UP here on the Screws our sports news editor Dykesy has gone on leave for a month. The young whippersnapper has just had a baby daughter, Connie, and I am wondering whether this fertility thing is catching because he actually sits next to me.
While he is up to his armpits in nappies, however, he is being sorely missed back in Fortress Wapping, and not necessarily for his immense journalistic skills.
Popping into the local boozer, the Wilted Rose, for a quick beer before getting the Shoeburyness train back to the Fat Kid's den, I happened to overhear a conversation between two of the bar staff. It had been a busy day, apparently, and they had taken £140. Of course, it was Thursday and we just happen to enjoy a few bevvies there at lunchtime on that day.
The problem was that the beer had run out and they were at a loss what to do. "I tried to change the barrel but I couldn't," said a rather distraught serving wench.
"Oh, sh**, I don't know how to do it either," said her colleague.
Then the barmaid had a brainwave. "Don't worry, I'll get Dykesy to do it. He'll sort it out when he comes in," she said.
Unfortunately I had to spoil her plan. "Sorry, I work with Dykesy and he is off for a month," I said.
"Oh no!" she replied. "We always get him to go down to the cellar and sort it out when it needs changing. I think his folks used to run a pub or something."
Got the message, Dykesy? Come back soon!
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Oats so difficult
When I was about to tie the knot no one warned me about how much screwing was involved. No, sssh, quiet at the back, what I mean is however much you insist during courtship that DIY stores are completely out of bounds eventually you find that, rather than buying ready-made furniture, you are in Ikea stocking up on some preposterously awkward flatpacks.
Obviously not only does marriage come with certain financial obligations you didn't really factor into the equation when you were down on bended knee declaring undying love, but it also seems to administer an instant brain labotomy, wiping away completely all the good, sensible principles you held dear as a single person.
I fell into this trap because Mrs R, tired of sending me subliminal messages about improving our abode which obviously weren't getting through, has taken to leaving little TO DO lists around the house, hoping that I might get the hint. You find them in strategic places, like next to your tobacco on the mantlepiece, and can't avoid having a nose to see what they say. Among the things listed on this one was: Get a dining room table.
Well, being a bit financially challenged at the moment and with Mrs R having revealed the earth-shattering news that she is up the duff, my guilt gene kicked in with remarkable force and somehow I found myself at the aforementioned warehouse from hell buying a dining table and chairs.
Putting them together involved digging out the only two small screwdrivers I could find and concentrating manically on an instruction leaftlet full of diagrams which make the whole thing look so easy. Yeh, well.
The first problem you find is that, although it seems you have everything in front of you, it pretty soon dawns on you that there is one vital bolt missing from the package. Never mind, just carry on regardless rather than ring Ikea and have to make the whole miserable trip again just to pick up the missing item.
What it ends up like is a lesson in contortionism as you vainly try to get all the parts together at the same time. Fit one bit, and another falls off... screw in one part and you find that the part is actually upside down even though it looks exactly the same whichever way you hold it.
And then, when you think you have finally cracked it, you realise you don't have the Phillips screwdriver required, just an itty bitty normal implement on which you will have to exert the kind of pressure that a WWF wrestler might attempt as he tries to get his foe to submit.
Thankfully the end result is a reasonable looking table and four decent chairs, total cost £90 and a stunning array of blisters.
But what about the satisfaction of actually finishing the job? Pah, I would rather pull out my own teeth with a pair of pliers than go through that experience again.
On Sunday we met up with old colleagues Claire and Neil, with daughter Amelia, and Natalie and her boyfriend, also called Neil, or Neil the power as I will now refer to him to avoid confusion. The power? Well, I understand he works in a power station so it will have to do.
The latter two had travelled down from Carlisle so that The Power could go through the pain and suffering of watching his beloved football team play my shambolic lot at the Memorial Ground. For a while it looked like they would inflict the sixth defeat in a row on the Gas, leading twice only to go down to a goal three minutes into injury time. I actually felt a bit sorry for the geezer after all the travelling he had done to encounter such despair.
No matter we had a very enjoyable lunch in the White Lion on Frenchay Common and later Claire, Neil and Amelia had a tour of the cottage before heading back to Cardiff.
