Wednesday, December 03, 2008

Feeding the Fat Kid

Friday night, and the Essex girls were in town. The Fat Kid descended on us with her good mate Carly, and Cardiff didn't know what had hit it.
Now, as you may already know, the Fat Kid isn't actually fat. It's more that she used to call everyone else by that unusual moniker and somehow it stuck. Having said that she can certainly put the food away.
After nipping out for a quick drink with Paps, the Prince, Smashy and Withers at the new, old O'Neills (the famous scene of St Paddy's night which has since burned down and been built up anew) I legged it home in time for Wren's arrival at eight.
The Fat Kid, having left Southend at around 3pm, was expected any minute but didn't arrive until 10. Why? She got lost. How? Well, her excuse was the fog but I can imagine she and her partner in crime were gassing all the way up the M4 and missed the junction.
When they eventually turned up they were quick to tuck into the wine with Wren and by the end of the evening had managed to drink the equivalent of a bottle each. The Fat Kid had also managed to help herself to some of our Chinese, even though she said she had only eaten a couple of hours before on a motorway service station.

Anyway, the upshot is that, rather than Wren's maturity rubbing off on the Essex girls, they managed to turn her into an honorary one for the weekend.
While I was working, they went for a bottle of wine and some food in the Spanish restaurant La Tasca where, apparently, Carly got chatted up by one of the waiters who told her if she returned that night he would give her a free bottle.
By the time I met up with them in the Thai Edge on Saturday night they were well into the bevvies, Wren sporting a brand new shade of eye shadow having had coaching lessons on "how to look good" by the deadly Essex duo.
Immediately they were pleading with me to take them out on the town, even though it was full of Welsh rugby fans three sheets to the wind after their astonishing 21-18 victory over Australia. I decided to be wise for once and thought that, with the weather so cold and so many people about, I would refrain from drinking so that I could drive them home rather than wait out in the cold for a taxi for hours.
Mind you, I am not a good designated driver. In fact, I am a terrible designated driver. And seeing people in alcohol-induced euphoria just makes me incredibly grumpy. If I can't join them I just want to get as far away from them as possible.
At one stage Wren was imploring me to go down into the depths of some rank club in St Mary Street where hundreds of stumbling, rugby-shirt wearing oiks were queueing. "Come on, it will be fun!" she demanded. Like a hole in the head, I thought.
Eventually we settled on cocktails in Pikey, Pikey (as the ex-Eggo crew call it). By this time the Essex whirlwinds were well into their stride, giggling and talking away at ten to the dozen and trying to lure the barman into giving them free cocktails. Their best line was "Guess where we are from?". Bearing in mind they believe Southend to be the centre of the Universe they were greatly disappointed when people couldn't work it out. One woman even suggested Ireland. "Do you always talk in a squeaky voice, like a couple of rats?" she asked them.
Normally the Fat Kid has a bit of a temper when provoked (who knows where she gets that from?) but her senses were so slowed by the copious amounts of alcohol she had been swallowing that she didn't realise it could be construed as an insult until about an hour later in the car on the way home. A night out with these two is like an audience with French and Saunders, and I told them so.
They both looked at each other, pointed simultaneously, and shouted in a high pitched squeal: "You're French then, the fat one." Got to love the Essex Girls.

Next day, as the Fat Kid had promised her mucca, I cooked up a pretty filling fried breakfast with scrambled eggs and a giant mushroom, together with sausages, bacon, beans, tomatoes, fried potatoes and freshly baked baguettes. It went down a treat.
Scrambled egg, by the way, is pretty easy in the microwave. You just mix up as many eggs as you think you need (I used seven for four people) add a good glug of milk, mix in salt and pepper, then turn it on full power for about three minutes (for an 800 watt microwave anyway). Keep checking and stirring until it rises light and fluffy and you can dish it up. A good trick that my flatmate Scooby showed me.

Once they had set off for home at one, I breathed a sigh of relief and Wren and I recuperated for the afternoon in front of the TV. Of course, the girls will be back... for poor Wren's stag night. By the time she returns she will be chewing gum, wearing micro skirts and shouting "Guess Where I'm from" while slurping from an alcopop. Brrrrrr, doesn't bare thinking about.

No comments: