What I Cooked Last Night

End of the line

2010-09-15T13:12:00.003Z

Just over four years ago I was sitting in a pub called the Goat Major in Cardiff with my pal Matt Withers and we started our usual debate about the Internet. I was coming out with my usual mantra that it would be "Just a passing phase" while he was insisting the World Wide Web was here to stay and I had better get used to it.
Over the next few pints we hatched a plot that I would start writing a blog, focusing on my culinary talents, and inform whoever could be bothered to read it of the recipes that I had come up with the previous night. With startling originality we decided it would be called "What I Cooked Last Night". I expected it to last about two days.
But it didn't really turn out the way. It became a record of our times on the Wales on Sunday or, more to the point, what the staff of that esteemed chronicle got up to in the pubs and clubs around Cardiff. Later it spread its wings and encapsulated the whole Meeja Wales experiment.
It was visionary (and double visionary on occasions), marking an era and coining some memorable phrases which are still used with fondness to this day - like Boozeday Tuesday, The Wednesday Club and Thirsty Thursday.
There was creative thinking, like how to make an entire Sunday Lunch out of different flavoured crisps, homespun philosophy from Withers ("All women who wear red shoes are prostitutes") and problem solving (how to get your girlfriend's front door keys back to her when you have driven home 45 miles to find them in your pocket).
And the nicknames became so legendary that many of the characters still go by them to this day. People were introduced to the Prince of Darkness, The Fabulous Baker Boy, Smashy and Nicey, the Fugitive, Wathanovski, Owenov, the Boss and Posh and Becks.
Well, it was fun while it lasted, an epic diversion, but it's time to wrap it all up.
Four years on and my life has changed remarkably. During the years of the blog I have been on a Barmy Army sabbatical to Australia, met a wonderful woman, got married, had a child, moved to Bristol and started working for the biggest Sunday newspaper in the UK - the Screws, as it is known here.
My tales have taken me to Boston to see my beloved Red Sox, and Cuba for an immense honeymoon experience.
But along the way the original idea has drifted as well. I don't spend nearly enough time in the pub to come up with such bizarre and cautionary tales, I no longer can regale the latest adventures of the Prince of Darkness or the Wonderful Withers of WoS, because as married life settles down I don't find the time to catch up on all the meaningless gossip in a way to do the blog justice.
Anyway, if I get any good little tales I think the world should know, I am now on Twitter @NickRipp so I will make every effort to spread the word in this other form of the "passing phase".
It's been a pleasure sitting down and trying to remember or, as some people might suggest, making up stories about my erstwhile friends. Unfortunately, this blog was starting to turn into an online diary of my life, and only those closest to me could possibly feel motivated to trawl through that.
I am glad, though, that my beautiful little baby Olivia got a mention and one day she may well sit down and read about what an angry, boozy, all-round mentallist I was. It's true, Liv, well some of it.
I'm also thankful to my grown-up daughter the Fat Kid, my wife Mrs Rippers (who began long ago as Celtic Liz), and my grandkids the Vin Monster and the Big Boy for giving me some interesting stories to narate without disowning me for giving away their secrets.
For anyone who wants to know, I am cooking beefburgers tonight.
What I cook tomorrow will be purely for my own amusement.

THE END

Tiffin for two

2010-09-10T11:51:00.002Z

My love affair with clotted cream has been re-ignited over the last few weeks, what with our visit to Wiltshire and then a little trip down to Cornwall.
But it is interesting to see the difference between the value and price of cream teas in parts of the West Country.
In Lacock, no doubt because of the Cranford connection, the price of a couple of home made scones and a cuppa was absurdly expensive (at least, it was in the tea room we visited, the King John Hunting Lodge), obviously taking advantage of the American tourists in search of the ultimate quaint English atmosphere. They probably think this is where we all spend our afternoons when, in fact, most of the people I know would rather toddle along to their neighbourhood Starbucks.
After that we found a nice little bistro in Fowey, where lashings of cream and jam were plastered onto hot scones fresh from the oven. The scones were cheaper, tastier and altogether nicer at the Brown Sugar cafe.
Yesterday, though, Mrs Rippers and I found the ultimate cream tea experience much closer to home, in the Tiffin restaurant on Clevedon sea front. Fantastic. A pot of Assam tea which hot scones, oodles of jam and clotted cream, and all for the unbeatable price of £4.50. Well done, Clevedon.
Back in the smoke deputy boss Bob, who spent some of his formative journalistic years on the St Blazey beat, brought up the subject of which goes on first: Jam or cream. It's a question likely to cause more outrage and debate than the merits of the current coalition government
The much-travelled Critch got in on the act and it was established that Devon puts the cream on first, then the jam. Cornwall does it the other way around.
I don't really think there is a hard and fast rule.
I tried it both ways over the previous weeks and though I find putting the cream on first is easier as it acts like butter, putting jam on first enables you to pile the cream as high as you like.
Admittedly, it is a messy job, but someone has to do it.

Livvy update. Our darling daughter has now managed to roll over from her back to her front, much to the amusement of myself and Mrs Rippers. It means we have to keep a close eye on her these days, in case she sees the chance of a quick getaway.

Real Cornish pasties

2010-09-02T14:20:00.003Z

THEY say it is bad luck to put an umbrella up in the house. It certainly is if you happen to be sharing that dwelling with Mrs Rippers.
We have just spent a lovely few days in a mobile home at a campsite in Hayle, Cornwall. We were joined there by the fat kid, vin monster, big boy and the fat kid's sister Lottie. Little Livvy certainly loved all the attention.
During our visit we had a one day trip to the surfer town of Newquay which, despite the fight for a car parking space, was well worth the journey - particularly to sample the delicacies of Cornish pasties and traditional, creamy Kelly's ice cream, while Mrs R enjoyed a small shopping spree in the tourist-magnet outlets around the town.
On the following day back at Hayle, the weather was perfect, and the boys had a good time building sand castles on the beach, though their mother took it a bit too far by burying the Vin Monster up to his neck in sand then turning him into an exceptionally crude, giant phallic symbol. God knows what our neighbours on the beach must have thought.
I used to spend a lot of time in Cornwall. It was where my parents met, coming from the adjoining towns of St Austell and St Blazey, so on Tuesday I took Mrs Rippers and Livvy on a tour of the old haunts.
We visited St Austell shopping centre, then went on to the isolated and charming Par beach before travelling to Fowey, a quaint little fishing harbour. Mind you, the town was built long before people considered the problems associated with wheeling a child in one of today's heavy-duty childrens buggies and, having parked at the car park on the top of the hill, it was like a mission even Edmond Hillary might have turned down to get Livvy down into the centre of the town. As for coming back up, I can safely say my heavy breathing at the top could have been recorded as a soundtrack for Darth Vader's next appearance in a Star Wars movie (note to self: MUST cut out the ciggies).
While the whole experience was good fun, there were a few little dramas along the way. For example, it wasn't until we attempted to put up our newly purchased travel cot from Mothercare that we realised you needed the strength of Geoff Capes and the patience of Gandhi to tackle such a momentous task.
The Fat Kid, having spent four days a week at the gym over the last few months in a bid to develop the body beautiful, used all her new-found strength to finally conquer a task more suited to the most adept contestants in the Krypton Factor. Taking it down, too, was hardly a piece of cake.
Once pieces of metal started falling from it and a large chunk of plastic broke off in my hand there was no choice... and back to the shop it went the minute we returned to Bristol.
Cot erected, Mrs Rippers decided our bedroom was a bit too bright and might disturb Olivia, so that is where the brolly came in.
She tucked a red parasol over one of the lights, plunging the room into a deep Scarlet hue which had me fearing we might be inundated with "gentlemen callers" in the middle of the night.
But the real shock came in the early hours of one morning when Mrs Rippers suddenly leapt from the bed, grabbed the umbrella and hurled it across the room, knocking over glasses of water and all manner of other things in its way.
I sat there stunned for a good few seconds, before asking the question that had been nagging me since the ill-thought-out event. "What did you do that for?"
"I just needed a bit more light," came the rather bemusing reply.

Gastro delight

2010-08-27T22:00:00.002Z

Mrs Rippers and I found Gastro Heaven nestled in the middle of the Cotswolds last weekend.
As part of the extended Mrs R 40th birthday celebrations I planned a little trip 30 miles up the road to Tetbury.
First of all we visited Lacock, the olde worlde Wiltshire village where Cranford is filmed, and managed to avoid being stung by the hundreds of wasps who had also decided it would be a good place to spend the day.
During the trip we also popped into the Hunters Lodge for Jam, cream and scones and a pot of tea which cost the quite unreasonable amount of £12 (great trap for those rich Yankee tourists, though).
Having spent an enjoyable afternoon it was off to Tetbury where we booked into the Priory. Readers of this blog will no doubt think it's about time that I went to dry out at the clinic where Paul Gascoigne spends a lot of his time, but this was the Priory Inn, and what a find it was.
I found it simply by googling Children friendly hotels and this was listed as one of the top 10 in Britain. When we got to our room we found a very nice cot and plenty of toys to keep Livvy happy while we unpacked and got ready for the evening's entertainment.
This involved going down to the bar and eating in the Gastro restaurant where all food has been sourced from within a 30-mile radius.
Their specialty is pizza, and I tucked into a bacon, chorizo, free range egg and potato concoction which left me completely bloated and begging for a doggie bag. Mrs R enjoyed a meat feast combo and we had also opened the evening with some delicious starters - all including in the reasonable price of our overnight stay.
While there we were entertained by a solo musician of pretty decent quality who also managed to sing our daughter to sleep for the whole evening - a rare treat for us.
After that we slept soundly in a luxury king-sized bed before enjoying a hearty breakfast and popping out for a good walk around the town centre and a visit to some of the shops.
In short, a very pleasant trip was had by all.

Spicy dutch cheese (uh oh!)

2010-08-20T11:54:00.002Z

HAVE you ever desperately tried to avoid a football score because you wanted to see the highlights of the game later? It very rarely works, you'll find.
It happened to me during my dim and distant days working for a news agency in Stoke on Trent. All day long I had been trying to avoid the result of the England match that night. And with 30 minutes to go before Match of the Day, I realised I had run out of cigarettes.
I figured a trip to the local boozer wasn't ideal, but I could be in and out of the off licence next door before anyone registered my presence. But despite putting fingers to my ears to block out the noise, some loudmouth still managed to tell his mate within my earshot: "Good win for England wasn't it? Who got the two goals?"

The relevance of this story? Well, it was my lovely wife's 40th birthday yesterday and she decided she would like a trip to our old stomping ground of Cardiff. When she told me of her wish on Monday it got the cogs in my mind whirring.
Why not arrange a surprise dinner and invite some of her friends to turn up, giving her a pleasant surprise and providing me with brownie points until Christmas?
These days with all these passing fads - twitter, facebook, e-mail and text message - the job isn't as onerous as it might have been previously and I was able to secure a decent turnout. Then, it was just a case of making any last-minute alterations, getting someone to source the cake and getting her to the venue on time.
Simple. Or maybe not.
First I picked the wrong day. Somehow, in my enthusiasm, I organised it for Wednesday at 2.30 in a little restaurant in Cardiff Bay called Mimosa.
"Why are we going to Cardiff on Wednesday?" she inquired. "It's my birthday on Thursday and I have a doctor's appointment with the baby on the previous day."
So back onto twitter, facebook, e-mail and mobile phone to inform people of the change of plan.
Then the Wonderful Withers sends me a message. "I'm news editing the Daily Snail, could we make it earlier in the day?"
No problem.
Back on to twitter, facebook, e-mail and mobile phone to tell everyone the new arrangement.
And trying to keep my activities quiet from Mrs Rippers at the same time.
She thinks I've left her holding the crying baby while I fritter away my time on the Bristol Rovers website and my blogs.
Not quite. Though I did do a bit of that, too, I must admit.
Anyway new time accepted and it is all go. I've still got a decent response.

Thursday morning and Olivia has got us up by 7.10am. She is in a particularly contrary mood. First she wants food, then she doesn't, then she does, then she doesn't. She cries when I put her in the car seat. She cries when I put the car seat in the car. She cries when I take them both out again. She finally settles for a seat in mummy's car instead.
Then comes one of the text messages I feared. It's Wales on Sunday former news editor Kempy who has unfortunately contracted an ear problem and won't be able to make the surprise do. Neither will husband Coggsy and baby Paddy.
Poor old Kempy. Never mind, we will catch up another time.
Finally, we get the car loaded. We are already running late, but Mrs Rippers doesn't even know we are working to a deadline.
I've arranged to pop into Meeja Wales to show off the new addition to the family to former colleagues, including the Boss, so it's going to be tight to make it down to the Bay in time for lunch.
Then comes the moment when the whole plan nearly blows up in my face.
I've told her about Kempy's illness but NOT informed her that she was one of the surprise guests at my lunch.
Half way across the bridge into Wales, Mrs R looks up from her I-phone and tells me: "What a pity Kempy can't make it."
What? What does she know? How has she found out? Is the surprise blown?
"What do you mean?" I ask, with heart in mouth.
"Oh, she has just texted me telling me to have a nice time and it is a shame that she can't be there..."
Bugger.
"I was quite looking forward to seeing her in the office."
Phew. What an escape!
And what a howler from the Kempster.
I look clandestinely at the text I originally sent her.
What part of "surprise lunch" didn't she understand?

Anyway, all goes well, apart from the fact I get lost on the way to the Bay.
Even so, that works in my favour because the other guests have arrived and are sitting around the table when Mrs Rippers and I walk through the door. There is my pal Jane, Liz's close friend Claire and daughter Amelia. Paps, Smashy and the wonderful Withers have joined us, too.
We enjoy a very leisurely lunch and Claire has done the biz and managed to get me a cake, which is Mrs R's highlight of the day. She and Amelia take turns blowing the candles out.
"How did you arrange all this?" she asks.
"It's a long story," I reply.
Involving twitter, facebook, e-mail and text.

Getting home I just needed a snack, having feasted on beautiful Roast Lamb at Mimosa.
So I dive into the fridge for some new Hot Dutch cheese I've bought, which I have on crackers.
Wicked.
And very wicked this morning as my stomach turns somersaults as I make the long drive to the Smoke for work.

Sold a pup

2010-08-14T10:45:00.002Z

DING, dong the dog has gone. After nine days of mayhem in the Fat Kid's household she has decided that her pet pooch Pebbles was a bit too much to handle. When I heard the news I cracked open a beer to celebrate.
The little Staffordshire Bull terrier, which she envisaged turning into one of those "handbag" pups, outstayed her welcome quicker than I thought she would.
Having insisted on numerous occasions that my eldest daughter might find looking after a pet, on top of Vin Monster and the Big Boy, all too much it appears that I have been proved right.
As usual, the Fat Kid decided she needed to find out for herself and shun my advice. It meant putting up with just over a week of peeing, pooing, biting and generally causing chaos before she faced up to the fact it wasn't the brightest idea.
That's the pup, not the Fat Kid.
In that time I had to endure a sleepless night while the little terrier screeched and howled and ran amok in the kitchen, overturning bins and eating up their contents before ripping a black bin liner to pieces then peeing on the floor.
Two days later the text came through. "I'm getting rid of this dog, it keeps chewing everything!"
Still, dog lovers, never fear. The pup from purgatory has gone to a careful owner, one who appreciates the finer qualities of canine care and doesn't just think that "looking cute" is their sole purpose in life.