Poor Mrs R hasn't been feeling too good since the big news. As such I have been trying to help her out the best I can. This morning I attempted to make her porridge. This, like the table and chairs, hinted that it would be a breeze. The clue was on the packet, after all. Oats so Simple.
It involved opening a sachet, putting the oats in a bowl, filling the sachet with milk and then heating in the microwave for two minutes. What could be easier?
Umm, quite a bit. What it didn't say was the flimsy sachet wasn't really built to hold milk and that the slightest movement ended up with the majority of its contents on the floor. Having mopped that up I tried again, put the porridge in the microwave and then served it up to my ravenous wife.
One look at her face told me it wasn't quite the way she liked it. I think my porridge making duties will be going exactly the same way as my DIY career.
Obviously not only does marriage come with certain financial obligations you didn't really factor into the equation when you were down on bended knee declaring undying love, but it also seems to administer an instant brain labotomy, wiping away completely all the good, sensible principles you held dear as a single person.
I fell into this trap because Mrs R, tired of sending me subliminal messages about improving our abode which obviously weren't getting through, has taken to leaving little TO DO lists around the house, hoping that I might get the hint. You find them in strategic places, like next to your tobacco on the mantlepiece, and can't avoid having a nose to see what they say. Among the things listed on this one was: Get a dining room table.
Well, being a bit financially challenged at the moment and with Mrs R having revealed the earth-shattering news that she is up the duff, my guilt gene kicked in with remarkable force and somehow I found myself at the aforementioned warehouse from hell buying a dining table and chairs.
Putting them together involved digging out the only two small screwdrivers I could find and concentrating manically on an instruction leaftlet full of diagrams which make the whole thing look so easy. Yeh, well.
The first problem you find is that, although it seems you have everything in front of you, it pretty soon dawns on you that there is one vital bolt missing from the package. Never mind, just carry on regardless rather than ring Ikea and have to make the whole miserable trip again just to pick up the missing item.
What it ends up like is a lesson in contortionism as you vainly try to get all the parts together at the same time. Fit one bit, and another falls off... screw in one part and you find that the part is actually upside down even though it looks exactly the same whichever way you hold it.
And then, when you think you have finally cracked it, you realise you don't have the Phillips screwdriver required, just an itty bitty normal implement on which you will have to exert the kind of pressure that a WWF wrestler might attempt as he tries to get his foe to submit.
Thankfully the end result is a reasonable looking table and four decent chairs, total cost £90 and a stunning array of blisters.
But what about the satisfaction of actually finishing the job? Pah, I would rather pull out my own teeth with a pair of pliers than go through that experience again.
On Sunday we met up with old colleagues Claire and Neil, with daughter Amelia, and Natalie and her boyfriend, also called Neil, or Neil the power as I will now refer to him to avoid confusion. The power? Well, I understand he works in a power station so it will have to do.
The latter two had travelled down from Carlisle so that The Power could go through the pain and suffering of watching his beloved football team play my shambolic lot at the Memorial Ground. For a while it looked like they would inflict the sixth defeat in a row on the Gas, leading twice only to go down to a goal three minutes into injury time. I actually felt a bit sorry for the geezer after all the travelling he had done to encounter such despair.
No matter we had a very enjoyable lunch in the White Lion on Frenchay Common and later Claire, Neil and Amelia had a tour of the cottage before heading back to Cardiff.
Poor Mrs R hasn't been feeling too good since the big news. As such I have been trying to help her out the best I can. This morning I attempted to make her porridge. This, like the table and chairs, hinted that it would be a breeze. The clue was on the packet, after all. Oats so Simple.
It involved opening a sachet, putting the oats in a bowl, filling the sachet with milk and then heating in the microwave for two minutes. What could be easier?
Umm, quite a bit. What it didn't say was the flimsy sachet wasn't really built to hold milk and that the slightest movement ended up with the majority of its contents on the floor. Having mopped that up I tried again, put the porridge in the microwave and then served it up to my ravenous wife.
One look at her face told me it wasn't quite the way she liked it. I think my porridge making duties will be going exactly the same way as my DIY career.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Baby food
I went to see the doc this week. I've had a hacking cough and wasn't sure what caused it. Her first question was: "How long have you been smoking?"
Normal doctor question, I thought. No biggy. Then I roughly worked it out. "30 years," I said. Then, in my head, I worked it out properly. 36 years! Oh my god, I thought, no wonder I sound like a traction engine with rusty gears.
