We're alright, we're all calm, but we're no longer able to fry Potato

I'd like to apologise in advance for the poor quality of Fig.1E (see Fig.1E). It's a DeLonghi PRO-FRi, drawn entirely from loving memory.

Me, myself and Potato

I've always said that when the chips are down, reach for the Potato and things will surely get better; hence I now find myself on my fourth plate of sautéed Wilja. What with all the excitement of National Potato Day, swiftly followed by Maris Piper's birthday and my new Potato peeler arriving (quickly and well packaged, with good communications) from Ebay, I failed to notice my wife leaving.

She also took with her:

The deep fat fryer

My autographed copy of 'Fanny Cradock Gets Wedgied - Modern Ideas For Potato'

Nadine, our Potato loving dachshund, who I hand-reared from a Potato loving puppy using only Potato

Our 1993 Volvo 940 estate

My life-sized cardboard cutout of 'Ponch' from 70's lightweight action crime drama 'CHiPs'

Our three children, all of whom left the house without their Potato themed duffle coats and matching hats

I'm now relishing the challenge of living life as a Potato-fuelled lone wolf, happily getting by without the luxury of a loving family, faithful pets, cheery cardboard best buddies, safe and reliable transportation or inspirational Fanny.

The shot Potato

This is a photo of me and my old friend Barney Hinkelstein during our ill-fated Eastern Bloc tour, which was carried out in order to raise the Potato's profile amongst the work-shy communists. Barney was eventually shot dead by the Stasi, after being mistaken for a man dressed as a giant Potato.

The sharp end of Potato

This is my brand new Potato peeler (do me a favour and check out fig.1D above). I did have a more conventionally shaped Potato peeler, but I had to use it in self-defence during an altercation with my Atkins-style postman, who staggered off with it and has not since bothered to returned it. Thus, it's with the approval of both my doctor and probation officer that a new, less protruding chapter of Potato peeling has opened in my life. The happy Potato face on the handle is there to remind me that it's never ok to stab anyone, even if they have just tersely declined a slice of my freshly baked Potato cake.

Thanking you kindly for the Potato, Mr Piper

Settle yourselves down and listen up, you might actually learn something for a change. Yesterday, while the rest of the world looked the other way, those of us who give the Potato the respect it deserves celebrated Maris Piper's birthday.

Originally born in 1822, archives from the time describe Maris as pleasant, floury and great for roasting. Maris spent his formative years wattling daub at Wetwang, Yorkshire. In 1856, he accidentally invented the Potato after an attempted copulation between himself, a parsnip and a swede was interrupted by a lightning strike. The smell of what we'd now refer to as "chips cooking" drew people from far and wide. Once Maris had regained consciousness and put some clothes on, both himself and his smoldering tuber became global superstars (see below).

The real truth about the truth about Potato

I never need to graze the interweb for very long before coming across a site denouncing the Potato and/or one of its marvelous starchy counterparts. Although I am very angry about this, I'm far too generously proportioned to smash anything up, so I'm going to blog about it instead. The message I'm sending to all those misinformed Potato haters couldn't be clearer - I've got a basement full of truth with your name on it, and, take it from me, the truth smells a lot like Potatoes. Furthermore, my shed is full of fact, nay, FACT, the aroma of which is reminiscent of chip butties. There is nothing in my loft, so you'd best not go up there nosing around.

The day the earth stood still and ate Potato

For those of you who have been wearing ear defenders whilst living in a cave on the Isle of Lewis, today is National Potato Day, or La Fête La pomme de terre Nationale, if you've drawn the short straw and been born French. Anyone worth their salt is spending the day contemplating, preparing, cooking, gently cradling, and maybe even eating Potato - in all its heavenly forms. Traditionally, it is on this day that those who have shown bad feeling toward the Potato are driven out of towns and villages and out into the countryside, where they are rounded up and birched until they recant their folly. Believe it or not, this is a tradition which continued unabated right up until my conviction for actual bodily harm in 1998.

I've got a lot of time for Potato

This is a Potato clock (please see Fig.1C), so don't make me have to tell you again. To all those who ever doubted the low-fat/high-fibre greatness of the Potato, let this be final proof that you are oh-so-very wrong. God provided us with this gorgeous tuber in order to fulfil all our caloric, timekeeping and armed robbery needs, yet you threw it back at him like an angry and spiteful spoilt child who got Spirograph for Christmas for 15 years on the f***ing trot, for f***'s sake!

Shoot first, ask questions about Potato later.

I'd very much like to draw your attention to the above picture of my very first spud gun(Fig.1B), bought for me by my father in 1978. This contraption really opened my eyes to the immense versatility of the Potato; the king of vegetables, in my humble opinion. In 1992, I launched an unsuccessful attempt to rob a sub post office in Preston with this very spud gun. In the years since, Potato has never once let me down; a truly remarkable track record, I'm sure you'll agree, constable.

Each to his own Potato

First of all, let me say that I have nothing against low-carbers; in fact, I have enormous respect for what they do. But for f***'s sake don't they go on and on, the f***ing c***s do my f***ing head in. It really gets my f***ing goat. Oh, those b*****ds have got me f***ing fuming this time. They can be f***ing with other people's s***, but they can't be f***ing with mine! Why won't they just f*** off and die in a f***ing ditch full of s***, the f***ing c***s. But each to his own. Live and let live I say.

Getting under the skin of a baked Potato

For the uninitiated amongst you, this is a baked Potato (please see Fig.1A). Whenever you see me refer to 'baked Potato' on my Potato power blog, this is the kind of thing I'll be talking about. You may well spot them around with cheese or beans on top, or sometimes BOTH if you're lucky. Apart from a knob of butter, this one is as naked as the day it was born - very much like myself as I type this.

Oh, for f***'s sake! It's only a Potato!

Why am I relentlessly mocked for my eating of the Potato in its various guises?
Sometimes it feels as though it's just mash and me versus the world and its bitter and twisted mis-interpretation of the glycemic index. I shouldn't have to feel cheap, dirty and used after a plate of chips. I shouldn't be compelled to shower after kettle crisps.

An ode to God's good baked Potato

The title says it all really. Hope this gets you as hot and horny as it did me. Enjoy.

Baked Potato changed my life
Baked Potato showed me the way
If you want to know what is wrong from right
You must listen to what Potato say

Do be good, don’t be bad
Thank you baked Potato
Do be happy, don’t be sad
Thank you baked Potato

And if you want to have a better day
you must listen to what the baked Potato say

Do be early, don’t be late
Thank you baked Potato
Always eat what’s on your plate
Thank you baked Potato

And if you want to have a better day
you must listen to what the baked Potato say

B A K E D P O T A T O!