Chip off the old block

2010-08-13T13:28:00.002Z

I can barely believe my darling daughter Olivia is now over seven weeks old. Every time I return home after a few days earning a crust up in the smoke she seems to have grown, not only in size but in facial expressions.
She has now developed a clicking sound with her tongue, a very clever piece of linguistic skill which I often try to copy, and is working on a good right uppercut for anyone who catches her in the wrong mood.
She's smiling, too, which is fab. These smiles, though, tend to come at a time when she has managed to inflict some piece of ill-fortune on either myself or Mrs Rippers, or embarrassed us in public.
The other day she was full of giggles after reaching back and throwing her nappy at me, while peeing the moment said nappy is removed seems to be another of her favourite tricks.
In fairness, though, we do get the chance to laugh at her, too, which isn't really fair on one so young. When she clambered up my stomach the other day and started sucking my nose, mistaking it for a nipple, I must admit I was in fits of laughter.
Today, though, it was Mrs Rippers who was on the wrong end of Livvy's attempt at humour.
Trying to find interesting things for her and Livvy to do, Mrs R decided to attend a coffee morning at the local library.
My regular reader will know that my darling wife has a love affair with libraries that cannot be shaken. It used to be a source of amusement for me when she would describe the highlight of her day as "taking out some new books", though I must admit her continued fixation with these book-lending facilities have even persuaded me to "join up" of late.
Still, I digress. When Mrs Rippers turned up she found the average age (not including my baby) was about 62 and they were all sitting around the hobnobs and Ovaltine having a good natter about knitting, flower arranging and the best treatment for varicose veins.
My wife sat there quietly, nodding in her polite manner, until the whispering was interrupted by a loud, long, ripping sound.
All the old ladies looked at each other accusingly, then shook their ear pieces to make sure their hearing aids weren't playing up.
And, in her pram, Livvy smiled contentedly to herself, her wind no longer a problem.
Mrs Rippers found it was as good a time as any to make her excuses and leave.
But when she told me the story later, I'm sure I detected an underlying inference that this kind of rebellious behaviour could only come from MY side of the family.

Dog food

2010-08-05T09:26:00.002Z

THE fat kid has two new additions to the family.
Firstly, she has purchased a blue VW beetle which looks very slick and she adores. It's also the first car she has brought without the help of the bank of Dad (other than a small contribution as her combined birthday/christmas present).
Second, and far more worringly, she has somehow acquired a Staffordshire Bull Terrier which she has called Pebbles.
Now, I've lost count of the number of times I have told her not to get a dog. I've warned her that they are not fashion accessories, you have to feed them, house train them, generally look after them and not go out on the razz and leave dad to look after them. Plus the fact they don't stay puppies, they actually grow up.
But I guess me saying "no" is like a red rag to... well, a dog.
I turned up late on Wednesday to settle in for an early night before work and there it was, lying on the sofa cuddling up to her.
Ok, so it's a bit cute. It's white with a touch of pink in the face, which is why the Fat Kid likes it so much.
Not such good news, it likes chewing. More specifically it likes chewing my shoe laces and my baseball hat.
"She's no trouble, she'll be fine," the Fat Kid says.
Basically, she sees it as one of those "handbag" dogs like Paris Hilton might own. She got the idea from the little pooch in Legally Blond.
In fact, she has already got it a little dress to wear and has given it a baby's dummy to suck.
"It was either that or a baby girl," she told me when I immediately turned into grumpy Grandad at the first sight of the little monster.
I think she has read the script wrong.
The dog in the Legally Blond film is, I believe, called a White Pomeranian and I doubt whether they grow much bigger.
The Staffordshire Bull Terrier, by comparison, is the dog you regularly see walking through the Essex streets attached to the arm of a neanderthal, straining at a chain-link leash and, if you're very lucky, wearing a muzzle.
The dog is designed to say: My owner is hard.
I can't believe anyone will be taking this one very seriously when she struts along wearing a pink tutu with no doubt a ribbon tied to her head and a dummy in her mouth.
I fear poor Pebbles will be suffering a deep identity crisis before very long.

Royal Fail

2010-07-30T10:19:00.002Z

THE fat kid has had a problem ever since she moved into a relatively new house in Shoeburyness. The story goes like this...
Whenever she tries to get things delivered to the house, or tries to take out some kind of HP agreement on a purchase, the assistant sorting out the order tells her that her house doesn't exist. Strange really, because I've stayed there every week for a year and I am sure it is not a figment of my imagination.
However much she insists that the address is a real one, the person serving her will reply in the time honoured fashion "computer says no".
The situation reached a critical level this week because the Fat Kid has sold her car and is eager to replace it with a newer one, a sparkly VW Beetle, but may need finance to complete her purchase. The trouble is as her house doesn't exist, no one will provide her with the loan she requires.
I decided I would try to sort the problem out today, and my first port of call was the Royal Mail website. Fine, there is a form to fill out if your house isn't recognised and I sent that off straight away, but as yet have had no reply.
Next option, then, was to ring and actually try to speak to a person. And here, dear reader, is where my normal placid demeanour was somewhat shaken.
Having rung the number for personal inquiries on the website I was presented with four options, the first one being to press 1 if I had a query involving the address.
This I did, and was then given another two options, neither of which involved speaking to a Customer Services Adviser.
Retracing my steps I then listened to the full list of options available to me and, again, none of them involved speaking to an adviser.
Finally in frustration I threw the phone down and ranted at it for a few seconds, bringing a number of wry comments from my colleagues.
Never mind, there was another option on the website. It was to consult Sarah, the online assistant, who, I was assured, could handle any query I might have.
So I typed my question into the window. "Why, when I ring the help line, am I unable to speak to a PERSON?" I asked.
And very promptly online assistant Sarah responded.
"Do you mean: Can you tell me more about ordinary Second Class mail?" she said.
Followed by: "My answer is: Second Class mail is normally delivered 2/3 working days after posting, to any address in the country."
Well, thanks Sarah, that certainly clears it up.
I took a different tack.
"How do I speak to a customer service adviser?" I requested.
She replied: "Do you mean: I have a problem with my Online Business Account. What should I do?"
I swore rather loudly at the screen. "No, no, no!"
By this stage I had totally lost it. I wondered what other completely unrelated answers I might get if I tried some rather more obscure questions.
So I asked Sarah: "Do you wear frilly panties?"
To which she replied: "Do you mean: What's the minimum I need to spend with my postage account?"
Of course, THAT'S what I meant. I had obviously just phrased the questions badly.
My God, I thought the Royal Mail was supposed to be at the hub of our communications network. It appears lack of communication is more their bag.

I love listening to audio books to help me wile away the time on my journey back from the smoke.
Imagine my frustration last Saturday when I realised the discs I had brought with me were ones I had already heard.
There was no option than to stop at the nearest service station and forked out my hard earned £15 for a replacement.
Getting back to the car I opened the box in eager anticipation of listening to the latest thriller from Sam Bourne.
To find? Nothing. It was empty.
I stormed back to the WH Smith's counter and explained to the shop assistant: "You've just sold me an empty box for 15 bloody quid!"
I think it was her first day. She hadn't realised that once the box was brought to the counter she actually had to fill it with the cd's you were purchasing.
It could have been worse, though. I might have been just outside Newbury by the time I discovered the error. Phew!

Been stalking

2010-07-24T11:41:00.002Z

THERE is an addictive and worrying new trend growing among the young ladies of Southend. It is slowly replacing nightclubbing, pubbing, ice skating, dogging and any other activity which ends with "ing" you care to mention.
I know this because I believe it was invented by the Fat Kid and her bezzie (that means best friend, if you're down with the kids like me).
What you do is this: Get dressed up in your best bib and tucker, chuck on the slap, fill your best handbag with fags, make up and anything else young girls carry in their handbags, gather all your friends then chose a designated driver (preferrably one with a non-descript car).
Once the clan is gathered you jump into the car and head off in the direction of one of your ex-boyfriends' houses.
The official name for this activity? Stalking.
Now, we have all heard of stalking. Normally it involves some rich celebrity having their every move scrutinised by some nutter who believes they have a bond with their target. Generally it ends in tears, restraining orders and, in the most severe cases, a jail term.
But in this case the stalkee is blissfully unaware they are being stalked. There is no direct contact, molotov cocktails aren't thrown through windows and there is no breaking and entering or hiding in attics. Certainly no bunnies are hurt in the course of this trivial pursuit.
I am not really sure of the merits of this activity, but as far as I can see it provides an endless source of banter, laughter and fun for the stalkers. And the only cost is a small amount of petrol.
As for the stalkee? Well, generally, they remain blissfully unaware of what is going on outside their front door.
What doesn't quite fit is the dress code. I am not sure why the stalkers have to dress up as if they are attending the hottest nightclub in town when, as I hear it, they end up having to jump into bushes or crawl along muddy ground to conceal their presence in the vicinity of said ex-boyfriend's home.
With the Fat Kid I am still trying to work out what she is hoping to achieve. My recollection of one of the stalkees is that all the time she knew him he sat in the house either glued to some boring cop chase show on tv, smoked the odd spliff, played computer games against his mates who were rooted to their own couches, dozed off and complained at any faint hint that they should maybe go out and find something interesting to do. But hey, that's me.
It's the Fat Kid's way of enjoying a cheap night out... and it is spreading rapidly.
So, boys of Southend, if you notice a slight movement in the bush across the road, or hear a faint giggle, or notice an unfamiliar car pass your house for the third time, don't worry... just sit back down, light up your doobie and continue your quest to pimp out another prostitute in the latest version of Grand Theft Auto.

Lite bytes

2010-07-23T14:46:00.002Z

Standing around enjoying a few lunchtime shandies in the Batman, the subject turned to the history of computer games. My esteemed colleagues Leethal, Adders, Critch and Barry the (page) Builder were all quick to extole the virtues of those wonderful early days when you could gun down advancing space invaders or gobble up luminous pacmen.
In fact Leethal, a tyrant for the trivial, informed us that Pacmen had made so much for its inventors that they actually bought a Las Vegas Casino with the proceeds.
Then the subject turned to the consoles themselves, and which ones they had owned during their early days of geekdom. Words like Sega Megadrive, Atari and Commadore 64 were bandied about with gay abandon as our competitive clique tried to outdo each other.
I, on the other hand, fell into a sullen silence, realising that at no stage had I EVER owned a computer or games console of my own. In fact, I don't now. The laptop I use at home is one I bought for Mrs Rippers on her birthday a few years ago.
When I revealed this to the gathered crew it was greeted with a stunned silence.
Tumbleweeds rolled through the bar area until Critch broke the awkward moment.
"Luddite!" he declared.
No arguments there... but I won't be promoting this dubious claim to fame in any interview for online jobs that might arise.

Daube Provencal

2010-07-22T11:06:00.003Z

I'VE seen a glimpse into my future - and it's quite an amusing sight.
Travelling into work on the Shoeburyness Flyer this morning, my perusal of the Metro was interrupted by the arrival in the seats opposite of two young boys, aged about 5 and 3, closely followed by their mum.
As the journey progressed she warned them that the train was designated a "quiet one" and people were only allowed to whisper on it. Amusing, and the youngest lad lapped it up, speaking in hushed tones for the next 50 minutes.
Mum was certainly going to have her work cut out. She had a journey all the way to Doncaster and would have to keep her two boys amused for several hours. There would also be a lot of to'ing and fro'ing from seat to pushchair to retrieve various drinks, snacks and toys. But judging by her efforts on the way to Fenchurch Street I imagine she was going to sail through it.
Why my optimism? Because this lady was able to give her kids a full and comprehensive analysis of Star Wars.
Having mentioned the films the eldest boy began to ask questions and mum had the answer to everything. Good knowledge for a girl, I thought.
In fact, even my own, rather piecemeal recollections on the subject were put into context. I reckon she would have got big marks if she had adopted it as specialist subject on Mastermind.
This clever lady gave fine descriptions of the main characters, remembered which one was R2D2 and which one was C3PO, explained the battles between the good forces and the evil ones, and gave a pretty good description of Wookies, the Force, the Millennium Falcon and the Death Star.
Here's an example...
SON: So Luke Skywalker has the force, is he like Dr Who?
MUM: No because the force is like magical powers. Dr Who doesn't have those, he's not magic. He just has a sonic screwdriver."
Priceless.
My favourite moment, though, was when mum actually got stuck over one of the army of villains. She knew of Imperial stormtroopers and the like, but this one fact evaded her.
Suddenly, the dry looking businessman opposite folded his Times under his arm, removed his glasses and looked across earnestly.
"I think you will find they are called X-Fighters," he said.
Brilliant.
I guess being a parent you need to be the fount of all knowledge.

Meanwhile, Livvy continues to grow. She is now pretty snug in the Big Boy's old Winnie the Pooh pyjamas, which were hanging off her a few weeks ago.
And she is advancing in other ways, too. She managed to roll over on her own the other day, and punched her little soft toy Mr Cow off the changing table this morning.
Don't know where she gets her temper from.

Newsflash: I am applying for a job online. Oh yeah, it's a happening thing this new web thingy. Apparently it could be the future...

The other day I did a great Anthony Bourdain recipe called Daube Provencale. I borrowed it from one of his books and fed it to wife and mum in law, who loved it (or so they tell me)...

WHAT I NEEDED:
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons butter
Boneless lamb shoulder joint, cut into 2-inch pieces (had to use my electric knife for this because wanted to keep the bone)
Salt
Pepper
A packet of cubed pancetta (or bacon cut into lardons)
1 small onion, finely chopped
1 celery rib, finely chopped
2 garlic cloves, crushed
1 tablespoon tomato paste
1 tablespoon flour
1 cup white wine
1 cup strong, dark stock
1 small carrot, coarsely chopped
1 bouquet garni
Zest of 1 orange
2 potatoes, peeled and cut into large dice
4 sprigs of flat parsley

WHAT I DID:
Salt and pepper the lamb
Heat olive oil in a large, heavy saucepan (or dutch oven) and add the butter.
Let the butter bubble then die down and add the lamb in pieces (you may wish to do this a batch at a time so they cook better).
Cook on high heat until the lamb is all deep, dark brown. Do this with the bone and any meat left on it, too.
Remove meat from pan and set aside.
Add the pancetta or bacon to the pan and cook until crisp, then set aside.
Pour away some of the oil, then add onion, celery and garlic and cook over medium heat until it softens.
Stir in the tomato paste and cook, stirring, for a minute.
Stir in the flour and cook for another minute, then add the white wine, scraping up the brown stuff from around the pan.
Bring to the boil, reduce the wine by half then add the stock.
Bring back to the boil, reduce to a simmer then return all the meat and bacon to the pan, together with the bouquet garni, carrots and orange zest.
Season with salt and pepper, cover the pot and simmer low over 90 minutes, occasionally skimming the fat from the surface of the stew.
After 90 minutes add the potatoes.
Cook for another 15 minutes, skim any oil from top, then add parsley at the end and serve.
I steamed some broccoli with this and added chunks of bread but it can be served as it is in big bowls.

Cold Chinese

2010-07-16T09:31:00.003Z

THERE was always a little niggle in the back of my brain that returning to London might not be quite the sunshine and roses it appeared to be. There was something I had forgotten about when taking the dramatic step of moving back to the smoke for work, but I couldn't put my finger on it...
Last night, it hit me with full force. Bloody London transport. Or, for that matter, any mode of transport in and around the nation's capital.
After an enjoyable few hours spent in the Batman with Adam "webmaster" Marshall and Critch I started to make my return journey to the delights of Shoeburyness, hoping to get in just after the Fat Kid had taken delivery of our eagerly anticipated supper from the local chinese.
I got on the Docklands Light Railway at Shadwell, one quick stop away from Limehouse and the main line train that would whiz me back East. Trotting down the steps from the DLR I had no inkling of the saga that was to follow. Then I was confronted with a padlocked gate where the entrance to the mainline station should have been. Hmm.
No message of explanation, no one to advise you on how to continue your journey, nothing but a sheet of impenetrable steel secured by a bloody great lock. Joy.
Retracing my steps I reckoned I would have to take a bit of an unwanted detour but figured if I could get to West Ham I could catch my train from there. This involved getting back on the DLR, travelling to Canary Wharf, then jumping aboard a Jubilee Line tube.
The first part of the plan went ok, until I realised I had dropped my return ticket during the shenanighans. I had the receipt, though, so went to the ticket counter where a very unhelpful assistant told me it was no good... I would have to buy another.
Humphing rather loudly I then spent another £9.50 on a single to Shoeburyness and then jumped on the next available tube heading East.
It went one stop and then ejected me unceremoniously at north Greenwich. I waited to see if the train would move on and another one replace it so that I could get to West Ham. It didn't move.
Finally, I asked another helpful assistant where I would be able to get a tube to my destination. "Oh, you want platform 3," he said.
So I changed platforms and jumped on the next available tube.
Result, it got me to West Ham. Shouldn't be long now before I could settle into a comfy seat and wile away the next hour on route to the Fat Kid's.
I found the entrance to the mainline station at West Ham. It was blocked off with tape. A message read that no trains were stopping at the station. Then I heard my first announcement. "Due to overhead branches falling onto power lines, mainline trains are out of action between Fenchurch Street and Barking." B@ll*cks".
I thought maybe I should get a taxi to Barking so exited the station. Then had second thoughts. I could get a District Line train to Barking instead.
Yeah, but my newly purchased ticket wouldn't let me back into the station. Fellow travellers passing me as I stood there couldn't fail to notice the steam coming out of my ears. I was about to explode in full Rippers mode, fuelled by four pints of Carling.
Sod this, I thought, and barged my way through the barriers, charged onto the platform and boarded a district line train.
Finally, getting to Barking there were signs I might actually be able to get my train. I climbed aboard one which was helpfully labelled Shoeburyness. I sat there, among other people, for a good 10 minutes. Nothing happened.
Then the driver came into the carriage and helpfully informed us the next Eastbound train would be leaving from the platform opposite. "When?" I asked.
"In three minutes."
Gathering my bag and other junk I raced up the stairs, across the bridge, and down the other side, charged into the first carriage and found myself a seat. And waited. And waited. And waited.
Then saw a train labelled Shoeburyness depart from a platform next to us. "AAAAAAARGH!"
Our train did finally pull out another 15 minutes later, and I eventually got back to the Fat Kid's just before midnight.
And, yes, the Chinese was cold.
Bloody London transport.