And, of course, there is the booze, too. I guess that only started moments after the cigarettes. I am seriously a wrecked human being.
Apart from the body, I was starting to believe my brilliant gourmet qualities were deserting me, too. The other day I did a quite enjoyable meal for myself and Mrs R and she only managed to eat half of it. "I've had quite a lot actually, I don't eat that much," she said.
"No you haven't," I argued. "You would normally eat most of that. You have barely touched it."
"I'm not that hungry really," she argued.
Hmm, I think I had better go on a cookery revision course.
The fat kid is 27. She keeps pestering me for things every five seconds. This week it was "Can I have my nails done? I am an only child and they only cost £25."
"Ask your boyfriend to pay, fat kid," I told her. "Why should your dad pay for all these things?"
"Because you're my dad," she said. Doesn't sound a very good reason to me, but obviously she thought so.
Mrs R came downstairs, shaking a small stick at me. "What do you make of this?" she said.
I looked at it. Hmm. Then I looked at the chart she was holding. Bigger hmmmm.
Then I worked it out. And maybe you have worked it out, too.
Mrs R and I are having a baby.
Bloody hell!
Before we got married we discussed children and I told her there was virtually no chance of me fathering another - I had hardly treated my body as a temple. I think Mrs R may have been quite keen though, because no sooner had the nuptials been completed than she had come off the pill.
I assured her, however, that my worn out and slightly anebriated sperm a. wouldn't have the energy to find their way to the fallopian tube and b. once there wouldn't be steady and sober enough to actual find the way in... and would probably fall asleep in the vicinity.
It appears I was wrong.
So at the age of 49, when most of us are dreaming about retirement, maybe emigrating abroad, enjoying the quiet life and settling in with slippers and pipe, I am going to be a daddy again.
It means the fat kid won't be able to call herself "an only child" as well, particularly as she has four sisters from her mother's side of the family.
To be honest the whole thing is complete madness.
And I can't wait.
ps As my own father is 85 and can't turn on a computer or read a blog I am biding my time to tell him. Anyone who reads this - please don't jump the gun, I don't want him collapsing from the shock!
Normal doctor question, I thought. No biggy. Then I roughly worked it out. "30 years," I said. Then, in my head, I worked it out properly. 36 years! Oh my god, I thought, no wonder I sound like a traction engine with rusty gears.
And, of course, there is the booze, too. I guess that only started moments after the cigarettes. I am seriously a wrecked human being.
Apart from the body, I was starting to believe my brilliant gourmet qualities were deserting me, too. The other day I did a quite enjoyable meal for myself and Mrs R and she only managed to eat half of it. "I've had quite a lot actually, I don't eat that much," she said.
"No you haven't," I argued. "You would normally eat most of that. You have barely touched it."
"I'm not that hungry really," she argued.
Hmm, I think I had better go on a cookery revision course.
The fat kid is 27. She keeps pestering me for things every five seconds. This week it was "Can I have my nails done? I am an only child and they only cost £25."
"Ask your boyfriend to pay, fat kid," I told her. "Why should your dad pay for all these things?"
"Because you're my dad," she said. Doesn't sound a very good reason to me, but obviously she thought so.
Mrs R came downstairs, shaking a small stick at me. "What do you make of this?" she said.
I looked at it. Hmm. Then I looked at the chart she was holding. Bigger hmmmm.
Then I worked it out. And maybe you have worked it out, too.
Mrs R and I are having a baby.
Bloody hell!
Before we got married we discussed children and I told her there was virtually no chance of me fathering another - I had hardly treated my body as a temple. I think Mrs R may have been quite keen though, because no sooner had the nuptials been completed than she had come off the pill.
I assured her, however, that my worn out and slightly anebriated sperm a. wouldn't have the energy to find their way to the fallopian tube and b. once there wouldn't be steady and sober enough to actual find the way in... and would probably fall asleep in the vicinity.
It appears I was wrong.
So at the age of 49, when most of us are dreaming about retirement, maybe emigrating abroad, enjoying the quiet life and settling in with slippers and pipe, I am going to be a daddy again.
It means the fat kid won't be able to call herself "an only child" as well, particularly as she has four sisters from her mother's side of the family.
To be honest the whole thing is complete madness.
And I can't wait.
ps As my own father is 85 and can't turn on a computer or read a blog I am biding my time to tell him. Anyone who reads this - please don't jump the gun, I don't want him collapsing from the shock!
Friday, November 06, 2009
Heineken poisoning
HAVING adapted to the life of the upstanding, hard-working, married citizen I found out to my cost how the whole healthy living regime can have a serious effect on you when you slip back to the old ways.
In short, I feel lucky to be alive today.
It all goes back to an official 'business' lunch with Coley on Tuesday. I took the train over to Cardiff feeling quite up to the task and looking forward to the day out. What happened after that is anyones guess and I only have a couple of eye witness accounts to piece it together.
Everything changed from the moment Coley arrived on the scene while I was finishing off a pint of Fosters in Copa before eating.
"I'll have a Heineken," said Coley to the barman.
"And I'll have a Fost... oh sod it, I'll try a Heineken, too," I said. A fatal decision.
From that moment my memory goes something like this...
a. Ate a steak with chips and pepper sauce.
b. Had another Heineken.
c. Had a brief ramble about the ills of Welsh journalism.
d. Had another Heineken.
e. Was joined in pub by the likes of the Fugitive, Kennedy, Danny Boy (the poipes) and Tea Cadden.
f. Er, that's it...
What I was told happened via text from the Fugitive...
a. I got to my feet and couldn't walk.
b. I was refused drinks.
c. I barged out of the pub knocking a table over.
d. I vanished.
What I vaguely recollect...
a. Falling over in a puddle in the street among the early Xmas shoppers.
b. Meeting a beggar and handing over all my cash.
c. Waking up on a train not knowing where the hell I was and fearing I might be three quarters of the way to Paddington while Mrs R waited in vain at Parkway Station to pick me up.
d. Surfacing next morning with the worst hangover known to man.
Then there is the inponderables which I may never solve like...
a. How I managed to get through the ticket barrier.
b. How I got onto the right platform.
c. How I got onto the right train and back off again at the right stop.
What it proves...
Mrs R really is a saint for putting up with a shambling, drunken wreck of a hubby.
I shall never drink Heineken again...
In short, I feel lucky to be alive today.
It all goes back to an official 'business' lunch with Coley on Tuesday. I took the train over to Cardiff feeling quite up to the task and looking forward to the day out. What happened after that is anyones guess and I only have a couple of eye witness accounts to piece it together.
Everything changed from the moment Coley arrived on the scene while I was finishing off a pint of Fosters in Copa before eating.
"I'll have a Heineken," said Coley to the barman.
"And I'll have a Fost... oh sod it, I'll try a Heineken, too," I said. A fatal decision.
From that moment my memory goes something like this...
a. Ate a steak with chips and pepper sauce.
b. Had another Heineken.
c. Had a brief ramble about the ills of Welsh journalism.
d. Had another Heineken.
e. Was joined in pub by the likes of the Fugitive, Kennedy, Danny Boy (the poipes) and Tea Cadden.
f. Er, that's it...
What I was told happened via text from the Fugitive...
a. I got to my feet and couldn't walk.
b. I was refused drinks.
c. I barged out of the pub knocking a table over.
d. I vanished.
What I vaguely recollect...
a. Falling over in a puddle in the street among the early Xmas shoppers.
b. Meeting a beggar and handing over all my cash.
c. Waking up on a train not knowing where the hell I was and fearing I might be three quarters of the way to Paddington while Mrs R waited in vain at Parkway Station to pick me up.
d. Surfacing next morning with the worst hangover known to man.
Then there is the inponderables which I may never solve like...
a. How I managed to get through the ticket barrier.
b. How I got onto the right platform.
c. How I got onto the right train and back off again at the right stop.
What it proves...
Mrs R really is a saint for putting up with a shambling, drunken wreck of a hubby.
I shall never drink Heineken again...
Monday, November 02, 2009
Fat Club
SINCE tying the knot with the lovely Mrs R I have found myself becoming a somewhat mellow being. These days I am prepared to take things in my stride and the number of Rippers rants has reduced dramatically. Of course, that may also be because I have escaped the misery that is Meeja Wales.
Alas, it was obviously too good to be true and I have found something today that has made my blood boil.
