

[thechasefiles]

Murder charge against women dropped Two women who had been charged with the murder of postman Basil Springer just over two years ago are no longer accused of killing him. When Shanika Avonda Clarke, 30, and Leean Sasha King, 24, both of Scott’s Gap, Brittons Hill, St Michael appeared before Magistrate Manilla Renee in the District ‘D’ Magistrates’ Court on Thursday, the murder charge was dropped and they were charged with conspiracy to rob Springer. The duo, along with Kyle Chad Rasheem Archer, 28, a well digger, of No. 59 Bayview Avenue, Bayville, St Michael; and Jamar Darnelle Mottley, 34, a cleaner, of Lower Dayrells Road, Christ Church, had been charged with murdering Springer between March 5 and 11, 2020. Archer and Mottley are still facing the murder charge. Springer’s body was found in a well. He had been the subject of a missing person’s bulletin. Clarke, who was on remand at Dodds, was released on $8 000 bail while King remained on remand awaiting bail on a separate robbery charge. Clarke will return to court on December 7, 2022. The two women were represented by King’s Counsel Michael Lashley in association with Sade Harris and Simon Clarke, while prosecutor Sergeant Vernon Waithe was the prosecutor. Source: BARBADOS Today https://www.instagram.com/p/Ck0Szw1gNQ07BPYuB5nrbHCmz9T1L0AIEVuZI00/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[tellthemeerkatsitsfine]

@neighbourhoodtwo

Thanks for that, that makes a lot of sense. And had made me decide I want to make a list of everything I know about British children's television, without Googling, just based on learning through osmosis from panel show references:

- Mr. Blobby was a big thing

- A show called Rainbow featured puppets and one was named Zippy

- Obviously, I am aware of the Saville situation

- Basil Brush was a puppet fox

- Blue Peter: show where they make crafts and get badges, at one point hosted by Konnie Huq, who’s married to Charlie Brooker

- I think maybe Richard Bacon at some point did something on children’s TV, and that’s why it was so scandalous that he did drugs?

- I think maybe Ant and Dec at some point did children’s TV?

- Peppa Pig is British and David Baddiel’s wife plays a main character

- There is a man named Postman Pat and he is a cartoon and I think he has a dog, or possibly fights dogs

- Did Noel Edmonds used to do things for kids?

- Maybe Simon Amstell did too?

- Iain Stirling definitely used to do things for kids, but I don’t know what

- CBeebies is a children’s TV channel and sometimes celebrities read bedtime stories on it

Okay, I think that’s it. Nothing about Steve Backshall. Sorry for this post having two instances of me primarily knowing a successful woman for her successful male partner, if it helps to make up for that I've taken to referring to Stewart Lee as Bridget Christie's ex-husband.

Yeah, I can see how my pool of references for British kids' TV would be quite small compared to the amount of kids' TV that exists, especially as I believe my fairly small pool spans multiple decades.

I have literally never heard of any of the NYT 2024 contestants. Not just don’t know who they are, but I have absolutely never heard any of those names before in any capacity.

I realize that’s not that surprising, because I live in Canada. But I did think I had an okay grasp on people who are on UK TV. I acquired this grasp by watching a lot of their long- and short-running panel shows, and every time I heard a reference I didn’t get, I’d look it up so I’d know for next time.

I’m remembering last year at Just For Laughs, when I went to a club night called Brit-ish that was hosted by Tom Allen, and he referenced Mock the Week, and people cheered. He seemed surprised that the Canadian crowd knew about Mock the Week, which struck me as slightly condescending, thinking a bunch of people who had specifically shown up for a lineup of British comedians would not know about one of their extremely popular mainstream British comedy shows. But then Tom Allen said we might know that but we don’t know most British television, do we even know about The One Show?

I did, of course, know about The One Show. I know it as that thing where Jason Manford lost his job due to, in the delicate words of Frankie Boyle, having a wank in a hotel room. When Tom Allen asked that question, my mother even leaned over to me to whisper that she knew what The One Show was, because she’d watched a lot of WILTY and they’d had Alex Jones on (not – you know, not that Alex Jones, the Welsh one). My mom isn’t nearly as steeped in British television as I am, but even she had picked up on some of that. If you watch enough panel shows, you’re going to pick an understanding of British cultural references and TV personalities even outside of comedy. I know about lots of those. I certainly know about The One Show.