Wetting the baby's head

2010-07-12T13:42:00.002Z

AFTER two and a half weeks of putting my feet up (... hold on that should be up and down the stairs about 30 times a day) I have finally returned to the relative comfort of work.
My colleagues on the Screws have been immensely supportive during the period since Olivia was born and we have had loads of congratulations cards and prezzies for the new arrival. Thanks to everyone for being so kind.
The charity doesn't extend to the office environment, however. Some people, in particular, can be exceptionally cruel.
Take one of our design experts, Adders. During the serious business of conference the other day he interrupted talks of World Cup finals, Liverpool future signings and the like to pipe up: "I bet Rippers is going to save a lot of money with this baby."
Everyone looked at him rather perplexed, and the boss asked him for an explanation. "Well, she can wear all Rippers' hand-me-downs," he replied, a rather crude jibe over my stature.
Rather than sympathy from my colleagues, however, the whole office fell about laughing, leaving me to consider my options. After all it was a particularly heightest remark.
HR!

Another rather cruel demand came from sports editor Macca, who ordered me to the pub in his dulcet east end tones. "Right, Rippers, down the pub. We have to wet the baby's head."
No arguments about having things to sub or e mails to catch up with would be entertained.
So, with heavy heart, we headed off in baking London temperatures to a pub which Macca assured us was a really good East End boozer, having a landlord with a heart of gold and a beautiful beer garden in which to soak up the rays. No doubt it sold jellied eels too.
No doubt I say because we reached the boozer only to find it was shut. No matter, we moved on to another very nice pub called the Town of Ramsgate. A bit of a walk from the office and when Critch followed on later, dodgy knees and all, he insisted that he would probably need a taxi back.
Still, it was a fun afternoon with much conversation surrounding the fact that one of our happy band, design guru Jim'll fix it, had spent the previous week in Berlin pestering the locals dressed in a giant Lion suit. He had become so enraptured with the Screws' website cartoon character Leo the Lion that he had "volunteered" to travel to the Brandenberg gate to "scare" the locals before England's last 16 World Cup tie against Germany.
Taking his role extremely seriously, it appears that at one stage Jim actually texted the editor at 10 at night, communicating AS LEO. The message infered that he was "one chimpanzee short of a gorilla". None of us would argue.
The heat obviously got the better of him, too, because there is one picture doing the rounds of Jim, prone on the floor, apparently asleep in Lion costume minus head, which is lovingly tucked under his arm. Disney wouldn't do it justice.
As for the scaring, it must have worked. The Germans were so petrified they ran, very fast, towards the England goal, depositing four goals into our net into the bargain.
That was the end of the Capello challenge, and last night the World Cup came to an end for another four years with Spain beating Holland 1-0 in extra time to become the new champions.
Well deserved, too.

Milk monitor

2010-07-03T05:07:00.002Z

I am writing this at just gone 6am in the morning having had to take my little treasure Olivia Jasmine for a walk in the buggy. Not my preferred time for a walk I must admit, but it's actually quite refreshing with the birds singing and the cool air.
Parents always tell you about sleepless nights when you have a child but you never quite realise how little sleep you get until it comes to you. Having dozed off for a good, solid four hours in the evening when the Fat Kid turned up to see her new sis and the Vin Monster his auntie ("What, how can she be? She's a baby", he cried), Olivia decided that the night is her time and that she would not settle for mum and dad to get some rest.
After a number of feeds that turned mum into a walking zombie, and more nappy changes than you can shake a pooh stick at, the only solution in the end was the fresh air. Already, I have the feeling Livvy will be a country girl. The first breath of a breeze on her face, and the first sound of birds tweeting, sends her into an almost serene calm which, having wailed off and on for the previous four hours, is a blessing, I can tell you. Mind you, my pecs are beginning to resemble those of Geoff Capes having had to lug the car seat from pillar to post over these last few days.
On Thursday we registered Livvy for her birth certificate, so she can now get a passport if she wants which, knowing the meagre state of my finances, won't be any time soon.
She has already made a starring appearance in the Bristol Evening Post, too, so is showing a hankering for picture bylines. The reporter rang up and asked what we wanted her to be and I couldn't help thinking, "Anything but a journalist. Get a proper job that actually pays proper money." Then, hopefully, she will be able to look after me in my old age - though by the time she is 30 I'll be 80 and I can't honestly envisage getting there.

Of course, normally in a World Cup year I would be watching every single moment of football on the tv but, what with running around after Mrs Rippers, who still has a way to go on her rehab and can't overdo it after the major surgery she has undergone, and working my magic as the sleep inducer for Little Liv, I have barely seen a moment in the last two weeks.
Must admit, though, I wish I hadn't seen England's dreadful demise. It reminds me of three days before the birth when the sports desk of the Screws descended on Batman (Cape, remember?) to watch the Algeria game.
All the other lads were ordering the beer in bulk but I had to cry off because I feared Mrs R could go into labour and I would have to make the three-hour trip back to Bristol to be there in time for the birth.
Half way through the second half, with everyone's pre-game optimism sinking with the realisation Capello's brave boys were going to be held to a 0-0 draw, boss Macca jabbed me in the shoulder and said: "Hey Rippers, if your wife goes into labour, can I go instead?"

Yeah, British sporting disappointment abounds. England crushed 4-1 by Germany and denied a goal that landed about two feet over the line (the ultimate irony after 1966), though their so-called superstars deserved nothing else, and Andy Murray out of Wimbledon in straight sets. Ever felt it was groundhog day?
Still, pleased with the Gas who have actually made three impressive signings. They are all relatively young and have lots to prove.
I was actually fearing our manager Paul Trollope was going to go and pay out for ageing, lacklustre, care-less players who would just drain our meagre wage bill and show no passion in return... like Lampard, Terry and Gerrard, for instance.

A born Gashead

2010-06-26T11:15:00.002Z

Well, the first five days with Olivia have gone rushing by and I think I've slept about six hours in that time. What with all the feeding - not that I have much to do with that - the nappy changing (which unfortunately I now seem to be responsible for, and paints daddy as the ogre in this picture of family bliss) and cooking, washing and looking after my convalescing wife it has been pretty busy to say the least.
We have had some lovely moments with our new baby daughter, but others have been a bit traumatic. She managed to headbut me on the chin while changing her - not a pleasant experience for either of us - and there was also the great water disaster, where I managed to whip the nappy off just in time for her to empty the contents of her bladder. Ah, such is life.
The worst episode came last night, however. It has been extremely hot and little Livvy doesn't take much to the heat. Like most of us she because a bit hot and bothered.
By about 9pm she had worked herself into a right tiz, and rather than watch the remaining minutes of the Spain v Chile World Cup group qualifier I was given the duty of calming her down.
Well, I've found the car seat is an excellent invention, even when it's not in the car. She likes the security of being strapped in, I believe, but on this occasion even that didn't work.
Time for a nice drive then to put her in a better state of mind. I drove about three miles but the screaming failed to abait. Time, then, for a song. And being a Gashead it seemed only right that Goodnight Irene deserved an airing.
I started singing it with gusto, but changed the words to Goodnight Livvy, and made up a couple of verses, too. Lo and behold, somehow she settled down.
Unfortunately there comes a time when you have to whip her out of the car and back into the house. How to do it?
Well, I continued singing for 20 minutes in the stationery car, then gently removed the seat belt and lifted the car seat out. Then, no doubt to the consternation of my neighbours, I continued to sing outside in the driveway for another good 20 minutes while she found a calm equilibrium.
Getting her back in the house, she was as peaceful as a lamb.
All of this is leading up to a sincere apology to my beautiful daughter. Sorry, love, but even at this tender age you are destined for a lifetime of misery, disappointments and failure. Livvy, once you're a gashead, you're always a gashead.

She is a bit of an outdoor girl, that's for sure. One of the things that can turn her from screaming banshee to serene beauty is putting her in the seat and taking her outside the back door by the allotments. She can hear the traffic roaring down nearby Blackberry Hill and the birds singing away. At that time she seems totally at peace.

Baby food

2010-06-21T22:06:00.002Z

AS I write this I can barely type, hardly speak and have just finished my first proper meal for about 36 hours. P*ssed again? Not a bit of it.
I've just spent the longest day of the year experiencing one of the most wonderful moments of my life... being at the birth of my daughter Olivia.
Many of you may have been aware that although we didn't know what the sex of our new child was going to be, I had been pretty convinced we would have a boy to carry on the Rippers dynasty. To that end, I have been talking all manner of boy things to the baby bump, like England's pathetic show so far in the World Cup, how my unborn child was destined to spend their life wallowing in the misery that comes with being a gashead and that should a posting come up with the Barmy Army they should sign up straight away.
Today, though, was the moment for home truths. Mrs Rippers and I left the house at 7am for the relatively short drive to Southmead Hospital, found the perfect parking place and checked in at the delivery suite.
As readers of this blog are no doubt aware, stubborn baby Rippers was steadfastly refusing to turn around and therefore was lying with head against poor mum's ribcage and bum facing in the direction the head should be. Hence, a week ahead of schedule we had been booked in for a c-section.
Mrs R wasn't too happy about it, feeling she would miss out on the extra chance to "bond" with baby during labour. I hesitated to mention she would also miss out on hours of agonising pain, and the feeling of having to squeeze a basketball through the eye of a needle.
The Southmead staff were absolutely first class. They warned us that things may take a little while to happen - particularly if an emergency caesarian came along - and at one stage we were half expecting to come back the next day with two people having gone in and no sign of anyone coming to fetch us.
Then, just before 12.30, our mouths dropped through the floor and our stomachs started to churn. It was our turn!
Well, when I say our turn, all I had to do was wheel the cases along to a storage room, then sit holding Mrs Rippers hand as they tore away her modesty, stripping her down, attaching various drips to her, painting her body like some Glastonbury hippy and giving her a short back and sides in a place where most hairdressers would fear to venture.
Finally, as she started to lose all feeling in her lower half, the surgeons entered and a curtain was erected in front of us so we couldn't see all the gory goings on.
I continued to talk quietly to Mrs R and the anaethetist while all manner of surgical operations were going on at the other end of the bed.
Then, in quicker time than either myself or my lovely wife could envisage, suddenly a little, wrinkly, beautiful, minature human being was shown to us over the curtain. A bit purple, I grant you, and protesting about such a rude awakening, but the baby was definitely here, clocking in at 1.55pm.
Then came the words that took me back only slightly. "It's a girl!"
Oh no! Many more years of being outvoted and ganged up against in my own home. How soon would she want an I-Phone, car insurance and, god forbid, a boyfriend? After all, I know what those boys are like. I used to be one.
Mrs Rippers and I had to quickly ditch the chosen name Cody for one more suited for the sex of our new-born. And looking into her eyes for the first time we both agreed - Olivia Jasmine.
After that we were transfered to a kind of holding room where Mrs R learnt how to feed the baby and I then dressed her for the first time in all her new clothes.
Eventually we were moved to the ward and, when the midwives departed to attend to more needy cases, we were suddenly left with this cute little bundle, totally dependant on us.
Twice, I'll have you know, I even instigated nappy changes while Mrs Rippers carried out the kind of tasks I was ill equipped for - despite the size of my man boobs.
And I admit it was only when I left the two of them to bond at 8pm that night I realised the enormity of what had taken place.
Holy Moly, I'm a dad again!

Getting ahead in advertising...

2010-06-14T15:21:00.002Z

SOME of the most creative minds in advertising gather together to come up with a concept for a TV campaign for one of their big-name brands.
Each of those gathered around the table take home in the region of £500k a year with the opportunity to make massive bonuses if the company in question gives their innovative campaign the nod.
The guru at the head of the table throws the floor open.
"I've got an idea," says concept genius No 1. "I'm just throwing it up in the air, seeing which way the wind blows, wondering whether it will fly..."
"Go ahead, No 1. You've come up with some brilliant ideas in the past... pot noodle, mashed potato, car insurance... how on earth can you top that?"
"Well," explains concept genius No 1. "I thought maybe we could make it topical. I am thinking: What's going to be going on over the next month, what will get hours of TV time, what is one of the most popular sports in the world? I know it's a bit of blue sky thinking but... why don't we link it to the football World Cup?"
The faces around the table begin to light up as they consider such a novel idea.
"Brilliant!" says one concept genius.
"Outstanding!" says another.
"No one else will think of that. I can really pick the ball up and run with that one," says a third.
"Ok No 3," says the boss. "how can you actually visualise this working?"
"Well," says concept guy No 3. "We are trying to advertise cars. And we are trying to link it with the World Cup so... what about we get some cars, paint them in the colours of football teams, and get them playing football?"
"Wow! Brilliant. Tremendous. An absolutely mind-bending concept. Why don't we all give ourselves £1m bonuses and run with it."
The heads around the table nod vigorously.
"Right, that's one sorted. Now, there is this website advertising for people to sell them cars. Apparently they will buy anything. Any thoughts on this one?"
Concept guru No 2, feeling left out of the earlier discussion, chimes in... "Why don't we get a girl sat behind a desk as if she is reading the news. Then some catchy little jingle starts up with the words 'We buy any car' and suddenly... a football bounces across, she grabs it and then, along with six or seven dancers, she plays an impromptu game of keepy uppy, before sitting back down at the desk again."
"Superb!" says the boss. "That's a £1m bonus to you too, No 2."
The amount of advertising with tenuous links to the world's greatest sporting event is enough to make me rant at the screen. It has to be said that some of them are pretty clever - the Carlsberg England team talk and the ad which was updated with the boys in the middle of the desert asking about the World Cup scores are pretty inventive.
But when EVERY advert somehow manages to contain a football, or reference to the event in South Africa, you really start to despair. I wonder how that chocolate bar, famous for being deep fried in Scottish chip shops, is selling north of the border after pinning itself totally to the England cause. It is no wonder our footballers seem to move twice as slowly as some of the other teams in this competition if they have been indulging in sweet treats during the build up.
By all means advertise food high in protein or carbohydrate, but not the kind of stuff that, when eaten with gay abandon, makes you feel so bloated and cumbersome that it makes it a major feat to touch your toes. Perhaps England's goalkeeper Rob Green had been indulging a bit too much on free supplies of chocs from the England team sponsor before his glaring boo boo cost them the match in the 1-1 draw with the USA on Saturday.

There is a week to go before the big one - no, not England-Slovenia but the day little Rippers is brought into the world. Tense stuff.
Mrs Rippers and I are trying to relax as much as we can before the big event - and fortunately for me this means resting in front of the TV watching every match I possibly can.
I am already starting to wonder, though, whether this might classify as one of the more boring World Cups. There have been some decent stories but none of the football thus far - bar those blasted Germans - has really set the World alight. Mind you, we still have Brazil and Spain to come.

My little Clio Ramsey was supposed to be named after the famous Scottish chef by virtue of the fact he was a wee bit temperamental.
Now I realise that Gordon actually spells his surname with two a's. Sir Alf - manager of that England World Cup winning side of 66, does spell his name with an e, however. An omen?
God, I am starting to sound like all those people around me who know b**ger all about football but don England shirts, fly the cross of St George and endlessly talk themselves into believing we can win the damn thing when all the evidence says otherwise.
These bouts of "false" jingoism, no doubt inspired by marketing men and advertisers conning them out of their hard earned cash, really get on my t*ts.

Chile reception

2010-06-11T13:27:00.002Z

Having a drink in the Batman on Thursday (the Batman being the new nickname for the "Cape" Horner in Wapping - can't think why) and it got around to quiz time.
One of our number warned us first that there were three answers and we had to get all three before hitting the imaginery "buzzer" and giving our reply. A race against time, then.
With the World Cup about to start in South Africa, all conversation has turned to football and our betting guru, Lethal, was convinced he could catch us out.
"Which three teams at the World Cup," he asked in his best Magnus Magnusson voice, "have the same letter at the beginning of their name as the end of it?"
Good question and there were fevered brows all around. I must admit that I could only think of one at first, then the second one came to me and I knew I was leading the race.
Then from nowhere Spurs fanatic Barry the Page-Builder buzz interrupted my train of thoughts. "Got it," he said with complete certainty. "Chile..."
All heads turned to him, with baffled expressions. "Oh no! That could only happen if it was Chile FC!" he gasped, as reality dawned.
To avoid spoiling it for everyone, answers on a postcard please... you'll get the correct line up in the next blog entry.

2 for 1 cocktail madness

2010-06-10T11:27:00.002Z

MET up with some of the old WoS crew on Monday for a few pre-baby beers (it may be my last chance for some time). Good to see the Fugitive and Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes) though it must be said the day deteriorated somewhat after a leisurely few beers and a terrific lunch in Mimosas at Cardiff Bay.
I opted for the steak and although it came cut up, as if prepared for an infant, and sat on top of a square of chips that somewhat resembled a game of Jenga, it was beautifully cooked - though I do somewhat quibble at the price - £16. I guess you pay for the presentation.
Where it all deteriorated was when we returned to the city centre and, after a quick bevvy in the old new O'Neil's where we were joined by Wathanovski, the Fugitive suddenly had it in his mind that it would be a good idea to pop into Pica Pica because there was a 2 for 1 cocktail offer.
Now, I am all for 2 for 1 cocktails on a Friday or Saturday night from about 8pm, but on a quiet Monday at around 6.30? Still, there was no holding the Welsh rugby fanatic back and pretty soon we were chugging back Mojitos and some dangerous looking red drink. I have no idea what it was or what it contained.
By 8.30 or so I had wobbled back to the Sandringham Hotel where I was staying and the next thing I knew I was waking at 5.30am, lights blazing and tv blaring.
I do miss Cardiff.

The hotel itself was more than adequate and value for money at £36. It is located right in the middle of St Mary's Street and though it has seen better days it still had everything you could require as a crash pad after a boozy night out, including a full English breakfast that was all part of the overall price.

Mrs Rippers was distraught at the weekend. It appeared her internet had packed in, preventing her from single-handedly keeping Amazon.co.uk in business. She rang Virgin Media's IT support without luck, cursing the "useless" person on the end of the phone who tried to advise her.
Eventually, three days later, a new wireless router turned up on the doorstep.
I tried to set it up but it kept telling me that it couldn't find the computer I was using - that was until I found the little switch on the side which enables you to access the internet and pushed it forward.
"Oh," said Mrs R, looking a little bit perplexed. "I wonder if that is the reason I couldn't access the net?"
A possibility, I reckon, but nice to get a brand new router into the bargain.

For someone who absolutely hates setting things up, I have found myself in my own personal hell over the last few weeks. First there was the Argos flatpack which, after much cussing, finally turned itself into a child's chest of drawers, and on Wednesday it was a large canvas covered wardrobe.
Mrs Rippers, in the advanced stages of pregnancy, sat on the big round ball she had obtained from Mothercare and acted as foreman for the afternoon while I battled with various sized planks of wood, screws and an Alun key.
I have to say the raw materials I was given to work with must have been put together by a mentally challenged chimpanzee which made the job even harder than it appeared to be in the first place. I found myself using words which, quite honestly, have never really been part of my vocabulary - phrases like "This joint isn't flush."
I guess if the job opportunities ever dry up I could find myself working for B&Q with that kind of language.

Car seat hell!

2010-06-03T15:52:00.002Z

I am now getting a teensy-weensy bit worried about how my calm, mild-mannered personality is going to cope with a teeny weeny baby.
This occured to me at some time, mid rage, on Wednesday afternoon.
Having visited the hospital to find out a little more about the impending birth, Mrs Rippers and I returned home.
First we opted to complete the set of Argos drawers we had bought for the new arrival and, after a little bit of counting up to 10, we managed it - result. Then we decided it might be an idea to try to fit the super-dooper, all-singing, all-dancing car seat we had purchased into our motor vehicles.
At first, it seemed a simple task. It took me no time at all to get the seat into Mrs R's Micra Millie and I felt quite proud of myself. I even managed it with our stroppy teddy bear Fenway strapped into the seat. A rather big baby, I have to admit, but perhaps a bit more pliable than the real thing.
Then it came to my Clio Ramsey, and it was an entirely different story. I strained this way, pulled that way, swapped seats, swapped belts, everything. And none of it worked. Only one thing to do. Stomp up and down and express the opinion that "obviously they didn't have car seats when this car was built". Umm, 1998, actually. Thinking about it, that is probably a bit of a mad declaration.
Anyway, following my moto - if in doubt, give up - I stomped off back into the house, flinging the instruction book onto the table and declaring that I would need to get a new set of safety belts.
Fortunately my wife is a bit of a cooler character, and far more up with new tech. She went onto you-tube and found out exactly how the car seat should be fitted.
After coming down off the ceiling, I watched the video and was shocked to see how easily the task could be performed. Trying it out in Ramsey, the seat fitted... no problem. Which makes me ask: Why bother with such a ludicrously complicated, over long, instruction manual when a video does the job in half the time?

Meanwhile, the Fat Kid has lived up to my nickname for her. I call her the goldfish because, no matter what happens to her, she will go through exactly the same thing a few weeks later as if she has never encountered the problem before.
She is now going back out with ex boyfriend Scott. This was ex boyfriend Scott she moaned about excessively, who treated her worse than dirt etc.
A month later, though, and one more trip around the goldfish bowl...

The name's Rippers...

2010-06-01T13:20:00.002Z

I had a Daniel Craig moment in the swimming baths this morning. Ok, so Daniel Craig is tall, has rippling pecs, hair and has millions in the bank. I, on the other hand, can boast none of these attributes.
But as I climbed up the steps from the water I couldn't help notice that all eyes were turned on me. It was as if the blokes all wanted to be me and the women, ok they were all probably short-sighted and not one of them was below 50, all wanted to be with me. I walked cockily back to the dressing rooms, the sunlight glistening on my admirable torso, and hopped into the shower, feeling quite chuffed.
Then I spotted the rip that extended from the bottom to the top of one of the legs of my bermuda shorts. In fact, there was more resemblance to a cheap Hollywood hooker than the latest 007, star of the James Bond movies, who has become a pin-up for many frustrated housewives up and down the land.
I guess I shouldn't be surprised, really. The trunks have certainly had a lot of use since I bought them, what, at least 15 years ago I would think. Time to invest in a new pair, I reckon.

Mrs Rippers and I are trying to persuade young Rippers to turn around. With just under four weeks left until our lives change forever and the little mite pops out, he, or she, has decided to lie the wrong way around in a very strange position where the two little feet have somehow found themselves next to the head. Looks a bit uncomfortable and we are informed that this is the breach position. To correct this there has been plenty of advice, one piece being that Mrs Rippers should do the opposite to the baby and lie with arse in the air and head on the floor. Not exactly the most flattering pose and I can't see it catching on.
There is time yet, though, but if the little one doesn't feel like moving we aren't going to try to persuade it otherwise - it may well mean Mrs R has to have a c-section but we will wait and see what the doc says tomorrow.

Last night I made a rather tasty spicy Italian Lamb casserole.
What you need:
3 tablespoons olive oil
Lamb (I used two lamb steaks cut into cubes)
1 small onion, finely chopped
1 celery stalk, finely chopped
3 garlic cloves, crushed
1/2 cup red wine
3/4 teaspoon chilli flakes
1 tablespoon of crushed juniper berries (I didn't have these so threw in five red seedless grapes)
2 tablespoons tomato paste
1 cup chicken stock
1 sprig of rosemary
12 small onions
2 potatoes, cut into chunks
2 tablespoons finely chopped parsley

WHAT I DID:
Pre-heat over to 350 degrees/gas mark 4
Heat the oil in a large casserole
Add the lamb in batches, season with salt and pepper, and brown over a high heat
Remove when browned.
Add the onion, celery and garlic to the remaining oil, reduce the heat and cook for 4-5 mins until softened
Return lamb to casserole and pour on marsala. Cook over high heat until dark brown and reduced by half.
Add chilli flakes, juniper berries (or grapes) and cook, stirring, for 10-15 secs.
Add tomato paste, chicken stock, rosemary and 1 cup of water, just enough to cover the ingredients.
Cover with lid and bake in oven for 45 minutes.
Add the small onions and potato and cook for a further 45 minutes.
Stir in the parsley, then serve.

water torture

2010-05-27T16:43:00.002Z

THERE are moments during your motoring life when you feel a bit like John Cleese in Fawlty Towers or Clockwise. I managed to combine the two on Saturday in a hectic morning that wasn't ideal preparation for the biggest day of the Welsh sporting calendar - Cardiff City in the Championship play-off final against Blackpool at Wembley.
Determined to get to work early I first decided that as my Clio Ramsey had been leaking a bit of water of late it would be best to top it up first to avoid any later catastrophes either on the way to work or on the way home to Bristol afterwards.
Having done this, I set off nice and early.
The clunk came just after leaving the Fat Kid's house but I thought nothing of it. I just assumed something was rolling around in the boot.
Then, 20 minutes later, I suddenly had a thought. I couldn't remember replacing the cap after topping up the water.
Stopping in a layby I lifted the bonnet and my worst fears were realised. Steam was coming out of a gaping hole in my radiator where the cap should have been. Oops.
Then came the dilemma. Do I drive on, find a garage, and just hope they have a cap to fit a Renault? Risky, because I imagine the water could disappear pretty damn fast, evaporating as the temperature grew.
Or do I turn around, drive all the way back and try to find the cap on a rather vast expanse of road just around the corner from my starting point, thus losing all the time gained and making it impossible for me to get to work on time.
My third option was to shout at myself "stupid! stupid! stupid!", though I must admit I did fall short of actually whipping Ramsey with a tree branch.
Eventually I chose the second option, turned the car around and headed back, mumbling under my breath at every motorist in my way, even though it was not their fault I had left my water cap lying around somewhere on the engine when I had left the house that morning.
Finally, after much cussing, I got back to the point where I thought it had fallen off. I scoured the pavements and the road for a good few hundred yards before coming to the conclusion it was a near impossible task.
But wait. Then I saw it lying in the road. Happy days. But not. Some sod had run it over and broken it. I tried to do a temporary repair job on it, then dropped half of it into my radiator. Aaargh! Cue more Fawlty impressions.
Last resort, I pulled out my mobile and dialled the AA explaining, in a frantic way, what the problem was. Bless them, they had someone with me within 15 minutes... and he had a spare water cap on his van.
Having fixed it on and also temporarily repaired a water leak, he was on his way.
Vehicle repair man... I salute you.

More Fawlty impressions followed the next day when Mrs Rippers and I decided to try to put together a chest of drawers for the new arrival. Hmm.
The "easy to assemble" (ha!) kit came from Argos.
First we had to count up whether we had all the right parts. Who puts these things together?
In a bag supposedly containing four screws there were only three. Is it a child's chest of drawers because a child put the bags together and had yet to learn to count up to four? Ridiculous.
Still, we soldiered on and were quite pleased after muscling some screws into a hard piece of wood and attaching a metal runner to it.
Then Mrs Rippers sheepish looked up from the position she had assumed as foreman. "Umm, I have just looked at the instructions again. I think it is on the wrong way around."
Still, after taking two hours to afix the first metal runner we had soon got the hang of it and the second one took 20 minutes - thanks, in no small measure, to the electric screwdriver Mrs Rippers had cunningly purchased.
I don't know about electric screwdriver, I think Dr Who's sonic one is needed here... to whisk us forward into the future when the job is finally completed.

Meet the new boss, same as the old boss...

2010-05-20T10:35:00.003Z

... and I've been fooled again. The mother-in-law has such a gentle way with her that you don't realise before it is too late that she has chipped away at your resistance and you suddenly find yourself painting the new chest of drawers that you have bought for the coming arrival.
Now, me doing any kind of DIY is like asking the Rev Ian Paisley to take holy communion, but there I was sat outside my back door splashing paint on various strips of wood and, it must be said, most of myself in the process.
Not only that but on Tuesday night our curtain pole in the main bedroom decided to pull itself away from the wall (thanks in no small part from the lovely Mrs Rippers managing to sit on the curtain) and suddenly it was all hands to the pump to get it fixed.
Her mum immediately took charge like some strange mixture of Lawrence Llewellyn Bowen and Field Marshall Montgomery, and was quick to provide the polyfilla which she insisted was a cure for anything.
Try as we might, though, we couldn't get the curtain pole screws to fix into the polyfilla-filled holes and it was then I decided that perhaps brain power rather than brute force was the answer. Swiftly taking control, I suggested that the screws actually needed to screw into something, rather than lamely sit in some sticky gunge until it finally set. And after much elbow grease and aching arms I managed to use Mrs R's miniature Phillips screwdriver to drill the screws into the stone wall. Magically, the curtain pole was then put back on and the screws held it in place! Great, it is still firmly afixed while we speak.
Mind you, I may have made a curtain rod for my own back. Mum in law Amanda said: "You see, you are good at this, if you try."
Oh no.
Anyway, in all seriousness she has been a great help to Mrs Rippers at a time when she was struggling to juggle house, work and a rapidly increasing bump. Amanda went back home to sunny Suffolk yesterday with our thanks ringing in our ears.
Immediately I resumed the position: Prone on the bean bag, watching my favourite DVDs...

I thought Ramsey was about to pack in on me last night. I'd only just got onto the M4 on the long haul to Southend and was pushing 80 when the little Clio started jumping and juddering around like some ageing punk pogoing to the Damned.
Bugger, I thought. I am going to have to stop and call the AA.
Then I had another thought.
When I took the car out of third gear and put it into fifth instead, the rev counter came down from 80 to 30 and normal service was resumed. Doh!

Kitchen Cabinet

2010-05-14T10:06:00.002Z

In the spirit of coalition government, I now find myself with two bosses. Mrs Rippers, no doubt tired of nagging me about all the things that need to be done by the time the new arrival turns up in about six weeks time(!), has called in her mum for support and I am now firmly in the minority in the House of Frenchay Commons.
Only joking, of course. Myself and Amanda get on famously, and it has to be said she has been a great help to Mrs Rippers and myself, particularly in terms of ironing all my shirts, t shirts (something I have rarely done) and even my jim jams (which NEVER used to happen). It means, though, that at least I find myself able to lie rigidly in my new fold-up bed at the Fat Kid's.
Amanda's quiet, persuasive ways have definitely kick-started me into a few other things, and I have now re-arranged the kitchen completely so that there is room for the new bottle sterilizer and all things associated with baby feeding in the kitchen.
You may recall that during the reign of Ridsdale (our rather unwanted, furry house guest) we had to move everything out of the kitchen cabinets and put them into various tins and things on the work tops. It meant there was barely room to swing a rat, let alone cat, but the disappearance of the troublesome critter has meant the plan was due a re-think.
Interestingly, though, when I went through all the various tins, plastic containers and boxes I uncovered a huge supply of biscuits. In fact, in some of them there was just one pack of biccies or a couple of bars of chocolate.
I didn't realise that Mrs R's hoarding capacity for sweet things was so great and once re-arranged I found that I now have complete access to my kitchen work surfaces without having to throw away any of my lovely wife's hidden treats.

Talking of beds, I got a wee bit distressed at turning up in Shoeburyness every week to find that the Vin Monster and Big Boy had taken to using my blow-up bed as an early morning bouncy castle. Unfortunately it meant that these handy inflatables didn't last for long, despite their cost, so Mrs Rippers decided I needed a more sturdy sleeping place.
She pointed out on the Argos website that there was a fold away chair/bed which would do the trick admirably and ordered it for me straight away. It arrived at the Fat Kid's a couple of days later and is, indeed, comfy with the added advantage that it doesn't deflate in the night, leaving you lying on a hard, uncomfortable floor.
The down side? As the Fat Kid put it last night "That is probably the smallest bed in the world". Still, as long as I lie with my legs and arms close to my sides (a position much easier to adopt with the new ironed jim jams) then I can generally manage a more comfortable night's sleep.

Bad news on the jobs front for myself and everyone who helps put together the Welsh edition at the Screws. Like elsewhere, we have been hit by cutbacks (Wow, it's only a couple of days since David Cam-moron came to power). The outcome is that the edition going to the principality has been cut and I now find myself as a minister without portfolio. Hopefully something will be sorted out to keep me in the lifestyle to which I am accustomed, and there are various irons in the fire. I wish everyone else affected the best of luck too because the last year has been a real blast, and I've loved every minute of it.

Cooking with Jean Christophe

2010-05-07T09:17:00.002Z

Well, there goes the election and what a damp squib it all was. Thinking back to that glorious night in 1997 when all the bigwigs like Michael Portillo and Chris Patten were booted out of office, I was quite looking forward to sitting in front of the TV and watching the story unfold.
Unfortunately, aided by a few glasses of beer, I never really got started. In fact, the results coming in were so slow that when I dozed off after over three hours of watching the scoreline read: Labour 3 Tories 0. Imagine my surprise then when I woke up and found out that comeback kid Cameron had turned it around and was leading by a significant margin, though not significant enough to form a majority Tory government, thank goodness. I don't think I could stand the sleazy richkids in power again, and one look at that snooty toff from Richmond, who just happens to be a millionaire (or is it billionaire) thanks to Daddy's money, was enough to leave me with my head buried back under the pillow.
Still, there is lot more to come.

Talking about damp squibs, I had some fun with some damp squids on Wednesday (see what I did there?). Mrs Rippers bought me a day's course at the Jean Christophe Novelli academy and, though the big man himself failed to make an appearance, we were told the patter of tiny feet upstairs was his nipper running around.
I must admit it was a pretty fun day. Situated at a farmhouse at a place called Tea Green just outside Luton, there were 16 of us at the Novelli Academy to experience there "Beside the Seaside" course advising us on various things involving fish.
The theme seemed to be very much the same. Of the 16, 13 of us were blokes and nearly all of us had been bought the course as "presents" by a female member of the family. I guess it was a gentle hint that they are becoming sick to death of various meat-based chillis and curries (hot, extra hot, eye-wateringly hot etc).
My fellow students did a wide range of jobs - There was a policeman and a solicitor for starters.
Well, no, actually there was a very nice crab bisque for starters, but you know what I am saying.
Of course, my chosen profession created some interest, particularly when I was struggling to open up an Oyster Shell and one wag commented: "I didn't think you journalists ever had trouble sticking the knife in!"
Anyway, we went on to debone a mackerel, prepare a crab, fry said mackerel, try raw Oysters and caviar, and prepare a barbecued squid with prawn, asparagus and tomato. All through the day we snacked and I must admit by the time it was over at about 4.50pm I was pretty damn full. Still, hopefully some of the recipes will be forwarded to me and I will be able to try out my new creations on Mrs Rippers and maybe her mum Amanda, too, who is staying at our bijou cottage for a few days. I'm in desperate need of recipes at the mo, so don't be surprised to see some appearing on here, too.

All le rage

2010-05-06T12:03:00.007Z

It's difficult to believe it, but Mrs Rippers and I were celebrating our first wedding anniversary this weekend. A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since then - in fact, it has been a bit of a tidal wave.
We have been on honeymoon to Cuba, moved in together in our little country cottage in Bristol, I've started a new job on the Screws and Mrs R has somehow managed to get herself with child. Amazing.
I think it had all got to her a bit and she had to take two weeks off because she was practically exhausted, but things have improved recently and it meant we could get away for an anniversary break.
I booked us into the Savill Court Hotel near Egham, Surrey. When I mentioned the destination of our anniversary break there were a few chuckles from some of the crew at the Screws, expecting me to announce I was whisking her off to Paris or somewhere. "Egham?" asked cockney Cliff, unable to surprise the smile on his face.
I am delighted to report, however, that it was an absolutely fantastic break. The tree-lined driveway led to a very nice country house in acres of grounds, and when we went for a wander we ended up taking in the air at Windsor Great Park just down the road. We must have walked about two miles, not bad for my pregnant wife though she was struggling a bit at the end and desperate for somewhere to sit down. It was rather bracing, too, the lovely warm weather having disappeared, typically, just before we went away.
After our walk we got dressed and headed into Egham for a meal at the Brasserie Gerard. These are a French chain of restaurants and are very nice indeed in a bistro sort of way. A bit pricey maybe but we certainly enjoyed our meals. Mrs Rippers had a demi poulet (or half a chicken for those Anglophiles with little grasp of the French language) while I enjoyed boeuf bourginon.
As a starter I had some lovely battered squid with tartare sauce while Mrs R tucked into a very nice cream of mushroom soup.
A pleasant change.

The following day I suddenly became aware of a new phenomenon. Apparently pregnancy, as well as causing cravings, cramps, insomnia and other minor irritations, also causes road rage. True.
After swimming 64 lengths of the hotel pool we set off for Runnymede, which was just down the road. It seemed appropriate to visit the home of democracy in the week of the general election and we had a short walk to the place commemorating where the Magna Carta was signed.
Then, after an aborted trip to Windsor where the cars queued around the block, we decided to visit Oxford.
By this stage Mrs Rippers had control of Ramsey and it was then that the trouble ensued. We were trying to manouevre our way through a packed long-stay car park when Mrs R politely allowed a woman to pull out in front of us.
But rather than drive on she immediately reversed into the parking space we had our eye on. Well, how dare she! I saw the red mist glaze over my mild-mannered wife's eyes and then, having finally discovered where the horn was, she gave five sharp blasts and shook her fist Tim Henman style.
I was a little bit perturbed (and scared) I had to admit, and tried to talk her down. But as we drove around the corner there was another car blocking our path. Now Ramsey might be a small car, but the gap between the car and a parked van on the right was no way big enough for him to go through. But, revving her engine in the style of a female Jenson Button, she lined up the gap and started to move forward. "No, no," I screamed for dear life, "What the hell are you doing?" Fortunately she stopped just in time as my knuckles went white holding on to the handle above the passenger door.
After that little episode I needed a stiff drink. Unfortunately, I couldn't have one because I fully intended to take over behind the wheel for the rest of the journey back to Bristol. So instead I settled for an orange juice in the Morse Bar of the Randolph Hotel, so called because apparently Inspector Morse himself used to drink there (though I can't recall seeing an episode where that was the case). There were plenty of pictures of John Thaw on the walls though, and we took the chance of an impromptu photo shoot ourselves.
A splendid day, but a salient warning. Don't attempt to park in a space if the car behind you is being driven by Mrs Rippers.

Terror Nova

2010-04-29T14:37:00.002Z

I spent a very pleasant day in Cardiff, reviving the boozeday Tuesday tradition with the Wonderful Withers of WoS.
Poor old Mrs R has not been very well lately, unable to sleep and having two weeks off work because of exhaustion. So, as you would expect, I stayed around to comfort and look after her. Or, more to the point, I jumped in my car Ramsey, hurtled over the bridge, and went on the razz with the wonderful one.
This is our first anniversary week and I can't believe that this has come about so quickly. It only seemed right that I should celebrate the build up with the wonderful one, my best man, while my car was being given a good overhaul by mechanic Charlie.
Having dropped off Ramsey, I wandered into town and then went around to drop my stuff off at Withers' new gaffe. Interesting. It is a flat on the Taff Embankment in a less than salubrious part of Grangetown in Cardiff. Although the flat is very amenable the wonderful one is a bit worried about the people with whom he co-habits.
On the bottom floor there are four able-bodied lads, all aged around the early 20s, who seem to spend all their time sitting on the green opposite, chilling out in deck chairs and juggling with empty vodka bottles. bizarre.
Withers is convinced they are part of the witness protection scheme, but I'm not so sure. They all have rather posh motors, but seem to do nothing in the way of work to justify them. Make your own mind up.
Still, as long as the Wonderful One is happy with his lot.
From his flat we walked down to Cardiff Bay where an hour outside in the sun at the Ely Jenkins pub resulted in a big red blotch forming on the Wonderful One's shaved pate. As good as any holiday, he assured me, as we then moved around to the Terra Nova to have lunch.
Lunch? That was a laugh. It almost finished up as a late night supper.
The girl at the bar reminded me of a Monty Python character manning the infamous cheese shop. "No haven't got any of that", "No, that's off", "Oh yeah we have got that ... oh sorry, the cat has just eaten it".
Eventually, having settled for cheese burgers they finally arrived and very tasty they were, too. But by then the sun had gone in and I was losing the will to live.
At that moment Shutts turned up and perhaps the increasing shadows were down to the fact he loomed over us, insisted he was looking forward to a few cheeky ones, then knocked back a diet coke before dropping us off in town.
It was off then to the new old O'Neills where I have to say the standard of barmaid has slipped somewhat. One of them managed to fill a glass full of foam before assuring me: "It will settle". No chance.
I insisted on a refill and finally the Wonderful One got his deserved pint.
We were then joined by the Fugitive and after a couple of beers we moved around the corner to look for Las Iguanas. Apparently, it no longer exists.
The boozer standing in its place was ok, and we had a pint before moving inside where a very pleasant girl waited our table.
A little while later I heard her telling the barman about how her brother worked as a reporter on the Sun in the United States.
There followed a string of invective by him about tabloid journos which forced me to intervene very sharply, telling him he didn't have a clue what he was talking about. I fell just short of saying "Do you know who I am?" Still, he looked pretty chastised and I got a blue bottle key ring in the process.

One of my colleague, Mr Jolly, rents out houses and has a similar problem to mine. He is experiencing visits from grey, hairy rodents with long tails.
His immediate boss, chief sub Jonesy, isn't too happy, though. Apparently Jolly named his first rat Jonesy.
Jolly's latest rat, who has sadly departed this mortal coil, also has a newsworthy name.
We have a Celtic-supporting, Glasgow-based scribe called Bob in the office, and Jolly decided his second rodent should take his name.
Today we hear that both Jonesy and Bob got caught in traps and died a painful death.
Oh dear!

Picnic at the zoo

2010-04-22T11:30:00.003Z

I'm beginning to think that I am in the middle of some biblical moment.
First there was the infestation of slugs, then the appearance of the "ghost" rat which no amount of poison, traps etc has managed to solve.
Now, when Mrs Rippers and I wandered into our kitchen the other day, we found that there was a "plague" of black flies.
Either they have arrived because Ridsdale has departed from this mortal coil and they were feasting on his remains, or some higher being decides our life is far too comfortable at the moment.
To be fair, these flies are the most sluggish, lazy flying things I have ever encountered. They just flop about like the wonderful Withers after a boozy session, waiting to be swatted or squirted with some dire insecticide.
I opened the back door the other day and gave them a whole two hours to find their escape route... yet one was still hanging about when I returned. The solution? A firm tap with a recent Wales on Sunday. Knew it would be good for something.

Well after all the Buggy-fuss I can now reveal we are the proud owners of a baby mobile which cost us a little under £200, with car seat included. Result! Particularly as Mrs Rippers was keen to snap up a "bargain" for a little under £500 not long ago only for me to intervene with help from the Fat Kid.
Well, the Fat Kid came down on Saturday to help out with the buggy hunt and it was her expert advice that swung the deal. And after saving so much money I rewarded her, the vin monster and the big boy with a day out at Bristol Zoo.
Pretty expensive, to be honest, and for a place that carries the logo of an elephant on every sign for miles around I found it a mite strange that they don't even have any on site. At least I think they don't, unless they were hiding behind the giant fruit bats we came across hanging outside their cage.
While there we had a picnic and when we returned in the evening I also got the Fat Kid a bottle of rose wine. Amazingly, she managed to get rather squiffy on two glasses, though I have to admit they were pretty big glasses.

Poor old Mrs Rippers has been suffering from insomnia. She can't get to sleep for love nor money and was in such a state on Tuesday that the doc gave her a week off work to recover.
Not only that, but the Fat Kid has a severe case of laryngitis and is feeling very sorry for herself.
For the rest of us, it's some welcome peace from her shouting at the boys about their ability to cover the carpet in choco pops.

Easy meat

2010-04-15T10:17:00.002Z

Well, having seen my beloved Gas get completely annihilated by Southampton 5-1 on Tuesday (total revenge for our beating them 3-2 at St Mary's) I am glad to say there was one little bit of compensation on the horizon.
I usually have a bet on the outcome with my colleague in crime, sports news ed Dykesy, but this time we decided to do things a bit differently.
It started off as a £5 bet but, always one for an opportunity when it comes to throwing his money away, Dykesy decided that we should do things a bit differently. "I know, I'll bet that your lot win and you bet that my lot win. Then, the loser won't be so disappointed."
Good idea, and I am still looking for the catch, to be perfectly honest, particularly when as the week wore on he kept upping the stakes. I thought maybe he knew that Saints boss Alan Pardew was going to have to play his Under 15 side against us (mind you, they probably cost a few mill to put together - after all, it's the youth set up that discovered Theo Walcott and Gareth Bale).
Eventually we settled on £17, the vastly inflated cost of my admission to the derelict bombsite known as the Mem.
After that it was down to my old hero, Rickie Lambert - the man we sold and never replaced at the start of the season - to score the first two Saints goals as we were roasted on the pitch.
Leaving the ground at the bitter end at least I had the compensation of thinking: "Dykesy, you tw@t!"
A wit next to me put his finger on the reason for our defeat. "I blame the ball boys," he said. "They kept getting the ball back too quickly!"

Ramsey needed an overhaul on Monday so I paid a visit to my old mate Charlie in Cardiff. Having a few hours to kill I wondered what on earth I was going to do. I bought a £3 all-day bus travel pass and took a trip into the centre of town, fully intending to go swimming. The bus system has all changed in Cardiff and it now means that rather than get a trip straight to the International Swimming Pool on the No 8 or 9 I now had to get a 38 or 39 into town and change buses in the centre.
While my journey progressed I noticed that Glamorgan were playing their first county championship game at Sophia Gardens and that Monty Panesar was in the Sussex team. It was a no brainer. I quickly changed my plans and hot-footed it to the Swalec Stadium to watch a morning's cricket in the beautiful spring sunshine.
When Charlie called later in the day to ask if I could collect the car it all seemed a simple matter. Return to the bus stop, catch the bus back to his garage, pick up the car, hand over the cash and toddle off back over the bridge.
I hadn't counted on the ability of Cardiff Council and Cardiff Bus to cause complete traffic chaos.
I went to all the bus stops I knew where the bus might pick me up and take me back - including the one across the road from where I had alighted earlier. No chance.
I ended up walking a mile around Cardiff City centre without finding the appropriate stop or any pointers as to where the bus might actually pick up.
In the end I walked, fuming and rather hot and sweaty, back to Charlie's garage having been unable to use my All Day pass. Thanks Cardiff Council, thanks Cardiff Bus.
As Woody would say: What a bunch of numpties!

Marlin in green pepper and tomato sauce

2010-04-09T10:39:00.004Z

Our chief sports sub Jonesy has been looking for a new career that will make him a pot load of money. His search has been going on for years, so I am reliably informed.
Every week he will come in, like some latter-day Yosser Hughes of Boys from the Blackstuff fame, and announce: "I could do that... go on Gissa job."
Recent ideas that have come from the fertile area of his mind reserved for making a quick buck have included taking over our local hostelry (or dive as we like to call it) and turning it into a trendy wine bar and forming our own CSI team. His idea was CSI Wapping and he gave certain members of the staff jobs in his new "regime", pronouncing that Critch would be the explosive expert because he would like to "blow things up".
All very amusing but it took a new twist in the Cape Horner on Thursday night when he arrived shortly after Screws' celebrity lawyer Tom Crony joined our motley crew. Taking a quick peak at what the legal eagle was inbibing, Jonesy quickly declared he would have a pint of IPA, too.
Now, for a man who normally quaffs lager, this was a great break with tradition, and it soon dawned on us that he was actually intending to become a Crony clone.
All became clear when he turned to Critch, who is in the middle of house hunting in the Essex countryside, and announced: "I know Critch... I'll do your conveyancing. I could be a lawyer, honestly. I could do that... gissa job!"
None of us were entirely convinced, particularly the ambushed Critch.

The other day Mrs Rippers put her head round the door with a very concerned look on her face.
"Come here," she said.
"What's wrong?" I asked, but she was staying schtum.
I dropped what I was doing and joined her in the bathroom where it immediately became clear something strange was afoot.
There was this strange buzzing noise, like a drilling sound.
We wondered whether maybe there was a problem with the plumbing, or perhaps someone was attempting to drill there way into our bathroom from outside, a kind of super rat that would make Ridsdale seem merely a slight inconvenience.
As my ears adjusted, though, I was able to track down the source of the sound.
In a little beaker, just above the sink, my wife's vibrating toothbrush was still going strong.
She looked rather sheepish when I showed her the root of the problem.

I've had some marlin steaks in the freezer for some time now. I bought them from a company called Good Taste Foods who come around in a van and sell you all kinds of weird and wonderful products for your freezer.
I purchased a carton of exotic fish, not realising that some of them were not suitable for pregnant ladies - particularly the marlin and swordfish. Hence why they have been sitting in the freezer since then.
No matter, casting around for something for lunch the other day I decided it was high time I cooked the marlin. Finding a recipe on the good old internet, and slightly altering it, I set about the task with gusto.
INGREDIENTS
2 Marlin steaks
half a chopped onion
A chopped green pepper
6 ozs tomato sauce (ketchup)
Half a tin of tomatoes
1 tsp worcestershire sauce
a handful of chilli flakes

TO DO:
Put a tablespoon or so of oil in frying pan
Heat, then fry the onions and green pepper for five minutes.
Add salt and pepper
Add in the tomato sauce and worcestershire sauce and continue cooking for 5 minutes.
Then add the half tin of tomatoes and chilli flakes.
Bring to boil then pour the whole lot over the marlin in an ovenproof dish.
Cook in the oven at gas mark 4 for 15 to 20 minutes.
I had this with some cheese potato wedges with one of those packets you can get by Schwarz's or the like.
Very tasty, quite firm fish. A bit like eating a chewy pork chop. And very nice they were, too.

Dykesy's law

2010-04-06T13:44:00.003Z

My colleague Dykesy on the Screws has some very strange ways about him and one is the way he comes up with some rather bizarre decrees that the rest of us have to follow. Why we follow them I have absolutely no idea, because we really should just ignore them.
Nevertheless, rather like an indoctrinated sect, we religiously follow the rules of our news editor, which are known in these parts as Dykesy's law.
And one of these strange decrees is that once the clocks have gone forward and British summertime commences that it is illegal to wear a big winter coat to work.
Now, bearing in mind global warming and the fact that only last week there was snow falling in the northern parts of the country this can be quite a chore. Plus the fact on occasion the quaint little phrase April Showers can actually mean a torrent, nay deluge, of rain. Summertime in these parts is not quite the same as it might be in, say, Australia or on the Costa Brava.
Last week though the mighty one, having given his annual sermon and ripped into anyone who wore anything even resembling warm outdoor clothing, was hoisted by his own petard.
Not having past his driving test, he arrived at work after a particularly arduous journey courtesy of our pretty unpredictable public transport system, cursing and muttering under his breath.
Having had to wait on cold platforms for an indeterminate period, and then having to trudge through London's streets during a downpour, the inclement "Spring" weather had left him with wet socks and a chill permeating every bone in his body.
One wonders whether the law may be repealed in the near future.

When you are swimming length after length of the local pool there isn't really much to think about, so you tend to find your mind wandering. This happened to me as I tried to work off some of the Easter excesses this morning.
Midway through my session I began to think about the impending birth of my second child and the things we might encounter as he or she grows into a teenager. And somehow I hit upon the worst case scenario.
What if, I wondered to myself, my son or daughter came in one day and decided to have one of those "honest" conversations? Would it go something like this?
"Hi mum, dad. There is something I have got to tell you."
Both Mrs R and myself, though obviously being filled with trepidation, would put on a united front. We would sit our offspring down at the table, turn off our phones, and ask: "Of course, dear, what is it?"
"Well, for some time now I have been hiding a secret from you but have decided to come clean. I don't really know how to tell you this but... I am a sh**head."
Can you imagine it? All that time we had been dropping off the youngster, believing them to be going to a convention of the gay/lesbian rights group, they had actually been sneaking down to Ashton Gate to see the team whose name we dare not mention.
Awful... simply awful.

Market fodder

2010-04-02T14:53:00.002Z

I joined my old pal Stu and a few of his drinking buddies for a trip around Smithfield market last night. I must admit I had never been to the area before but I must say it is a pretty decent place for a pub crawl.
We started off in a boozer called the Rising Sun where the ale drinkers among us were delighted to find Sam Smith's retailing at less than £2 a pint. It meant standing in a tight corner by the dart board as the place was rammed with medical students from nearby St Barts, but pretty soon the booze was flowing.
Stu's mates were a lively crew. I'd met Chris Holmes (a self-proclaimed Cardiff City fan) before, but it was a pleasure to get to know Hughesy, the defence correspondent from the Daily Mirror, and one of the Sun news subs, Joel.
Eventually my ageing legs got the better of me and I persuaded my associates to move on to another boozer called the Hand and Shears and, to my delight, it was here that we found seats around a small table and settled in for the night.
Unfortunately the clock soon ticked around to 11.30 and we were sent on our merry way to find a taxi. Only, no one really fancied going home. Thankfully there was a late opening hostelry on the other side of the market and we sneaked in there for a chat about the merits of Quintin Tarrantino and a few more "scoops", as a pint of alcohol seems to be referred to up here.
At this point the seal had been well and truly broken and I moved into the dark recesses of the place to find the toilet. This is where everything seemed to go a bit surreal.
Behind a curtain I found a door marked gentlemen and waded into a pitch black room which seemed to have a hot-air blower giving out excrutiating warmth from a corner. I wasn't about to stop around long, having no idea what my surroundings looked like. I am guessing, therefore, that in daylight the room resembled "the worst toilet in the world" from the movie Trainspotting.
I didn't stop around for long, though, regaling the tale of the strange loo to my colleagues.
Strange, then, that when they in turn had to pay a visit they returned later to say they had no idea what I was talking about. The room was reasonably lit, albeit with candles, and relatively clean.
When I returned a good while later I suddenly realised my mistake. I was either completely blind to my surroundings or someone with a sense of humour had removed the sign which said: "These toilets are out of order, please use the ones opposite." Ho hum.

On evenings like this there is one equation that inevitably comes true. It is Me plus booze equals lost items. On this occasion my rucksack, containing a change of clothes for work the following day, my mobile phone charger and my blood pressure tablets was nowhere to be seen.
This launched a string of colourful curses.
"Did you leave it back in the Hand and Shears?" asked Stu.
"Yes, I think I must have done," I replied, and set off in search.
Reaching the hostelry a feeling of dread came over me. The back door had a metal grill in front of it and there were no lights on.
I tapped gently at the front door a few times, but it seemed obvious to me that if someone was on the premises they had headed for bed some time ago.
There was nothing for it but to return to our late drinking den and beg Stu, who is well over 6ft, to lend me - 5ft 4ins - a shirt, tie, socks and pants for the following day.
It was then that Joel piped up: "I'm sure you had it on you when you came in."
A few seconds searching proved him correct. The bag was a mere five feet from me, sitting resplendent on a leather sofa.
Phew!

Say cheese (yuk!)

2010-03-31T12:05:00.002Z

The lovely Mrs Rippers has a week off so has disappeared off to Lavenham in darkest Suffolk to see her mum and dad. What better opportunity then to round up some of the usual suspects and spend a leisurely afternoon inbibing of a few sherbets and catching up on things.
The wonderful one and the Fugitive were right up for a Sunday afternoon sesh and agreed to come to God's Own country for a few cheeky ones. They arrived by train at Temple Meads and I met up with them in Bristol's finest oldie worldy boozer the Llandougher Trow. As the afternoon wore on we enjoyed a pretty decent sunday lunch in the aforementioned hostelry before embarking on a pub crawl.
When I say crawl it was literally that after we had to climb our way up Park Street before entering the White Harte, then returned back down the hill to the biker and heavy metal haunt The Hatchet where, already feeling hunger pangs again, The Fugitive and I ate our way through a plate of Chilli Beef Nachos. The Wonderful One couldn't believe how we could still be hungry after a two-course lunch and even I was surprised that the Fugitive still had room, seeing as he was wolfing back pints of Guinness like the chancellor's budget was about to kick in at any minute.
It all wrapped up in one of the myriad chain boozers on the harbourside - The Pitcher and Piano - which didn't seem to have any pitchers and I can't remember hearing the tinkling of any ivories either. No matter.
During this long, pleasant and relaxing Sunday the topic got on to one of journalism's success stories - the real life magazine. We all expressed immense surprise that, while the majority of newspapers seem to be suffering heavily at the hands of the on-line world we have created, these glossy offerings are attracting a huge amount of new readers. You see Take-A-Break and the like at most supermarket checkouts and the most unlikely of readers will immediately pick them up and deposit them in their trolley.
Maybe it is the headlines that have such a persuasive edge. I was reminded of this fact when I looked at one of the eye-catching stories that Closer was advertising in my local Sainsbury's today. "I make cheese out of my breast milk and give it to all my friends!" it said.
I must admit this was so astonishingly vulgar that I did feel tempted to pop it in the trolley and read more. If nothing else, it might give Mrs Rippers and I an idea to start up our own cottage (cheese) industry.
Then again, I really don't think so!

My newly acquired Clio Ramsey is driving me to distraction with his temperamental ways. For the last two days it seems he will only put the radio on when it suits him. Sometimes I can be driving around in silence for 20 minutes, only for the dulcet tones of Gabby Logan to come blaring out suddenly on radio 5 live. I can't figure it out but perhaps it is a design fault. If it is I imagine it can be quite dangerous for the mild-mannered driver who has been tootling along peacefully enjoying the silence.
Another trick Ramsey played on me happened on the M25 late last Wednesday. On this occasion, for no particular reason I can think of, he suddenly decided I might need to illuminate the inside of the car and put the interior light on. After a little fiddling it went off again, but I could do without his little quirks to be quite honest.

No doubt my regular reader is beginning to wonder what happened to the raison d'etre of this blog ie actually telling people what I cooked last night. My only real excuse for this is that this is about the 377th entry and quite honestly I tend to use the same recipes over and over again because, quite frankly, I am getting a mite lazy.
Still, just to keep up the pretence I went to Morrisons hot deli counter yesterday and saw a very nice boneless pork loin joint which I figured might be nice to put into a curry. As it was pork I thought it would be good to give it a bit of a chinese curry flavour so this is what I did.
YOU NEED:
Cooked pork joint, cut into sizeable chunks.
two cloves garlic, sliced thinly.
One green pepper and one red pepper chopped.
5 fl ozs of chicken stock.
A large desert spoonful of madras curry paste.
Two chopped green chillis
A desert spoonful of chinese rice wine
Two teaspoons of light and two teaspoons of dark soy sauce.
A large desert spoonful of chilli bean sauce.
A teaspoon of sugar.
A handful of washed basil leaves.

WHAT I DID:
Heat a wok with chinese stir fry oil (which can be bought from most supermarkets)
Put in the sliced garlic, the peppers and the chillis and stir fry for 5-10 minutes.
Add the rice wine, the soy sauce the chicken stock and the light and dark soy.
Cook fairly vigorously for another 5 mins.
Add the cooked pork chunks and then the madras and chilli bean sauces and sugar.
Let cook, stirring regularly until the whole thing thickens.
Once everything is heated through and the peppers soft, stir in the basil leaves and cook for 2 mins before removing from the heat and serving with boiled rice - or whatever is your fancy - chips are quite nice with this, too.
Crackers and breast-milk cheese for afters (barf!)

HR!

2010-03-25T11:29:00.002Z

I have been called quite a few things in my time, and have fallen victim of the HR police on a few occasions, too. I was once labelled a bully who "frightened" my staff with some of my more combustible moments on good old WoS.
But the odd bin kick and muttered swearing under my breath was kids stuff in comparison to the cold, hard world of national newspapers.
In fact, I've found myself to be the target of a few pretty inventive insults from my combustible boss Macca - most of them, thankfully, in jest. Perhaps my favourite came the other week when we were discussing Saturday Survivor, the little betting game we play.
It works like this: Everyone puts a tenner in the pot and picks a team of the week who must win for you to survive to fight again the following Saturday.
As the tension rose, and various teams fell by the wayside, Macca cast his eyes around from his jewel-encrusted throne in the sports newsroom to see who was still on course to win the big prize.
When he saw my selection he immediately wrote it off with the suggestion that my football knowledge couldn't be that good because I was a "web-toed inbreed".
This, I think, referred to my West Country upbringing.
But the one thing you have to say is that he doesn't discriminate. He has a prejudice against EVERYTHING. Fat people, thin people, tall people, short people (a group to which I have a lifetime membership), northern people, Irish people, Scottish people... you name it.
Quite often my mate Critch is asked where he has left his whippet as he is a "northern monkey".
This all coming from a cockney who wears his Pearly King blazer with pride and knows more rhyming slang than Chaz and Dave.
These days, whenever an insult flies in the direction of one of the troops, the cry goes up "HR!"
Hasn't made a blind bit of difference.
Better that, though, than being part of one of the ridiculous politically correct regimes that now exist in the once thick-skinned world of journalism.
It is all a joke, folks... toughen up!

In the words of Queen: "Can anybody find meee... some buggy to love!"
Mrs R is getting a bit obsessed with the need to purchase what used to be called a pram but now seems to be referred to as a baby "travel system".
My God, it's like buying some top-of-the-range sports car these days and no doubt there is huge competition to own the latest model.
On Wednesday night I was getting to the end of my tether. "Should I buy this one - there are only 10 left and it's a bargain?" she asked with a worried frown on her face. This, bearing in mind the new arrival is still 14 weeks away.
I cast my eye over this incredible contraption designed to carry a miniscule human being in the lap of complete luxury. These things even have indicators, electric windows and fuel injection.
Then I looked at the price - £299. That, though, was without the car seat which comes at an extra £110, and something called a car seat "base", to which you can add another £100.
£500 for a baby buggy? That's the price I paid for Basil, my dearly departed little Corsa!
There was nothing for it, I had to get straight on the phone to the fat kid. I needed reinforcements to divert my lovely wife away from the route to financial ruin.
Thankfully, with much good sense (rare for the fat kid, I have to admit, but she DOES know about children) they decided to wait and look at alternative options when she comes down after Easter. Phew!

On Sunday my lovely lady and I had a delightful trip to Bourton on the Water in Gloucestershire. The last time I went to this quaint little village was when I was a child, and my abiding memory was the little model village (which we toured again) and my mum being attacked by a flock of errant geese!
It was full of tourists but a beautiful spot, and the highlight was sitting outside on a slightly chilly but lovely sunny day, eating fish and chips from the local purveyor of this singularly British delicacy.

Cereal killer

2010-03-18T15:37:00.004Z

MY lovely wife is 25 weeks preggers now and I have started to take things a bit more seriously. In fact, I am even reading a baby book at the moment thanks to my pal Jayney, who bought it for me for my 50th birthday. It is called The First Year and has plenty of handy tips for parenthood.
One of them has already benefited me immensely and it concerns baby names.
I have always fancied the moniker Jack for a boy. After all the two biggest heroes on TV at the moment are Jack Bauer (from 24) and Jack Sheppard (Lost). And Jack was right up there among the top names in the imaginery list that Mrs Rippers and I were putting together. It's a real cool name.
There is a chapter in my book on baby names. It says you have to be careful to avoid saddling the poor unborn child with an embarrassing nickname to last a lifetime.
I tried out Jack.
The initials are fine, JR, who, though a bit of a character in the Texas soap Dallas a while ago, has kind of slipped off the radar and become a folk hero. No problem then.
Jack Rippington. It has a nice flow to it, a short first name to go with a long last name... exactly the requirements pointed out in my baby bible.
Nicknames? Well what are they going to call him? Jumping Jack Flash? Not bad, unless he is a flasher. Jack-in-the-box? Sounds exactly the sort of striker we need at the Gas.
And then... it struck me. Like a bolt of lightning coming through the ceiling. The awful, painful truth.
What is my nickname? Rippers. What likely nickname would he have. Rippers.
Or maybe Jack Rippers. Or, oh my lord, Jack the Rippers.
A notorious serial killer... the most famous in Britain.
A slasher of monumental reputation.
Not sure if that is the role model I would wish my son to follow.
He won't be called Jack now... that's for sure.