Having sung its praises last week I must admit I am not best pleased with my new exclusive health club. When I signed away my vast fortune for membership it was following gym salesman Tom's confident assurance that the swimming pool was barely used during week days.
And though it was pretty expensive my reluctance to part with my hard earned was counterbalanced by the fact I would rarely encounter the general public as I resumed my fitness drive.
Last week I was a little bit disappointed to find a few whippersnappers hogging the lanes but then I remembered it was half term and was prepared to let it pass.
After all, high-flying executives have kids too and must find things for them to do while on their school hols.
However, imagine my consternation when I slipped on my trunks and entered the pool area today to find it inundated with old wrinklies splashing about like salmon in a Pitlochrie Fish farm.
They were being led from the side by a super-keen fitness freak with one of those microphones strapped to her face like one of those sci-fi half-man, half-robot creatures you tend to see in films like The Terminator.
In short, the majority of the pool had been given over to a session of aqua-aerobics.
Now, fair enough if this was some council-owned £3 a session leisure centre in Little Gumption, but in my personal private money-grabbing health spa? Certainly not.
My god, why not just cut out the middle man and fill the pool with embalming fluid? And surely they could get just as much fun splashing about in their geriatric baths at home?
Some of them were even wearing socks to help their circulation, poor dears (perhaps the Western Snail should run classes to help with their poor circulation - boom boom).
So while us serious swimmers were left beating about in two thin lanes resembling a shark feeding frenzy, the wrinklies were taking up far too much of the pool for the limited use they were getting out of it. Aargh, I feel a complaint coming on and a refund of the Membership Fee.
All is not well in the Fat Kid household. Waking up at her boyfriend's the other day she discovered a fishnet stocking lying about among his fishing gear. There was a full scale inquiry followed by the mother of all rows. Said boyfriend denies any knowledge of where the stocking came from. This one could run and run.
Last night I rustled up a quick Coq au Vin from the recipe book that Mrs R's dad Andrew got me for Christmas.
Ingredients:
Four chicken thigh joints
2 cloves of garlic, crushed
a large knob of butter and some cooking oil
three rashers of bacon, chopped up
half a dozen mushrooms, sliced
A medium sized onion (or 12 small onions, as the recipe dictates)
Half a glass of red wine
An ounce of flour
Salt and pepper
1/4 pint of stock (I used vegetable stock, then added one of those new stockpots that Marco Pierre White advertises)
A handful of parsley
TO DO:
rub the garlic and about half a tea spoon of salt over the chicken pieces.
Melt the butter and oil in a frying pan.
Fry the chicken until it is golden brown on both sides (particularly the skin) then put into a casserole dish.
stir the flour into the frying pan, then add the wine and stir it in.
When it boils and thickens add this to the casserole.
Fry the bacon in the remainder of the juices in the frying pan until it starts to cook
Add this to the casserole together with the stock, mushrooms, onions and salt and pepper.
Put a lid on casserole and put into the oven on gas mark 4 (180 degrees) for just over an hour.
Add the parsley near the end.
Serve with a generous portion of creamy mashed potato.
Alas, it was obviously too good to be true and I have found something today that has made my blood boil.
Having sung its praises last week I must admit I am not best pleased with my new exclusive health club. When I signed away my vast fortune for membership it was following gym salesman Tom's confident assurance that the swimming pool was barely used during week days.
And though it was pretty expensive my reluctance to part with my hard earned was counterbalanced by the fact I would rarely encounter the general public as I resumed my fitness drive.
Last week I was a little bit disappointed to find a few whippersnappers hogging the lanes but then I remembered it was half term and was prepared to let it pass.
After all, high-flying executives have kids too and must find things for them to do while on their school hols.
However, imagine my consternation when I slipped on my trunks and entered the pool area today to find it inundated with old wrinklies splashing about like salmon in a Pitlochrie Fish farm.
They were being led from the side by a super-keen fitness freak with one of those microphones strapped to her face like one of those sci-fi half-man, half-robot creatures you tend to see in films like The Terminator.
In short, the majority of the pool had been given over to a session of aqua-aerobics.
Now, fair enough if this was some council-owned £3 a session leisure centre in Little Gumption, but in my personal private money-grabbing health spa? Certainly not.
My god, why not just cut out the middle man and fill the pool with embalming fluid? And surely they could get just as much fun splashing about in their geriatric baths at home?