I do not, however, know who a single person on NYT 2024 is. That doesn’t mean they’ll be bad. Lots of people I’ve never heard of are very good at many things. I’m just saying, apparently I don’t know as much as I’d thought about people on British TV.

[muddshadow]

Find the Word Tag

after three months of sitting in my notifications.... i have at last found the words.... it’s been a while since working on my stories so thank you dearly @emelkae for the tags. more wip information in my pinned post !

my legion of words ; pain , confuse , thick , graze , race , accurate , flat , because , see , twist , space .

PAIN HURT > Trystan

“Wait,” I rasp. Noxious, ragged horror strangles my words. “Wait. I’ll do it, I’ll do it, I’ll come back, Annie can do what she wants with me, I’ll even be nice to Basil—”

Magdalena drops down beside me. “It’s too late for that,” she whispers. She tugs my dislocated arm, holds my hand inside hers.

“Wait, wait, Mags, don’t—”

The knife slits cleanly across my palm. A long, shallow cut.

It feels like rot. Like malice. It blisters up my arm, grinds ragged through my blood, and hurts like branded damnation. Every nerve is on fire. The Veil’s familiar ash fills my mouth. I shriek my throat bloody. Then, finally, I black out.

CONFUSE > To Forget a Prince

Deya waited for him at the door. Nara could hardly be upset; he’d expected to be cornered eventually. But the timing was dreadful. It was late, Nara was exhausted, and he hadn’t prepared a proper argument. Typical circumstances for Deya to host a confrontation.

Straining with a long sigh, Nara finished the walk over.

“I’m not in the mood to do this right now,” he said.

“How interesting, because I don’t give a damn. Why were you protecting those intruders?”

“Hm, I recall explaining quite thoroughly to you—”

“Don’t try to confuse me,” Deya growled. “I thought this over all day, and I’ve decided you’re a filthy liar.”

THICK > To Forget a Prince

In a barking, broken fury, the hungered fell upon them.

Kon sipped a breath. His first arrow landed hard inside the lead hungered’s shoulder joint. It stumbled, head bowed, and Diorre swung on the back of its neck. Wooden armor too thick, the strike didn’t pierce deeply enough. The hungered shambled free. Grass sprouted from the wound, weaving shut the damage, but the bark was slower to regrow.

With a heave, Diorre buried his axe into the spine. Bark fractured, bones cracked, and rotting flesh spattered as the hungered collapsed. The whole construct shuddered. Vines fought to pull the pieces together – but there was the heartroot, exposed between the shoulder blades. Kon darted his knife. The root snapped in two.

The hungered stilled, the plants wilted and died, and Kon whirled to face the next.

GRAZE > At the Bottom of the Waterfall

Lo stared at her. “It knew you were here the moment you entered the woods,” they said.

Ysabelle grazed the blood from her nose. “You could have mentioned.”

“I did tell you. I always tell you. You won’t ever listen.”

Perhaps that was true, so she abandoned the argument. It put a bitter in her mouth. Frustration, failure, and the familiar taste of consequences. There was no action without them. No victory without casualty, no change without loss, and no waking moment without regretting every breath along the way. I didn’t have a choice. I hurt so many people. All thoughts led to the Damp.

Lo interrupted. “Your self-pity does not taste very good.”

“Well, that’s all I can manage at the moment.”

RACE > At the Bottom of the Waterfall

Louis snorted. “And what the fuck do you expect to teach me?”

Fabian didn’t seem overly phased by the bite in his voice. “You were curious on the subject, and I wanted to show you. What you learn is up to you.”

“So, this is charity work?”

Then Fabian braced his jaw, and Louis caught the first glimpse of a motive, carefully guarded in the shade of his eyes. Fabian tried to answer, but he perhaps ran out of fancy words and long-winded distractions because he abandoned the effort and asked instead, “And what do you think this is?”

Louis curled his lip. “I don’t know why you’d bother lugging me around. You’re probably trying to steal something from Ysabelle.”

ACCURATE > Bloodhounds

“Neve. That’s N-E-…”

“Oh,” the postman snapped his fingers and responded finally, “that’s some sort of singing group, is it?”

“What? No.”

“You’re thinking of Evening Pajamas,” the mail-carrier said. “Yeah, that band was cool maybe twenty years ago…”

“No,” Rowan insisted again, “a person. I’m looking for a singular human person.”

“Oh, like a solo artist…?”

“No. She doesn’t sing. Well, maybe she does as a hobby. Not on the radio. I haven’t heard her, anyway. That would’ve made my life a little easier, hah.”

They stared at him.