Bye bye Basil

2010-03-16T13:13:00.003Z

TODAY was a very sad occasion in the Rippers household. My beloved Corsa, Basil, was unceremoniously hooked up to a tow truck and taken off into the wild blue yonder to be scrapped. It was a very painful experience.
Of course, I knew Bas wasn't going to get any better. He has been sitting outside, attracting the unwelcome attention of divebombing pigeons, for two months now. In fact, when I went to turn his ignition there wasn't a spark of life in him. I guess I knew it would come to this but, in car terms, it was like turning off the life support machine.
I loved that old Corsa and curse the numpty who drove too fast down Blackberry Hill when the snow was at its worst this winter, somehow failing to realise that he might lose control of his vehicle and slide off the road. He rammed into the side of poor Basil, leaving his back wheel crumpled. When the bloke came from the insurance company he was in no doubt the car was a write off - and this only a month after the MOT garage had told me that he would be good to go for another two years if I looked after him properly.
Still, I guess Mrs Rippers takes a small portion of the blame. After all, it was she who asked me if I named my cars. Until then, it hadn't even occured to me. A car was just a mechanical object to get me from A to B.
But to keep her sweet I called my first motor, the black Fiat Tipo, Boo, because that is what it said on the number plate. And when Boo became, shall we say, rather susceptible to flooding in the winter on the basis some young crook had tried to rip her door off, I moved on to Basil. He only cost me £500 and was meant to be a little runaround, but once I got the job at the Screws his value to me increased immensely. For six months he took me to London and back without a hiccup, and I was astounded at his resilience, particularly when the mileometer went through the 100,000 barrier.
Well, no use crying over spilt milk I guess. But I am sure people can relate to the way I am feeling now.
RIP Bas, you will be greatly missed.

No news is good news of Ridsdale, but I am starting to feel a bit of a fraud. We have sticky boards down behind all the units in the kitchen having established that the elusive rat was getting in through a hole in the back wall. I have to check them every 12 hours to see if the rodent has got himself into a sticky situation. But it seems the horse has bolted, or at least the furry mammal fled, before the latest action plan.
Shouldn't grumble I suppose, but somehow I think he is laughing at me from some cosy corner of the allotment.

Talking of allotments, it was always Mrs R's intention of going out back with spade and pitchfork and becoming some sort of latter day Felicity Kendall. But that was before any sign of a little Rippers. Now she has finally admitted that hauling herself down to some muddy patch of ground and planting the odd turnip seems a bit of a pipedream. So the keys have gone back and we shall sit in our little cottage and watch all the other Alan Titmarsh clones toil away on the land. Ho hum.

Chicken Alaska

2010-03-11T12:01:00.003Z

NOW you may think that the above title relates to a recipe. You know, a bit like Baked Alaska or Chicken Chausseur. But, I am assured, it is actually a place. And, in about two months time, my two pals Smashy and Paps will be arriving there on a bus, wearied, unwashed and somewhat slightly dazed I imagine.
As I may have informed you before, they both bravely decided to pack in their jobs for an experience that sounds out of this world and involves transversing half the world on a number of coaches, the Trans-Siberian railway and even the Diamond Princess cruise liner which will carry them all the way from Beijing to the aforementioned Alaska and, later, to Chicken itself.
I managed to get over to Cardiff this week for what amounted to the last meeting - or was it the first reunion? - of the Boozeday Tuesday crowd. On Saturday week Smashy and Paps will be heading off from London to Bruges on the first leg of this dramatic jaunt into the unknown and I had to say goodbye in the time honoured tradition, through bleary eyes with a pint of cold Carling in my hand.
We started off in the Royal Oak which, for some years, has been Paps local, and enjoyed a couple of pints before heading into town where we met up with a few of the old crew. Danny Boy 'the poipes, the poipes', who looks remarkably well after a rather serious operation, Wathanovski, the Fugitive, the little Bowling Ball, the Wonderful Withers and Shutts all made an appearance at some time during the day/night. We began in Sh*tty O'Grim's because "it was a bit of a tradition", passing on eventually to the new old O'Neill's. And a great time was had by all, though I must admit I was already feeling the strain fairly early in the evening. Now, being a married man, I don't get enough practice, really.
It meant having to take a break for some nachos to build up my alcohol resistance and by 10.30 I must admit I was ready for the comfort of ... well, Paps' sofa.
I think the time I knew that I had probably teetered over the edge into drunksville came when a guitarist took to the stage and announced he did requests. "Play some Fred Wedlock then," I demanded.
"Umm, never heard of him," admitted the bloke, to which he was treated to a full biography and discography, no doubt littered with the odd swear word.
Anyway, back to the big trip and Paps showed me on the web exactly what he was doing and where he was travelling. Fascinating. There are visits to Bruges, Prague, the Rhine Valley, Krakow and Warsaw before the long trip across the former Soviet Union taking in such exotic places as Riga, Talinn and Vladivostok. Then from Mongolia and Beijing they travel by boat via Japan to the Americas, finishing in New York on June 20 - five days before our baby is born.
I wish them all the best and if you would like to keep up with their progress their blogs are:
http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jackregan/2/1266174946/tpod.html (paps)
http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/robglaws/1/1267393040/tpod.html (Smashy)

Back to Fred Wedlock. The self-styled "oldest swinger in town" sadly died last week. He was my junior school teacher and, thus, had a big influence on my life. His sense of humour, which he carried through into his subsequent career as professional folk singer, was unique. He will be greatly missed. Thankfully, I have at home nearly every piece of vinyl he ever released so will be able to pass the word down through the generations, so certainly none of my offspring will be able to say "Whose Fred Wedlock?" A sh**head he may have been, but he couldn't help that cos his dad played for them, and England, I recall. RIP Fred.

Ratatouille

2010-03-04T16:29:00.002Z

THE power of the blog, eh? Well, it is probably just a guess that no sooner had I criticised Rentokil over my continuing rat problem on this forum that I got a phone call.
The upshot was that on Monday two very thorough professionals of that organisation turned up at the door to pay close attention to my on-going problem.
They had a good look around and came up with another plan that I am happy with it. It is better than a guy turning up, taking away the poison, and thinking the job is done.
Worringly, while I gave them a guided tour of the house and explained what had been going on, we looked behind the bath panel. There is a massive hole around the taps and a great deal of wood chippings have been deposited. It seems Mr Ridsdale has been trying out his teeth there, too. Mind you, when we deposited some poison there he didn't touch any of it.
Which confirmed to me that, like a lion that refuses to eat meat, my rat is a rodent who doesn't like rat poison.
Anyway, thank you Rentokil. We shall move onto the next phase.
Hopefully at the end of it a little rodent body will be deposited in the wheely bin.
Wheely? Knowing the skills of Mr Ridsdale I seriously doubt it.

Imagine finding a penny, thinking you're in luck, then discovering later that you have dropped a pound coin.
That was the situation I was in today. Having won a £5 bet with Dykesy that it was Watford who beat Leeds 3-0 in the Championship playoff final a few years ago, I was feeling quite chuffed. So chuffed, in fact, that I went for my wallet - and discovered £40 was missing.
Absolutely gutted but I think I know what happened.
In the morning I went to the cashpoint and asked for a mini statement... convinced I would go overdrawn or already be in the financial doo doo.
When I quite pleasantly established I was actually in the black (or the pink if you prefer) I celebrated and requested £40. Then, from what I can gather, I stupidly left it in the machine. Doh!

Novelli idea

2010-02-24T13:16:00.002Z

SO at last I have a replacement Bas. The poor old Corsa is still sitting outside getting rustier and rustier as the insurance company dally over how much my heartache and inconvenience is worth. Meanwhile, Mrs Rippers was just getting a teensy bit fed up with being sans car because of my regular journeys up to the smoke in her little Micra Millie.
To be fair Millie has been a stalwart through all this, taking the regular 400-mile round trips in her stride, and she has learnt a few tricks into the bargain, like how to reach the devastating speed of 85 on the motorway (I don't think my good lady wife was as impressed as I was when I told her of her Micra's new achievement). Mind you, it was just a tad frustrating to go from 0-85 in 90 minutes.
Passing a car showroom the other day I spotted a little blue Renault Clio sitting outside the dealership with a price tag of £1,695. I was sold the moment I spotted it and when the salesman agreed to a cash price of £1,500 and threw in a free MOT I must say I was pretty delighted with my purchase. The car may have done 86,000 miles but, unlike Bas, it has power steering and electric windows, a stereo which doesn't sound like its playing the latest death metal album when the volume sneaks over half way (even if the disc in question is puppy love by Donny Osmond - NOT that you would ever hear that in a car of mine) and locks with the press of a button on the key ring. That is something I'll have to remember having on numerous occasions unlocked the doors, then bent down, put the key in the lock, and locked them again. Doh!
The car does have a few little foibles inevitably. I am still trying to master the stereo and on occasion it seems to refuse to play, but I guess it is getting a bit temperamental in its old age. Think I might call it Ramsey after the TV chef of the same name.

Talking of TV chefs, I am now booked onto a one-day cookery course in a picturesque farmhouse in a place called Tea Green in Hertfordshire. The venue is owned by one Jean Christophe Novelli and the course was a 50th birthday present from my good lady wife, one of those experience days presents you can now buy.
I must admit when I first saw the envelope I envisaged having my world turned upside down and my bank accounts frozen, running for my life, nearly drowning in a submerged car and ending up jumping from the roof of a tall building. Then I remembered that was the plot of a Michael Douglas film, The Game, and that surely Mrs R wasn't going to put me through that kind of hell.
In fact, it is a novel idea (see what I did there) where you present a loved one with the chance to experience something they have never done before. In my case I am spending a day learning how to prepare and cook fish dishes together with their accompanying stocks and sauces. It sounds like it could be a fun day out and no doubt any recipes I learn will make their way onto here at some stage.

Ridsdale update. I am now sick to death of this rat, and he is reducing my poor pregnant wife to tears (mind you, that isn't too hard, these days, as previous entries on this blog will show).
I did notice that Rentokil managed to leave a comment on here after one of my first entries about Ridsdale. Well, they have been three times now and my kitchen has so much bait lying around I am as likely to catch a Great White shark as a small black rat. We also have sheets covered in contact dust, and bait stations below the shower and beside one of the pipes upstairs.
The trouble is our rat isn't taking the bait.
Now, I don't know if he is some kind of Mastermind, but he certainly isn't falling for any of these tricks, though there is plenty of evidence he is still around. Not droppings, I grant you, but little wet smudges in the kitchen and pieces of masonry that suddenly appear in the middle of the kitchen floor when we have been out and come back. No scurrying that I've noticed but we didn't always here him before.
Unfortunately, our last visit from the Rentokil man will be next Wednesday when he will take the bait away with him and wave goodbye. He admits that he, and his colleagues, are baffled about the problem. They have been discussing Ridsdale and cannot work out what to do.
Which, I must say, having spent over £200 on their services, I am not really happy with. Rentokil, if you are listening: when you pay someone to do a job and yet the problem is still there when it is all over, shouldn't you be returning the money or at least be returning until the problem is finally sorted? What is it the lawyers say, no win, no fee?
I am sorry but I was told you were the absolute experts, and though you left a good plug on this blog about "a professional job" being done, I am struggling to see that's the case.
It seems you can't look in lofts, or climb onto roofs to find holes, or take up floorboards. You can put down bait. Well, I can put down bait. I can pay out on one of those rat zappers, or put down glue traps, or any manner of things. But the money I would have spent on that, I preferred to use getting out "the experts".
I'm sure you do a wonderful job in factories etc sorting out their infestations, but we are talking about one bloody clever rat here... If you haven't got a clue then give me back my dosh.

Crying tonight!

2010-02-16T11:11:00.002Z

TO say being pregnant can be an emotional rollercoaster in which your hormones are all over the place is an understatement to say the least. Crying, shouting, swearing, locking yourself in a room and refusing to come out - it all goes on. But anyway, that's enough about me.
This morning my lovely wife Mrs Rippers was sat on the bed looking a little bit miserable and shellshocked. It was about 15 minutes before she was due to leave for work and I wondered if she was feeling a bout of morning sickness, thankfully something which seems to be getting less and less these days.
As I looked at her I noticed the bottom lip quivering and the glasses starting to steam up, so I gave her a little hug. "Oh no, is that tears again?" I asked.
She nodded and was soon in full flow. "What on earth is the matter?" I prompted.
Eventually, when she was finally able to collect her thoughts she revealed: "I can't do the buttons up on my cardigan. I am too big."
Aah, poor dab. My heart was bleeding.
"Um, honey, you are now 21 weeks pregnant and are growing by the day," I pointed out. "It's not as if you have eaten your way through a Cadbury's Selection Box."

Update on Ridsdale... no news is good news I guess. Rentokil have been around and put some contact dust down on a newspaper. Apparently if he treads through it, then grooms himself, he won't feel too well. Hopefully that will be an end to his nocturnal activities because we are running out of kitchen mat.
I'm not convinced he has gone yet, though... we are talking about super rat. No amount of poison, traps and the like seem to have interrupted his jolly japes so far...
No scurrying though and no mat action for three days. There's a chance, a chance...

The pregnancy Olympics

2010-02-09T11:28:00.003Z

TODAY I accompanied Mrs Rippers to a physio session for mums to be and I must admit it was a bit of an eye opener.
There were about 20 mums there in all and we sat around in a big circle and listened to the physio recommending all sorts of weird and wonderful things to take the pressure off the ligaments as the bump starts to grow.
Mrs R is showing quite proudly now, and the one thing this little session did was appease her anxieties and make her realise that some people are in a lot more discomfort than she is. She still has her bad days of feeling a bit nauseous and very tired, but she certainly hasn't been succumbing to any of the aches and pains that some of the other mums have been experiencing.
Still, it was interesting to learn all the information about posture and ways to sit, sleep and generally change your approach to cope with the growing sprog inside her.
While at the class, two of the mums felt a bit feint and had to go and lie down. Mrs R, though, trooper that she is, battled through and took in all the information available.
I have to admit, too, that the whole thing was a bit of an eye opener for me, particularly the section about Pelvic Floor Exercises.
Now, whenever I had heard that phrase before I had an image of a big mat being put out and the expectant mum having to do handstands, headstands and back flips across the mat from one corner to the other, with varying degrees of difficulty, in the manner of a rather weighty version of Olga Korbut. In short, I thought they were floor exercises done, rather like in the Olympics, to improve the strength of the pelvis. How wrong I could be.
For the pelvic floor isn't actually a mat placed on the floor, but the section of the body linking all a woman's personal bits, and the exercises are actually a case of relaxing and contracting muscles to make life a bit easier when it comes to the final push when baby is finally catapulted out into the world. I feel much wiser after the event, but as none of this takes place outside the body, I am wondering exactly how I can mark my missus for degree of difficulty, merit and artistic impression when I can't see what is going on.
Still, for conscientiousness alone, and following rigid disciplines to make sure the birth goes swimmingly (including packing up those two old pals of alcohol and nicotine), I think she deserves a perfect 10. Then again, I am probably a wee bit like the old iron curtain judges... biased to the extreme.

The council have been back with more poison and more advice... but Ridsdale seems to be going from strength to strength. The amount of excavating our rat has done - and I now consider him a bit of a pet, to be truthful - I fully expect he will have built a new conservatory for our property within a couple of months.
The man from the council thinks he is trying to get out, burrowing away in the manner of Michael Scofield and Lincoln Burrows (perhaps Burrows being the more appropriate) in that wonderful series Prison Break. I have my doubts because I have now unblocked the hole I originally blocked up in order to give him an escape route but, as yet, he hasn't taken the option. In fact, the council ratman thinks that is the reason Ridsdale has managed to chew a sizeable chunk out of the coconut matting by the back door - because he can sense the draught and is atttempting to dig his way out from there.
But it also serves another purpose. Apparently our indestructable rodent is quite partial to a bit of coconut matting for his supper.
The council man has now put some giant rat trap by the back door. It looks like one of those archaic torture devices found in the London dungeon. I am actually willing Ridsdale to find another way out, because I don't really want to find him decapitated in the kitchen on rising in the morning. Might put Mrs R off her porridge, too - and she LOVES her porridge.
Still, with his knack of defeating all previous efforts to get rid of Ridsdale I doubt he is going to fall for a big metal contraption parked on our back mat. More likely, I'll have a few drinks, tread on it by mistake, and find myself missing a little toe.