Some of them were even wearing socks to help their circulation, poor dears (perhaps the Western Snail should run classes to help with their poor circulation - boom boom).
So while us serious swimmers were left beating about in two thin lanes resembling a shark feeding frenzy, the wrinklies were taking up far too much of the pool for the limited use they were getting out of it. Aargh, I feel a complaint coming on and a refund of the Membership Fee.
All is not well in the Fat Kid household. Waking up at her boyfriend's the other day she discovered a fishnet stocking lying about among his fishing gear. There was a full scale inquiry followed by the mother of all rows. Said boyfriend denies any knowledge of where the stocking came from. This one could run and run.
Last night I rustled up a quick Coq au Vin from the recipe book that Mrs R's dad Andrew got me for Christmas.
Ingredients:
Four chicken thigh joints
2 cloves of garlic, crushed
a large knob of butter and some cooking oil
three rashers of bacon, chopped up
half a dozen mushrooms, sliced
A medium sized onion (or 12 small onions, as the recipe dictates)
Half a glass of red wine
An ounce of flour
Salt and pepper
1/4 pint of stock (I used vegetable stock, then added one of those new stockpots that Marco Pierre White advertises)
A handful of parsley
TO DO:
rub the garlic and about half a tea spoon of salt over the chicken pieces.
Melt the butter and oil in a frying pan.
Fry the chicken until it is golden brown on both sides (particularly the skin) then put into a casserole dish.
stir the flour into the frying pan, then add the wine and stir it in.
When it boils and thickens add this to the casserole.
Fry the bacon in the remainder of the juices in the frying pan until it starts to cook
Add this to the casserole together with the stock, mushrooms, onions and salt and pepper.
Put a lid on casserole and put into the oven on gas mark 4 (180 degrees) for just over an hour.
Add the parsley near the end.
Serve with a generous portion of creamy mashed potato.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Healthy living
Shock, horror I have joined a health club. I know, it is like saying Nick Griffin is working voluntarily for the Board of Racial Equality or that Shane McGowan has goneTee total, but there you have it.
You see, I was getting a little bit fed up of a life involving slobbing about, watching videos, travelling by car to London and back and not keeping up my routine of swimming twice a week, which I had managed to carry out in Cardiff.
And I didn't fancy joining one of Bristol City Council's Sports Centres, for which you still have to be a member if you just fancy the odd dip. Then, no doubt, you have to take your chances with the regular riff-raff, general public and, God help us, schoolkids.
So looking for a suitable place to swim I went onto the net and googled Bristol and swimming - and at the top of the list came the Esporta Health Centre. I gave them a ring and after a brief chat with Tom, one of the guys employed in the membership department, he invited me down to their facility just outside the little village of Stoke Gifford, a stone's throw from Parkway Station.
Well, the tour was fine and I marvelled at the amount of gym equipment there, while never feeling the slightest bit tempted to use any of it.
The 25 metre pool, while not particularly big, did appeal, however, on the basis that there are only about three people in it at any one time during the day. I am told it is busier at night and at weekends but my job and my preference for public houses ruled out those two possibilities.
Tom threw in a free head and back massage at the health centre and eight visitors passes so that Mrs R could avail herself of the facilities when she fancied it, and then quoted me the ridiculously expensive price of £58 a month. Having said that, it is half price up until Christmas.
I must say, though, the luxury of diving into your own private swimming pool (or so it feels) is great and I shall do it as often as possible just so that it's value for money. With a very nice jacuzzi there to ease my long-lasting shoulder and neck pains, plus one of those spinning things that get all the excess water out of your trunks, I must admit I was sold on this little piece of private luxury. Can I afford it? Well, I am not drinking with the Boozeday Tuesday crowd every day of the week drowning my sorrows after another sh** day at work, so perhaps it is swings and roundabouts.
The week has been pretty quiet really, though I am sick to death of footie again. My beloved Gas, having gone on a run of impressive wins earlier in the season, now seem to be on the mother of all losing streaks. Perhaps Mrs R and I, who were present at their last great win in Southampton, have brought them bad luck in the long run. Saturday we lost 2-1 at home to Yeovil, for God's sake. Yeovil! They hadn't won an away game in about 100 years. It seems the bubble has well and truly burst.
