No Outside Food

'No outside food!' - Looks like this Paramount might contest that claim.

It has been six months since my last confession. The Cheeky Chaps have remained regular visitors to the Paramount with freuqent purchase of Paramount product to be eaten as our midday meal. Usually, said purchases were made from Chef Wanka or (in the case of our nutty friend), Cockaido. Jelly would also partake on occasion of the odd dimmy from Chines. Mayonnaise is a less than usual Paramount purchaser, she tends to come on a full stomach. Often, she's also already eaten. In between these purhcases, the Cheeky Chaps have had occasion to bring outside food into the food court, that is, food not purchased from one of the outlets located within the Paramount Food Court. This takes the form of either:

i) Food made at home and brought in i.e. sandwich, leftovers [e.g. chip butties, tuna casserole, toad-in-the-hole, spotted dick, Grammy's scrapple, Cullen skink, braised faggots, boiled cock])
ii) Food purchased from a food provider located outside the Paramount Food Court and not, in any way, associated with the Paramount (a necessary distinction in the case of the Paramount Food Truck pictured above, no doubt).

Peanut and Butter doubted the existence of any sign informing patrons of this rule, but Jelly found a number of examples:

Butter has been absent for quite some time, grafting in the Eastern Suburbs, but has returned to the flock. I'm not sure if he's ever spent a brass razoo in the Paramount Food Court.

Today's meal, with Peanut, Butter and Jelly (hold the Mayo), was the second occasion where a particularly officious dishwasher ordered the ejection of the Cheeky Chaps from the Food Court with the words: 'No outside food!' The Cheeky Chaps ignored the humble dishwasher and took their business (food eating business (small 'b'), not money-spending business (big 'B')) and went over to the more accepting seating around the meek staff of Cockaido and Chine Express.

Worldwide, the no outside food phenomenon seems to be spreading rapidly. The reputable 'Carry On McGee carried this story, outraged by the 'no outside food inside' rules attacking the freedom of Australians. Nanny state!

Here are just some of the disturbing signs demonstrating the spread of 'no outside food' mania:

The legal case for 'no outside food inside' seems less than straightforward, even for cafes and restaurants where the food supplier owns or rents the premises. In the case of a food court, even one as high falutin' as The Paramount Food Court, it is even less clear. As this lengthy discussion attests, the Cheeky Chaps are not the first to query the legal basis for this ruling. The jury remains out, but the Cheeky Chaps, for one (or, rather, four), will not be evicted from our home by some dishpig. The Cheeeky Comrades will stand tall! And Triumph at all costs!

Paramount Panoramas

Substitution of Butter- Jamaica Me Crazy!

Could it be true, Butter leaving the Paramount fold to seek greener pastures?

To be substituted!

Can this substitute walk like a slut?

Can this substitute exude energy and charisma fueled only by a single apple or rice paper roll?

Can this substitute ever replace the foul mouthed, vile minded Butter?

Will the substitute be an intellectual romantic who loves to sing stories about living and loving in a tropical paradise...oh, that's not Butter, thats Bertie!

Jamaica Me Crazy

Jamaica me coconuts, crazy times.

I Peanut

It is my last official meal at La Paramount.  The chaps are in good spirits.  Jelly and Butter cheer me on through my traditional chicken and vegetable Asian pot of fun.  We talk about all the great times we have had in this great eating space.  Jelly notes that with the ending of my current position in Government, the door has truly opened for a go at the golden calf of job contentment: a full-time job at the Paramount.  Of course, I could start off small, cleaning out the toilets and scrubbing the jizz off the wash basins and poo from the floor.   Perhaps, then graduating to cleaning up tables and taking the dirty plates back to Chef Lanka, with a few, surly biffs across the head from the big chef for not moving fast enough.  But slowly I Peanut would ascend the dirty, greasy, sticky pole of the big P.  Getting my own apartment looking over the plastic dome of the food court.  Getting special access after hours to the senior employees’ bathroom; unlimited, 24 hour access to the Paramount gym, casino and strip club on the rooftop level.  Then eventually, I would be presented with the massive set of keys to attach to my stained, black slacks along with my own storage locker for personal items and things I had stolen from guests, as I become the official Paramount caretaker, the most revered (and indeed feared) position in the Paramount organisational chart.  When I become no 1, it will be like Scarface burying his head into as many steaming plates of Chef Lanka stewed goat curry as he desires.  Who will stop me then?  And I Peanut will plot my revenge on all those who have wronged me.  

Three gents having a gay time

It was a bright, cold day in May, and the clocks were striking thirteen. The Paramount was looking resplendent in the golden haze of the shimmering Autumn sun. Peanut, Jelly and Butter gathered, sadly without Mayonnaise, to chew the collective fat.

The three effete aesthetes made merry in the garrulous food court. All were in a particularly gay mood.

Chef Wanka was keeping the masses well fed with his hot, spicy meat and protein-based sauce. Peanut had ordered his meal from somewhere else but his meat was smoking, so much so that he had to slow down and use some lubricant. As this was one of his better days, Butter only repeated the 'lubricant' joke four times.

Jelly regaled his friends with stories about his move to a new abode, replete with impaired folk next door who are apparently giving his missus a good seeing to. Peanut lamented sadly that he wasn't allowed to drive the bus, although all agreed that this predicament was better than 'furry fat fanny'.

There was further fascination in Butter's oversized Le Coq Sportif hooded jumper. Clearly, Peanut and Jelly were quite jealous of Butter's big red Coq. Discussion turned to Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Junior, and then the piece de resistance, Freddie Mercury who clearly remains the gents' idol for his unorthodoxy.