Rowan gripped his forehead. He wracked his mind for a stray detail, something he may have accidentally learned through eight and a half months pursuing a name—but his memory was generously described as sloppy and more accurately as dogshit. Not all his story was fiction; he really did need to find a Neve Pah’hanna. But Neve, unfortunately, was a good-for-nothing nobody, and those types were harder to sell to strangers for sympathy.

FLAT > To Forget a Prince

“He’s a Steelguard officer.”

“Was,” Danvi corrected. “And so what? Why shouldn’t justice catch up with him?”

“That’s hilarious. You killed him for money, not justice.”

“Just mostly. Anyway, you’re tied up in here with me. You’re just as guilty.”

Frustration pinched Yulei’s jaw. “I’m actually innocent.”

“I heard them say they caught you in the dead-center of grey-coat territory. Pretty hefty trespassing charge. Especially if you were swinging a weapon around.”

Yulei flattened her lips and modified her claim. “I might have trespassed a little bit.”

BECAUSE > Trystan

The apartment sucks too, but that isn’t my fault. You can’t fix cracks in the ceiling, or crooked plumbing that leaks water the wrong color, or a garbage disposal that mostly just shrieks murder and doesn’t do any disposing. Well, you could fix it, technically, but I’m not about to try. I’m two-hundred short in my rent and asking the landlord for favors isn’t really an option.

Usually, it’s alright. I’m good at adapting. And putting up with bullshit. And living in dumpsters, because I’ve done that most of my life. I can jiggle the door handle just right to make sure it locks, and I know how to wrap the windows to keep out a draft. I’ve got everything under control.

I throw up again in the shower, then gargle mouthwash until I can’t remember the taste of last night.

SEE > Bloodhounds

The nosy guard elected not to join the others. “Securing the perimeter,” he told her, and approached the wagon with an intrigued tilt in the head.

Bones still brittle with the electrocution, Neve blocked his advance.

“Didn’t see anyone else with an open wagon,” he drawled, voice a grating mess through his face plate. He leaned against her outstretched arm, inspecting the cargo over her shoulder. “Up to anything in here?”

“Salvaging business, and none of yours. I have orders.”

“Ah, and you’re salvaging… what is that?”

Tugging his vest was a tragic effort; the towering guard moved like an ironclaw panther and vaulted smoothly inside the wagon. Neve smelled pine and gunpowder as he brushed by. With an exasperated hmm, she scrambled to follow him up the ledge.

TWIST > At the Bottom of the Waterfall

Scarlet fronds lashed her cheeks. She tore past twisted trunks and stumbled over roots and underbrush. She’d lost her hat some paces back, but Ysabelle didn’t hesitate. Vicious determination burned her onward. “Where are you, parasite?!”

“Magi good for one thing,” the wisp’s voice came—crackled like a cooking fire, hissing like raw embers, somewhere on her left, “and that iss dead! hah, hah—” Ysabelle whirled toward it and slashed her palms again.

Trees splintered—and much too close. Shrapnel slit her cheek and spit over her clothes. Ysabelle stumbled gracelessly, and the wisp laughed again. It boiled her blood hotter. She tasted the sparks on her tongue now.  

SPACE > To Forget a Prince

Loteri looked terribly lonesome in the war room, surrounded by dust and shadows and rows of empty chairs. Without the apkavna spewing threats, Nara wondered if their conversation might proceed smoothly. But Loteri’s presence was rigid and crumbling. Desolation steeped the space between them.  

Nara reclaimed some of his composure. Enough to level his gaze to the ice-stained eyes of Loteri the Shade.

What stared back was winter in its worst months, was death beckoning the doomed, was an ancient magic and an ancient creature too old and too cruel to remember its heartbeat. When Loteri slowly rose from his seat, when he spoke quiet and taut with anger, it was the Shade’s frostbitten voice behind the words. And it ached like felled ambition.

“So the prince sends his favorite pet to die.”

*

a hundred thousand thank you’s to anyone who takes the time to read <3

For the next round of words... eventually , under , glass , eye , seem.

@ everyone ! also @emelkae​ , @vivji​ , @writingatfiveinthemorning​ , @wizardfromthesea​ , @thelittlestspider​ , @nrivanwrites​ , and @baroquesse​ . with absolutely no pressure !! I’m never sure who would like to participate, but tag me if you do so I can see :v

[hee-blee-art]

part 1 of the new postman is here :) stay tuned for more !