Put me in a foul mood at work but fortunately Saturday passed ok and on Sunday I spent a lazy day in front of the box watching Manchester United get a 2-0 tonking by Liverpool. So much for the demise of Rafael Benitez.
You see, I was getting a little bit fed up of a life involving slobbing about, watching videos, travelling by car to London and back and not keeping up my routine of swimming twice a week, which I had managed to carry out in Cardiff.
And I didn't fancy joining one of Bristol City Council's Sports Centres, for which you still have to be a member if you just fancy the odd dip. Then, no doubt, you have to take your chances with the regular riff-raff, general public and, God help us, schoolkids.
So looking for a suitable place to swim I went onto the net and googled Bristol and swimming - and at the top of the list came the Esporta Health Centre. I gave them a ring and after a brief chat with Tom, one of the guys employed in the membership department, he invited me down to their facility just outside the little village of Stoke Gifford, a stone's throw from Parkway Station.
Well, the tour was fine and I marvelled at the amount of gym equipment there, while never feeling the slightest bit tempted to use any of it.
The 25 metre pool, while not particularly big, did appeal, however, on the basis that there are only about three people in it at any one time during the day. I am told it is busier at night and at weekends but my job and my preference for public houses ruled out those two possibilities.
Tom threw in a free head and back massage at the health centre and eight visitors passes so that Mrs R could avail herself of the facilities when she fancied it, and then quoted me the ridiculously expensive price of £58 a month. Having said that, it is half price up until Christmas.
I must say, though, the luxury of diving into your own private swimming pool (or so it feels) is great and I shall do it as often as possible just so that it's value for money. With a very nice jacuzzi there to ease my long-lasting shoulder and neck pains, plus one of those spinning things that get all the excess water out of your trunks, I must admit I was sold on this little piece of private luxury. Can I afford it? Well, I am not drinking with the Boozeday Tuesday crowd every day of the week drowning my sorrows after another sh** day at work, so perhaps it is swings and roundabouts.
The week has been pretty quiet really, though I am sick to death of footie again. My beloved Gas, having gone on a run of impressive wins earlier in the season, now seem to be on the mother of all losing streaks. Perhaps Mrs R and I, who were present at their last great win in Southampton, have brought them bad luck in the long run. Saturday we lost 2-1 at home to Yeovil, for God's sake. Yeovil! They hadn't won an away game in about 100 years. It seems the bubble has well and truly burst.
Put me in a foul mood at work but fortunately Saturday passed ok and on Sunday I spent a lazy day in front of the box watching Manchester United get a 2-0 tonking by Liverpool. So much for the demise of Rafael Benitez.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Smell you later
My lovely wife spent most of last week worrying about an odd smell that had pervaded our little nest in Bristol. Arriving home from work she sensed that something, somewhere, was decomposing but couldn't put her finger on what it was.
The next day the smell was worse. It was upstairs and downstairs and the fear was something had sneaked into the house and gone and died in a hidden corner.
By Saturday it was becoming pretty unbearable so Mrs R decided she could leave it no longer. Preparing herself for a gruesome discovery she first emptied the contents of the fridge but, apart from some rather dated items like cheese and bacon, nothing gave off the kind of niff that she had geared herself up to expect.
Next stop was the vegetable rack on top of the freezer but though some of the spuds had ears and a lime had gone so yellow you would be forgiven for thinking it was a lemon, there was no tell-tale smell to solve the conundrum.
Finally it was a question of getting down on hands and knees and looking through the kitchen cupboards. Out came the old tins and bags of pasta, the pots and pans and the herbs and spices. The smell was stronger, but nothing looked to be so far past its sell-by date that it needed a decent burial.
Then came the ice cream cartons in which we store rice, more pasta and other pulses. She shook the first two and back came the sound of ordinary dried macaroni. The third, however, felt heavy and gloopy and there was no giveaway rattle. Lifting the lid the smell hit her in waves, stronger than any joke shop stink bomb. The offending article, some long forgotten brocoli.
Apparently Mrs R had put it into the container to be saved into the fridge. I, however, was under the mistaken impression that it was something that could be stored safely in the cupboard. My fault, as usual.
Oh well, at least it wasn't a dead rat.
