As we casually slide into the middle of October, I expect it’s fair to say that everyone is too busy off enjoying ‘Creamtober’ to read this post. I will, however, carry on as it will give them something to read once all the cream-based fun has ceased in the dark and dingy recesses of November.
Whadda ya mean you’ve never heard of ‘Creamtober’? Keep your voice down, you don’t want to alert others to the fact that you are not right on the fashions. Let me run you through the basics.
‘Creamtober’ was started back in 1981 by Baron Von Creamschteiner. He decided that there were not enough occasions where the joy of cream was celebrated so he invented an entire month of it. Everything in and around ‘Creamtober’ was about his unhealthy obsession with the silkiest of dairy products. It had to be clotted, sour, whipped, poured or squirty. There were so many options that people went absolutely crazy for it. The entire milk industry went very quiet for the next few weeks as cream sold out in practically every shop in the surrounding area. At first the word was out around his home land of Bavaria before spreading into the outer reaches of Europe, Australia and eventually the USA. Now each year three billion people spread the word and life the live of the Creamtobians.
How does one join in? That’s easy; grab some cream and you’re halfway there. Grab three hundred more tubs of cream and fill your fridge to the brim. Each and every time you open the fridge pour as much cream down your trash hole as you can. Do it until you feel violently sick and then leave it for an hour before repeating the same process. You need to cram as much cream into your body as you can each day for thirty one days. You will know the others who are taking part because you will see them in the street, clothes struggling to fit around their obese bodies, unusual lines underneath their eyes and little lines of white liquid dribbling from the corners of their mouths.
At the end of Creamtober you add up how much you have managed to consume over the month and send the results to the grand high emperor of Creamtober (see the address on his website, he lives in Blackburn, Lancashire) who will publish his results. If you have managed to top the charts with your cream-based exploits then you win a year’s supply of cream.
It also means that you can then move onto the next festive month: ‘Novemb-cheese’! Whadda ya mean you’ve never heard of ‘Novemb-cheese’? Okay, sit down and let me give you the rundown on the basics…
19 comments on “Creamtober”
The thing about all of this is that I don’t like cream. It’s a flavourless waste of time.
Don’t be so ridiculous. Without Cream where would we be? Creamless, I tell you.
I could happily live in a state of creamlessness. All cream should be used to make ice cream. Cream not involved in the production of ice cream should be poured down the drain.
No, that’s wrong. You’re wrong so hop into the bin, wrong ‘un!
Think of the contributions cream has given to the world and not just in the baked goods section. What would Eric Clapton have done without Cream? How would Prince have had a top 15 song in 1991 without Cream?
I reckon I could happily live in a world without Eric Clapton and most of Prince’s oeuvre. If that’s the price for a creamless world, I am willing to pay it.
Are you saying that you’re a cream racist?
No, because cream is not a race. It’s a dairy product.
You need to check your privilege.
That’s what a cream racist would say. I’ve known you all these years and I never would have tagged you as a cracist.
It won’t matter in about 43 minutes when Creamtober finally comes to a long-overdue end.
You’ve been looking forward to this day all month, haven’t you?
Yes. And now I’ve finally managed to wash all the cream out of my hair I’m feeling much better.
Did Steve Steveingtons douse you in cream again? Did he throw you off the balcony when he was doing it?
No. No he didn’t. We don’t hold with any of these awful Creamtober shenanigans in Royksopp.
I can believe that!
Climb up a drainpipe and tickle the mouse, Chris, if you don’t open your mind to these wild possibilities you’ll never win the game of life.
(I don’t know what I’m saying anymore).
(Neither do I. I just know that I’m not tickling anyone’s mouse. A man’s mouse is his own private kingdom.)
(Let’s blame this on 2007 Ian and hurry away from it as quick as we can).
(I’ll agree to that if you’ll agree there won’t be another Creamtober.)
(We’re making nostalgia, or at least we were until your stonking great objections to it all, sigh…)