[ directory ] [ part 2 -> ]

[ID: Five comic pages of a colourful cartoony toyland. 

The sun rises over fields that resemble a patchwork quilt. A rooster egg timer character sitting in a nest dings and wakes up. The outside of a rural cottage-style post office is shown. As the rooster crows, two black ears pop up from a bundle of blue blankets in a bed in the apartment above the post office.

Basil, a black and white cat marionette, sits up in bed to stretch. He gets up and gets dressed, brushes his teeth, puts on his long blue jacket and blue cap, and heads out the door of his apartment. In the post office, Basil collects envelopes and packages and puts them in his post bag, then steps outside. 

BASIL: Right then. I guess I'm really doing this. Better get a move on.

The title appears, reading, "Toyhouse Corners: The New Postman" atop a panel of Basil walking away from the post office down a small road. more text at the bottom reads, "a comic by hee-blee-art."

end ID.]

[butchjesus]

basil and alfred being blushy <3

[image ID: ten digital sketches of basil, a thin cat marionette, and alfred, a thin nutcracker doll, blushing with various expressions and poses. individual IDs in alt text. end ID]

[aion-rsa]

Stath Lets Flats: a Brilliant Sitcom Antidote to Bland Comedy

https://ift.tt/312Q422

As you’ll know if you haven’t set your Netflix account to stop autoplaying previews, a lot of comedy writing isn’t really comedy writing at all, but writing in the shape of comedy. There are rhythmic set-ups and punch lines and pauses for laughter, but what’s being said is… words. There’s every appearance of a joke, but nothing inside, just a vacuum where a joke might go. It’s the TV equivalent of void-fill foam starch packing peanuts; technically edible but with zero nutritional value.

And then there’s Stath Lets Flats, a comedy so rich in nutrients you could live off it for well over a year. Which fans have had to, because the brilliant second series which won all the awards Bafta could give it, aired all the way back in summer 2019. Series three arrives today, after a delay due to the pandemic and the packed schedules of its increasingly in-demand cast. 

That cast includes creator Jamie Demetriou, who plays inept Greek-Cypriot lettings agent Stath; Natasia Demetriou, who plays his dopey would-be singer sister Sophie; Katy Wix as career-minded Carole, who’s what would happen if you put all of the female contestants on The Apprentice into a blender and froze the results into a human-shaped ice lolly; Kiell Smith-Bynoe as the perpetually exasperated Dean; Ellie White as bad girl Eastern European lady postman Katia; and Al Roberts as Al, a man so self-effacing that if you ran him over, he’d apologise for denting your car. There are many, many more, including new series three guest stars Julia Davis and Charlie Cooper, who each bring their own specific oddness to play. 

Specificity is what makes Stath Lets Flats a delight. It’s a workplace comedy with a singular vision and tone. There’s nothing bland or cookie-cutter about its characters or performances, none of whom we’ve quite encountered before. In Stath, there may be a little of David Brent’s awkward attempts to be a smooth operator, a little of Frank Spencer’s childlike ineptitude, a little of Basil Fawlty’s explosive rage or even Manuel’s utter cluelessness… but he’s his own thing, an inimitable creation. 

Read more

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Inimitable is right, because Stath impressions are devilishly hard to do. It’s not just the delivery but the confounding dialogue which speaks to what must be an obsessive level of attention to detail from writer Demetriou. Stath doesn’t just get English wrong, he speaks in a wild, vertiginous style that suggests his brain is always two steps behind his mouth, which itself is three steps behind anybody else in a conversation. Stath speaks like a man juggling, but who doesn’t know what juggling is. He’s desperate to say the kinds of things that cool Americans say in cool American films and cool American R&B songs, but is bewildered by words and by imagination. He has far too many of the former, and none of the latter which makes him in awe of anybody who does.

Stath’s hero-worship of the most mundane characters (Al, Sophie) is one of Stath Lets Flats’ many inversions of the received sitcom voice. So much comedy writing involves characters making waspish swipes and exchanging ‘witty’ put-downs that get oohs from the audience but are ignored by other characters in-world. In Stath Lets Flats, nobody speaks in urbane puns or witticisms, but the merest attempt at a joke is met by an uproarious reception. What’s really funny isn’t how sparkling the dialogue is, but how earnest the characters are. When Al tells Sophie that her “contribution to the arts in the UK could be so huge,” it’s hilarious because he means it, and well, we’ve all heard Sophie’s songs. Stath’s honest belief that unassuming Al is “the top man in London” whose every word is conversational gold is an endearing character trait and another stroke of genius from the show (there are 34 strokes of genius in total, from Carole’s milk-based diet to Al’s fluency in Japanese. See diagram below for details).  

Endearing character traits for Stath were in short supply in series one, something rectified in the second run which offered more of the character’s clueless vulnerability than his clueless aggression. Series two also developed the love story between Sophie and Al, two characters that anyone would be desperate to see together (the sex, the babies, the supermarket shop, I want to watch it all). The second run also ended with a dramatic event that shows Stath Lets Flats breaking even further out of the traditional sitcom mould, presaging excellent things for series three. 

With carefully pitched performances, extremely detailed writing, and an unerring devotion to what’s actually funny as opposed to what sounds like it’s funny, Stath Lets Flats is everything that empty, packing peanut sitcoms aren’t: novel, surprising, unique and quite obviously a labour of love. A absolutely comedy. 

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Stath Lets Flats series 3 starts on Channel 4 on Tuesday the 26th of October at 10.15pm. All episodes will be available to stream on All4 after broadcast. 

The post Stath Lets Flats: a Brilliant Sitcom Antidote to Bland Comedy appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/3bexA0a

[fuckyeahjeremyclarkson]

When I was a small boy, we’d eat out once a year, always at the Berni Inn in Doncaster. The choices were not extensive. To start, it was either grapefruit juice or pineapple juice, and then it was breaded plaice or steak. Mind you, customers were able to choose how they’d like their meat cooked. For an hour. Or for much, much longer. The vegetables, meanwhile, went into the pot when you booked the table.

I knew this was wrong, even when I was only six, because my dad was a fanatical cook. He would cook for people all day. He cooked for the postman. He cooked for the women who worked for my mum in the barn at the bottom of the garden. And when he ran out of people to cook for, he’d make elaborate cakes for the birds.

He would rise at six so he could start cooking and I still yearn for some of the things he made. Tripe in a simple milk sauce, especially. And his roasted heart was one of the cornerstones of my childhood. Alongside Mungo Jerry, being bullied and the hedgehog-print jeans my mum made for me because Levi’s were too expensive. And which were the root cause of much of the bullying.

Later, in my teens, he would take me to London occasionally, and we’d go to a restaurant at 235 King’s Road, which was called 235 King’s Road. Or an Italian place on the Earls Court Road called Il Palio, where Bruno the owner and his chef would have furious rows all night long. And then at lunchtime, he’d take me to a place he knew in Marylebone for a salt beef sandwich.

Later, as my mum’s business started to become more successful, we’d go to San Lorenzo in Beauchamp Place and Odin’s, which belonged to Peter Langan. And I didn’t like the food they cooked because it wasn’t plain. It wasn’t simple. It wasn’t tripe in a milk sauce. It wasn’t roast heart.

Much later, AA Gill did his best to make me understand food and cooking. He would take me to places where the rabbit tasted like bacon and the pigeon like ham, and he would swoon and kiss the chef on the mouth. And I’d stare wistfully at my pigeon, thinking, “If I’d wanted something that tasted like ham, I’d have ordered ham.”

This is why I despise all provincial restaurants today. And please don’t write to tell me about a place your daughter-in-law has just opened in Penrith, because I won’t like that either. In restaurants outside London, it’s always about the chef’s ability to create a visual taste sensation. No one’s allowed to talk. You are expected to sit there in reverential silence, marvelling at how the single piece of cress is a perfect accompaniment for the bubbles in the broth.

And it’s bollocks. When I go out to eat, it’s because I can’t be arsed to do the washing-up. I want exactly what I’d make at home, only without the faff of making it. Shepherd’s pie. Spaghetti bolognaise. Lamb chops with new potatoes. And no effing sauce. I also don’t want a new concept, where I order 876 little things and then share them all with the people on the table by the loo. Or plates made from wood, or metal. I swear to God, restaurants that do this always provide cutlery that you can’t hold properly, so you can’t stab the waiter.

What a whopper: Clarkson lovingly cradles a marrow grown in the new kitchen garden at his 1,000-acre farm in Oxfordshire

What I hate most of all, though, is travelling with film crews. Because when we are abroad, they treat food as fuel. Which means we never walk the streets looking for the sort of restaurant that does home cooking well. They just eat whatever is provided at the hotel, which is almost always like the sort of food you get in Birmingham.