As they trudged wearily back to their jobs, all agreed that he loved Big Brother.

Untitled (Peanut's Forkette Woe)

Another delightful day presented itself to meet the gang at the Paramount (or The Mount as many of us like to call it). I was first there, sliding my big arse down the golden banister of the grand stairway entrance to a rapturous round of applause from the bunch of rubes stuffing their faces with dim sims and fried chicken at the bain marie closest to the lifts up to the Babuloo Nightclub. I waited and eventually Jelly wandered in aimlessly. He wandered around for a bit and I had to wave my withered hand a few times in the air to get his attention. He sat down and we greeted each other cordially as I noshed into my usual chicken and vegetables from the Chine Express (Ed - don't you mean The Cockaido?). I was having trouble really penetrating the chicken matter with my plastic forkette. But I persisted as us sad chumps will always do with our pathetic, unsatisfactory eating implements. Jelly and I thought we were going to be it for the gang for this session. I mentioned to Jelly that I had lunch solo with Butter the other Friday and that perhaps he and Butter were the same person. Of course, Jelly had to hurtfully mention that sometimes I called him Butter anyway. This was a low blow against my legitimate and debilitating brain injury that I carry the burden of in silence. But then a very glamorous Mayo came swanking in, tossing her golden locks in the air and the precious stones around her neck. She sat down and told us all about her holiday to the exclusive resort town of Moama just across the big river. We bowed our heads in jealousy as Jelly could only talk about his recent vacances to his home town of Perth. But it was worse for me who had no trips to put forward at all, except a recent trip I had to my local milk bar where the Libyan owner sits around with his friends from the Levant smoking cigarettes next to the chocolate bars and chips. At last Butter turned up and everyone commented how slim and fit he was looking, like he could just slide into a holster and sit there all day waiting for his moment to blow his wad. Butter had some kind of Chinese roll thing which he said looked just like his friend’s penis as he slid and popped it seductively into his hungry mouth hole. Jelly told Butter yet again about his trip to Perth and Butter responded that he had once visited a rough part of this city to buy some items at a supermarket where a group of neer-do-wells lounging around the door had told him he “walked like a slut”. I actually initially thought he had said “walked like a slug” which didn’t make any sense as slugs don’t actually have feet just slithery, slidey tentacle-like things. Finally, it was time for us to adjourn to the next meeting of the gang of The Mount, and Butter showed us his slutty walk all the way up the grand stairs on his way out. We all had to admit, it was really something, almost as good as Pacey from Dawson’s Creek. Bravo Butter!

Brat Pack Bain Mammaries

On the twenty sixth day of March in the year twenty fifteen, two of the chaps met with chapette at the Paramount for the usual gastronomic pleasure, conversational repartee and cheeky hi-jinx. Jelly passed Mayonnaise while entering the complex, having just traversed the automatic doors on the complex's south entrance, Jelly entering the building, Mayonnaise leaving. Jelly paused and looked at Mayonnaise, puzzled.

"Wrong way?"

"No", Mayonnaise replied, "I'm going to buy my lunch from a competing, non-Paramount food outlet across the street."

To which Jelly enquired, "No Chine Express?"

No further comment was made. Mayonnaise strode out, Jelly strode on, and descended to the bowels of the Paramount via the southern escalator.

At the food court, Jelly found Peanut seated in front of Chef Wanka's, the old favourite, smug and cosy, shit- (or rather cheap bain marie produce-) -eating grin on his chops. "The old favourite spot", said Jelly. "Yes, the old favourite spot", said Peanut. Jelly mentioned running into Mayonnaise upstairs, and her snooty refusal to partake of Paramount wares. Jelly clarified that Johnny Turncoat Mayonnaise was off to buy food from the glass ceilinged, open air, contemporary, atrium food court, Paramount's nemesis. Harpee!

Perhaps to explain Mayonaiss's defection (nay, defecatation?) Jelly noticed an absence of rice at Wanka's. "Running low on rice today, isn't he," Jelly muttered. "Yes, he's been churning out the Sri Lankan delicacies today," Peanut muttered. "The Paramounters can't get enough of Wanka today. It's like an adolescent convention!" And they laughed and laughed, until tiny spots of normal yellow wee wee pipped upon their Depend adult undergarmants.

Eventually, Mayonnaise came in with a paper cup, inside of which were rice noodles, red onion chunks (Jelly thought they looked a bit conspicuous) and liquid, which Mayonnaise revealed to be soup. "Soup?" enquired Jelly". "Yes," answered Mayonnaise.
Earlier, while waiting for Mayonnaise, Butter and Jelly had looked upon the grand stairway, a topic usually reserved for their exit from Paramount festivities, and discussed how such a resplendent passage could be utilised by a member of the female gender, such as Mayonnaise, to recreate scenes from 1980s Brat Pack-esque adolescent comedies, where Butter and Jelly could stand at the foot of said stairway, besuited and anxious, in Tony Danza (father) / Anthony Michael Hall (nervous-horny-prom-date) guise, while Mayonnaise slowly, sensually, in saucy puffy ball gown, descends the stairs in soft focus slow motion, in Molly Ringwald (nerdy-ignored-high-school-girl-rendered-beautiful-by-removal-of-spectacles-amidst-air-of-horny-adolescent-prom-date-get-laid-expectancy) guise.

Alas, such romantic hopes were quashed, Mayonnaise slinking in grumpily via the southern escalator, sloshing a cup of cheap Vietnamese chain store soup.