There has been one negative effect to come out of the whole episode, though. Mrs R, who loves her broccoli so much that I often wonder whether she has been stalking it (gettit?), has had her passion seriously dented by the whole affair.
It's official. I'm a muppet. Dropped a clanger at work on Saturday and was officially told as much by boss Macca in front of a room full of fellow journos. Embarrassing, but a lesson learnt. Still, far better to have a new a***hole cut for making a mistake than the whole thing to be swept under the table as if it never happened, as is the case in some places. I will certainly take care not to make the same error again.
God help us, today I actually joined a gym. Rather, it is called a health centre. To be specific it's the Esporta Health Centre near Stoke Gifford on the outskirts of Bristol and has a 25m pool which I can use during the week to my heart's content without any danger of groups of snotty nosed school kids taking over the facilities and cramping my rather limited style. It's costing an arm and a leg but the satisfaction it will give me to be able to keep up some semblance of fitness each week should more than outweigh the cash disadvantages. And, since boozeday Tuesday's sad demise, I haven't been spending as much on Carling overload as in the past.
Sunday lunch was a day out with the folks. It's my dad's birthday next Sunday and I guess he must be about 150. Not really. So Mrs R and I went to pick he and Jean up and took them out to a very nice pub called the White Lion on Frenchay Common where we enjoyed a lovely roast before giving them a tour of Chez Rippers in the afternoon. Oh, and the chocolate fudge cake with cream and extra chocolate sauce was probably the catalyst for my gym decision.
The next day the smell was worse. It was upstairs and downstairs and the fear was something had sneaked into the house and gone and died in a hidden corner.
By Saturday it was becoming pretty unbearable so Mrs R decided she could leave it no longer. Preparing herself for a gruesome discovery she first emptied the contents of the fridge but, apart from some rather dated items like cheese and bacon, nothing gave off the kind of niff that she had geared herself up to expect.
Next stop was the vegetable rack on top of the freezer but though some of the spuds had ears and a lime had gone so yellow you would be forgiven for thinking it was a lemon, there was no tell-tale smell to solve the conundrum.
Finally it was a question of getting down on hands and knees and looking through the kitchen cupboards. Out came the old tins and bags of pasta, the pots and pans and the herbs and spices. The smell was stronger, but nothing looked to be so far past its sell-by date that it needed a decent burial.
Then came the ice cream cartons in which we store rice, more pasta and other pulses. She shook the first two and back came the sound of ordinary dried macaroni. The third, however, felt heavy and gloopy and there was no giveaway rattle. Lifting the lid the smell hit her in waves, stronger than any joke shop stink bomb. The offending article, some long forgotten brocoli.
Apparently Mrs R had put it into the container to be saved into the fridge. I, however, was under the mistaken impression that it was something that could be stored safely in the cupboard. My fault, as usual.
Oh well, at least it wasn't a dead rat.
There has been one negative effect to come out of the whole episode, though. Mrs R, who loves her broccoli so much that I often wonder whether she has been stalking it (gettit?), has had her passion seriously dented by the whole affair.
It's official. I'm a muppet. Dropped a clanger at work on Saturday and was officially told as much by boss Macca in front of a room full of fellow journos. Embarrassing, but a lesson learnt. Still, far better to have a new a***hole cut for making a mistake than the whole thing to be swept under the table as if it never happened, as is the case in some places. I will certainly take care not to make the same error again.
God help us, today I actually joined a gym. Rather, it is called a health centre. To be specific it's the Esporta Health Centre near Stoke Gifford on the outskirts of Bristol and has a 25m pool which I can use during the week to my heart's content without any danger of groups of snotty nosed school kids taking over the facilities and cramping my rather limited style. It's costing an arm and a leg but the satisfaction it will give me to be able to keep up some semblance of fitness each week should more than outweigh the cash disadvantages. And, since boozeday Tuesday's sad demise, I haven't been spending as much on Carling overload as in the past.
Sunday lunch was a day out with the folks. It's my dad's birthday next Sunday and I guess he must be about 150. Not really. So Mrs R and I went to pick he and Jean up and took them out to a very nice pub called the White Lion on Frenchay Common where we enjoyed a lovely roast before giving them a tour of Chez Rippers in the afternoon. Oh, and the chocolate fudge cake with cream and extra chocolate sauce was probably the catalyst for my gym decision.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
