Thursday, May 24, 2007

A good kipper

EVER had one of those moments when you have woken up and are
a. far from your bedroom and
b. totally bemused at your surroundings?
That's exactly what happened to me after a quick afternoon drink turned into a heavy Boozeday Tuesday.

It had been a pretty quiet weekend up until then. Wren came over and we spent a pleasant Sunday afternoon travelling out to Usk where we toured the castle to the background of a pageant where all manner of local characters appeared to be trying to spear each other with giant poles which had bits of pointy steel attached to the ends.
Making a hasty retreat we enjoyed a couple of quiet drinks in the sun-drenched car park of the In-Between pub, where I managed to spill the entire contents of a bag of cheese nibbles as I tried to pull them from the front pocket of my new black jeans. Drat.
Then it was back home for Sunday Lunch of Chicken with mascarpone cheese and pancetta accompanied by some interesting vegetable dishes taken from a new cookbook/DVD that Withers passed on to me the other day. When I remember the recipes they will be appearing here.

On Monday I became the unhappy owner of a new temporary crown. My dentist insisted that the emergency job I had in Sydney after the pork scratching disaster of New Year's Day would not stand up to too much pressure. She therefore whipped that one out (without too much fuss I am happy to report), made a mould of the gap and then put in another temp job until my glistening new tooth can be made and fitted in two weeks time.
I must admit, though, it's a rather uncomfortable partnership. There seems to be a big, ragged tear down the back of my new tooth which I continue to rub my tongue against in the hope that it will disappear. No luck so far.
To ease my anxiety about my good looks being interfered with, Wren and I went to see the thoroughly enjoyable This Is England. The prices at the local Cineworld are nothing to smile about, however, which is pretty lucky seeing the state of my gnashers. Over £6 each for tickets, plus ridiculous prices for popcorn, nachos or hot dogs - £5.80 anyone for a hot dog meal deal?

I approached a vast pile of ironing on Tuesday feeling pretty reticent about the whole thing. The good news, though, is that I have two tickets to see the Gas at Wembley, all for the reasonable price of £58 (I think that's about £8 more than a season ticket in Gas terms). Still, you have to be there, don't you - 40,000 Gasheads can't be wrong.
While wading through the ironing I contacted the Wonderful Withers of WoS. "Is there a boozeday?" I asked.
He, shockingly, replied in the negative. Apparently he was waiting for a new pair of running shoes to arrive. Running shoes? Suddenly I came over all cold. For one, I've never seen Withers run anywhere in his life and, for another thing, the thought of his size 11 feet pounding around Cardiff is enough to turn a grown man into a trembling wreck. Are they going to evacuate Cardiff because of the earthquake this will undoubtedly cause, I wonder.

There's only one thing for it, I realise. The sun is out, the sky is blue, it's the perfect BoozeDay and I've got to make the emergency call. The Prince of Darkness does not let me down.
So we start in the Yard and have a couple of pints before the Prince decides he's got to buy a very expensive suit, just to get even with the wife who is due to make a trip to Selfridges to find a new dress to wear to the Welsh Open golf dinner at Celtic Manor next week. "If she can do it, so can I," he reasons, still believing that old adage that two wrong make a right. Don't know if his bank manager believes that, though.
Withers, meanwhile, has joined us having given up on the running shoes. As usual, the bozos who are supposed to be delivering them have decided to cancel the home visit without telling him. He's straight into the pints, but insists he is on a diet so will be drinking pints of Brains Bitter rather than Brains SA from now on. There's logic there somewhere.
As the afternoon meanders on he continues to stick rigidly to the diet: two pints, three, four, five. He must have lost loads of weight by now. Me? I'm just keeping him company.
Later, the Prince returns. This signals that it is pretty damn late. He's brought his suit but he soon realises that trying to have an educated conversion with me isn't going to happen and toddles off home.
Withers and I head for ... hmmm. Must be the City Arms but I can't recall. Later... no, its gone.
When I open my eyes I am curled in the foetal position with the strumming of a certain Greying pensioner invading my ears. Aaargh! Looking up its Brammy and his guitar-twiddling pal Rog playing along in the upstairs room of their usual Tuesday venue. Withers, like the good mate he is, has long gone.
"You're very good," says Brammy, "Your snoring may be loud, but it's perfectly in time with the beat." Wonder if there's a band out there looking for a rhythmic snorer? If so, I'm their man.


kitchen hand said...

Hey Rippers, I stumbled on your blog by accident; thinking it was mine and that I'd changed my template in my sleep or in a drunken stupor or something.

Nice recipes. By the way, I always wanted to be a sports journalist.

neil said...

God I love a good rythmic snore.