Nicola Formby — aka the Blonde made famous by AA Gill’s reviews — is always suggesting little places in back streets that do great gnocchi on a bed of lightly killed rattlesnake, but I don’t want that. I want simple. I had roast grasshoppers in Cambodia and Burma and they were terrific. I had a trout, plucked from the stream next to my table in Croatia, and then grilled. And that was even better. But the absolute best food I’ve ever eaten was a bruschetta in Bologna. Bread. Olive oil. Tomatoes. Basil, probably, and maybe some balsamic vinegar. I can’t be sure because after smoking half a million cigarettes, my taste buds have the sensitivity of steel. All I knew is they were really good tomatoes on a really nice piece of bread.I can add another couple of things to this list of culinary triumphs. The chicken pho by a chef called Ms No at the Six Senses Con Dao island resort off Vietnam. And the Denny’s breakfast experience in any of those Reacher towns in the red bits of America.If you break a perfectly poached egg, and in Denny’s the poached eggs are always perfect, onto their hash browns, I swear you end up with a taste sensation that would stop Jesus in his tracks. I have searched the world for hash browns made the Denny’s way, but when they’re offered, the chef has always suffused them with his own twist. By which I mean “ruined them”.

I have a similar global quest to find a better eggs benedict than the one I was given at the then Regent Hotel in Hong Kong, back in 1988. So far, it’s no dice. No one gets the simplicity right. Simplicity is always the key to my enjoyment of food. It’s why, when I cook, I never use cheese unless what I’m making is cheese on toast or a cheese sandwich. This is because cheese is a powerful flavour that sits in the pan like the Russian president sits in a room full of diplomats from former Soviet states. It’s the same story with bacon. Pop that into the mix and what you always end up with is something that tastes of bacon.

“Are you not getting the delicate hints of pomegranate?”

“Nope. Just bacon.”

All of which takes me back to my dad’s roast heart. I sometimes look online for how this might be made and what I get is “roasted ox heart stuffed with a mushroom duxelle” or “beef heart braised in wine” or “lamb’s heart stuffed with lemon thyme and streaky bacon”. No. And then no again.

And nor can you serve them with a Dover sole so you have the chance for a jokey “Heart and Sole” offering in the menu. I just want heart. I like the taste of it as it is. I like the texture and all I want added is a spoonful of mashed potato to mop up the blood.

I’ve just started an internet thing called FoodTribe, on which people can share thoughts and ideas on food. And I’m going to be sharing this quest for simplicity a lot. I may even go further and start turning the stuff I grow on my farm into straightforward food that I can sell in my simple, straightforward, unheated shop.

As I write, I have three sheep that are due to go “down the road”. I feel sad in some ways, but I’m cheered by the fact that I can have their hearts. And even more cheered by the fact that I’ve accidentally grown 20 tons of potatoes. It’s going to be a supper that makes me feel young again and it will be the first I’ve grown entirely by myself.

Yes. I started a kitchen garden earlier this year and have spent the past few months taking a weird pride that the spring onions, and the carrots and the peas and especially the golden beets, all of which were grown by my own . . . ability to tell girlfriend, Lisa, and gardener, Josh, exactly what I like.I don’t know why we enjoy eating vegetables that we’ve grown ourselves more than those grown by some disinterested Mexican on minimum wage. Maybe it’s because we know we haven’t urinated on them. Or because we know that no carbon was burnt in their trip from the soil to our table. But whatever the reason, we do. And I cannot wait to do that with meat as well. It’s simplicity in its purest form.

Jeremy’s recipes will be added to the next post to avoid this one turning into an enormous monster

[stupidlytender]

can i have the postmans husbands recipie for tomato cream soup 🥺 if u r willing to share it sounds lovely

yes of course! �� 

this recipe would be plenty for 6 people!

4 small onions chopped 2 teaspoons garlic purée 1 tablespoon tomato purée 2 x 400g tins chopped tomato 1/2 tin cold water 2 vegetable stock cubes 1 tablespoon sugar 250 ml double cream Salt and pepper Handful chopped basil

Warm some olive oil and a little water in a pan and add the onion and garlic and let this cook gently for about 10-15 minutes before adding the tomato purée and a little more water if necessary. 

Cook this gently for a further 10 minutes and then add the tomatoes and cold water. On a medium heat bring this to a near boil and add the stock cubes and sugar. 

Simmer gently for about 20 minutes before adding the cream. Let it cook a further 10 minutes before blending with a hand blender or in a food processor. 

Add salt and pepper to taste and garnish with basil if you prefer. Enjoy!