Roast Lamb (Italian style)

2010-02-02T11:47:00.003Z

POLITICAL correctness gone mad. It's a phrase that is bandied about with regularity these days but I felt the full force of it when the rat catcher turned up to sort out our little rodent problem.
We tried the council first and a man turned up, put poison down then buggered off - all in 15 minutes. But our rat, which I have named Ridsdale after Cardiff City's under-fire chairman who tried to take us to court over a story which was later proved almost entirely true, seemed to take it all in his stride.
Mrs R saw the little bugger run across the kitchen floor just a few hours after the council man had been, and on Saturday it seemed he was single-handedly trying to demolish our house.
Sitting in the dining room, we once again heard the tell-tale signs of scurrying upstairs, followed by what sounded like Ridsdale turning our floorboards into his own, personal bowling alley. The scurrying was followed by a rolling, thundering noise which had me running outside with my torch to see if all the bricks outside the house were still intact. Thankfully they were.
The good wife wasn't too happy, though, so next day I was on the phone to Rentokil pleading with them to come and sort our problem. They, after all, are the experts.
I must admit it cost a pretty penny - more than £200 - to enlist their services but we imagined them arriving like ghostbusters, with all the latest technology to end Ridsdale's hi-jinks once and for all.
"He's upstairs under the floorboards and we can hear him from the dining room," I told our operative Steve. "It might be worth taking the floorboards up."
"Can't do that," said Steve, "If something goes wrong you might sue us for damages."
Instead he put more bait down in the kitchen.
"He didn't touch the last lot - are you sure this will work?" I asked.
"Yeh, he won't be able to resist it."
"Can't you put down some more traps?"
"Well, we have to be careful. All these pests are protected these days by laws. We must kill them humanely. We could put some sticky traps down but they would have to be collected within six hours of the vermin being caught so that it doesn't suffer."
Doesn't suffer? It's a smelly, disgusting, germ-carrying rat that has been making our life a misery for three weeks and eaten its way through my pasta supply.
No matter. Pests have rights too, apparently. More so, it seems, than homeowners.
How about climbing up into the loft to have a look around?
"We're not allowed to do that - health and safety issues."
Gordon Bennett - Rentokil? More like Rent-a-pal for our little monster, I reckon.
Anyway, we will leave the poison down and see what happens. Either that will work or the house will fall down. That should get rid of Ridsdale.

Mrs R was lying on the bean bag when she felt a flutter in her belly. I thought it was probably a response to the baked potato with cheese, chicken and broccoli she had consumed so enthusiastically a bit earlier.
But no. I was invited to put my hand on the offending spot and, lo and behold, there was a couple of little movements. I reckon the baby is already practicing to become the striker Bristol Rovers desperately need after another lousy performance at home to Wycombe on Saturday and a very disappointing day of non-activity as the transfer window closed. The youngster can't arrive soon enough, I tell you, though given my height I will be very suspicious if it turns out to be a six-foot replica of the sadly missed Ricky Lambert.

Still waiting for the insurance company to cough up on poor old Basil and as I write someone is supposed to be coming around to assess the damage. Same goes for the break-in at my London house. All the estimates have been sent off but I am still waiting for the go-ahead to get the broken window fixed. Lummy days.

On Sunday I used my birthday present from the Fat Kid to produce a rather tasty Sunday lunch. The book is called The Food of Italy and has a number of interesting recipes to try out.
I opted for the Roast Lamb and it was terrific.
What you need:
2 sprigs of Rosemary
3 garlic cloves
2 1/2 ounces of pancetta
A leg of lamb (well, we opted for half a leg of Welsh lamb from Tescos)
1 large onion, sliced into four thick pieces
1/2 cup of olive oil
1 1/2 cups of dry white wine

What I did:
Preheat the oven to 230 degrees (gas mark 8)
Strip the leaves from the rosemary, chop the garlic and pancetta then put in a food mixer and mix to a thick paste.
Make incisions in the lamb with a sharp knife, then smear the paste over and poor over the olive oil.
Put the onion slices in a roasting tin then rest the lamb on top of it and put it in the oven for 15 mins.
Then reduce the temp to 180 (Gas mark 4) and pour in a cup of the wine. Roast for about an hour for medium rare, or a bit longer if you prefer. Baste a couple of times with the wine while cooking and, if necessary, add some water if it looks like it might dry out.
Transfer the lamb to a carving platter when done and rest for 10 mins before slicing.
Put the tin on top of the hob, add the rest of the wine, and cook for 3 to 4 mins.
At this point I varied from the recipe, added a good sprinkling of flour to thicken the wine gravy to a paste, then added half a pint of chicken stock gradually until I had a really nice thick sauce.
Add salt and pepper then carve the lamb and serve on a plate, running the gravy over the top. Mmmm!

Bob Marley shots

2010-01-27T18:53:00.003Z

Now I am officially an old git. How do I know? Because at one stage during my 50th birthday I performed the famous "rowing" dance to Oops Upside Your Head ... on a chair!
Now there was a time, back in the late 70s and early 80s, when I was a champion rower. I would spreadeagle myself on the floor in between whichever thighs were on offer and perform a passable impression of Steve Redgrave. Regularly this would happen late at night on the grossly filthy floor of the Bristol Bierkeller after three or four steins of lager.
I even won an award for being "best rower" there once. I think it was a 7 inch single of Brick House by the Commodores.
Anyway, thanks to everyone who attended the coming of old age ceremony at Racks Wine Bar in Clifton. Along with the usual suspects there were a few I hadn't seen for 30 years in a social capacity. Dan 'the man' Norris (now a Bristol MP who had to turn up because we know where all the bodies are buried! - seriously, great to see you, Dan), Martin Dowling, who looks a shadow of his former rather substantial self and very good on it (he came all the way from Harrogate) and Rich Burden, who doesn't look a lot different and, unlike most of my old school pals, still has a substantial head of hair. Brilliant for them.
And brilliant for Mrs R for both organising and putting up with me, the Fat Kid and mate Carly for being seriously drunk and causing mayhem in the early hours of the morning. FYI the Fat Kid managed to fall out with her Bezzie (I am told that stands for best friend) and decided to sock her in the gob. In the morning neither of them knew what had caused it. Mrs R did, though, because she had to calm things down.
We are all blaming a nasty little shot called Bob Marley, of which we had four each, along with the Fugitive. Don't remember much else but must say there was a great turnout and it was worth every bit of the £400 it cost. Can only remember about £100 worth to be truthful, but that's probably old age, not booze.

Meanwhile, back to the Rat in Mi Kitchen. It is definitely a rat. How do I know? Because there was a blood curdling shriek from Mrs R the other night when she went to the kitchen in her ultra soft socks. Obviously Ratman didn't hear her, decided to make an appearance, then disappeared under the cupboards hey presto when Mrs R pierced the night with her high-pitched wail.
It happened on the same day that the council turned up but, unfortunately, too late for them to hear the evidence. Regardless, they have put some rather evil poison down under the cupboards to surprise our little long-tailed adversary.

I've bought a book about giving up smoking, the first big step. I was encouraged to purchase it when one of the selling points was you can actually read it while having a fag. Can't go wrong.

Rat in mi kitchen

2010-01-22T19:01:00.003Z

"I'VE got a Rat in mi kitchen, don't know what I'm gonna do.
"Got a Rat in mi kitchen, don't know what I'm gonna do...
"Gonna fix that rat, that's what I'm gonna do..."
Well, maybe, but I think I am going to leave it up to the council man when he arrives on Monday afternoon to interrupt my likely hangover from hell after the nifty fifty birthday bash that Mrs R and I have arranged for Racks Wine Bar in Clifton through Sunday afternoon and into Sunday evening.

Back to the rat. It is probably a mouse, to be quite honest, but UB40 didn't sing about a mouse in their kitchen and probably wouldn't have been able to spit the words with such venom if that was the case.
Anyhoo, the other day Mrs R called to me while working on her computer in the dining room, claiming she had heard some scurrying. I was quick to arrive on the scene but, hearing nothing untoward myself, just put it down to my pregnant wife's new superhearing powers on the basis her senses seem to be working overtime - at least, she seems to be woken at every grumble, squeak and snore I come out with in the night.
Still, to be on the safe side she rang the council and booked for a man to come and rid us of our vermin infestation.

The following day and I was in the kitchen preparing my dinner and thought I would check the bottom cupboard pasta supplies. Pretty soon the evidence was abundantly clear. Previously unopened packs of rice, dried pasta and the like had little chew marks in the corner, allowing the little rotter in question to have a good old feast at our expense.
Now, if it was a good rodent like Ratatouille you would think it would rustle us up a tasty bolognaise for us but, oh no, it just eats its fill of uncooked carbs then retires to somewhere under the floorboards leaving a mess behind it.
Scrambling on the floor with a pencil torch we found a hole where one of the pipes enters the kitchen, and the back of the cupboard has also been chewed through.
We've now bought one of those devices that lets off an ear-splitting noise (to mouse ears, we can't hear it) and also sends out magnetic pulses via the electrics in the house which affects the mouse's nervous system. I can see it cowering away now, claiming "Ooh, I really don't feel myself today... think I've got some kind of bug. Maybe I'd better get out of the house."
Or maybe not.
We shall see...

Italian lamb shanks

2010-01-15T16:26:00.002Z

I am gutted. Inconsolable. My beloved Corsa Bas which, admittedly, only cost me £500 three years ago has been totalled by an idiot driver who seemed apparently unaware of the danger of speeding down a hill covered in snow and ice.
Mrs R and I were resting peacefully in our bed at 4am on Wednesday morning when our serenity was shattered by a loud bang and crash. Oh dear, we thought, another accident on Blackberry Hill, the main road which passes our idyllic little close in Stapleton. My wife nudged me in a typical wifely way and whispered: "Go and see what has happened?" She did it with a smile on her face, thinking she was encouraging voyeurism at its finest.
When I pulled back the curtain, though, my world shattered around me. There was some saloon car with its front nose buried into Basil's side.
It had been snowing all night and my first conclusion was that the car had reached the bend in the hill, braked and tried to turn, hit a patch of ice, risen up and over the little triangular green outside our house, passed between a big tree and some metal signposts and then smashed into Bas at what must have been a decent speed. Oww!
I went out and the damage was as bad as I feared. The bloke responsible - a taxi driver I believe who was returning home late at night - apologised and said he had just lost control of the car on the icy road. He then had the audacity to ask if it might be possible to move my car! Well, it was before he destroyed it, I almost said.
But, biting my lip and showing my new, calmer side, I dutifully sat in the driver's seat and released the handbrake, letting my wobbly wheels, now at right angles to the ground, carry me as far as they could.
He then inspected his car. "Phew, there doesn't seem to be much damage!" he said.
Well, whoopee do! I was about ready to do some damage myself at that point.
Instead, we swapped insurance details and off he tootled home to tell of his adventures.
I couldn't go to bed, though, so distraught was I. After three fags and a cup of tea to calm my nerves I then took up vigil by the front window. At this stage it was still snowing and every time a car came down the road it seemed to skid in the exact same spot and lose control.
I rang the police and advised them to close the road. They assured me they would do something as soon as they could.
Fifteen minutes later, though, and bang! Another car lost control and slid straight into my neighbour's vehicle across the road. As I watched a car that was following it at a distance then followed the exact same course and rammed the car which had caused the initial damage. It was absolute carnage.
My next door neighbour Nick had had enough. There were no police and no highways patrol officers. He strode up the road, found some cones and blocked it off. It didn't however stop people winding around the cones like it was some bizarre vehicle slalom event before proceeding down the hill.
Luckily, we have a grit box opposite and the few neighbours who had gathered in the early hours took it upon themselves to make the road safe again.
For two hours it had been like watching a demolition derby, one of those videos you see on U-tube or on in the background in some trendy sports bar. Unbelievable.
Of course, after all the legal work is done I will probably be lucky to clear £100 for Bas, the brave little motor that has transported me to London and back without a hitch since I joined the Screws six months ago. May he rest in pieces.

Next morning Mrs R and I went to see the midwife and heard our baby's heartbeat. Quite exciting and reminded me that not everything in the world is sh**, even though our boiler broke down on Friday, our shower has been leaking despite three visits from the plumber, and my car is now a wreck.

After the surgery Mrs R took me shopping, much to my frustration. I just wanted to get out of the bleak conditions with the snow already having wormed its way into my socks through my boots.
She was insistent though. She needed a new winter coat and some of her current garments were beginning too... well... stretch a bit. Anyway we called into a few places and found just what she was looking for. It was comfortable, with room to manouevre and in a couple of months it will fit pretty snuggly around her bump. Only one problem, though.
"I'm cutting the label off when I get home," she whispered conspiratorially.
I sneaked a peak when she wasn't looking... it's a size 20!!!

Cooked a very enjoyable meal with a big piece of bone-in lamb the other night. I will call it Italian lamb shanks.
You need:
A big piece of lamb shoulder, or some shanks
A chopped clove of garlic
A chopped carrot
A chopped stick of celery
A chopped whole onion
A tin of tomatoes
1/4lb chopped mushrooms
A pint of lamb or vegetable stock
2 tablespoons each of tomato puree and sundried tomato puree
Some pasta twists (or whatever fancy name they have)
shaved parmisan cheese

To do:
Set the oven at gas mark 9 (about 260 degrees)
Put in the lamb for about half an hour, then remove and wrap in foil
Heat oil on the hob in a hob-proof casserole
Add the chopped garlic, carrot, celery and onion and cook for 15 mins
then add the mushrooms and stir and cook for another five minutes
Add the purees and mix in, then the tomatoes and stock
Add salt and pepper
Turn oven down to gas mark 3
Add the lamb to the casserole then insert into the oven and cook for another two hours or so until the meat falls off the bone.
Remove the meat and return the sauce to the hob. Add the pasta shapes then bring to boil and cook until the pasta is cooked.
Serve the pasta on a plate, add juicy pieces of lamb then grate parmesan over the top.
I think it's a real winner
Gorgeous

Snowballs

2010-01-08T15:08:00.005Z

And a happy New Year to my reader.
Sorry it has taken so long but, quite honestly, I did bugger all at the turn of the decade. In fact, I was tucked up in bed by 11.30 only to be woken up by the horns from the ships moored off Southend together with the statutory annoying firework display.
Then, when I was just getting to sleep again, there came a call from my mate Hayd.
It went something like this:
"Aaappy noooo year! Washu dooooing?"
"I'm in the house on my own. In bed."
"Whaaaa? Ah great. Aaappy nooo year! Washu doing?"
"I just told you! What are you doing?"
"Amat a neighbour's party. Wharrabout choo?"
Oh well, good to see some people having fun.

What a week it's been. Went to bed on Tuesday fully expecting to drive back to Southend on Wednesday in time for work. Pulling the curtains back the following morning, though, I was faced with a complete whiteout. I could hardly see my Corsa Basil, which had been parked on the street the previous night, nor Mrs R's car Millie, as Britain was engulfed in snow hell.
Turning on the radio we discovered that Bristol buses had also ground to a halt, meaning my good lady wife had no means of getting to work. As for me, forget it!
It was then I remembered I had a doctor's appointment to get my blood pressure tested. We slid up the hill to the surgery and thankfully my GP had managed to get to work and sort me out.
After an enjoyable breakfast in the little cafe around the corner we then headed home. Crossing the little triangular green outside our house (which now, incidentally, was white) I managed to slip on a patch of ice, put my hand down to save myself and let out a yelp of pain. I don't really know the damage I did and it didn't help that I then took a shovel outside and began clearing snow from the road.
By 3pm that afternoon my wrist was in agony but fortunately Florence Nightingale (well, Mrs Rippers anyway) was at the ready with a temporary sling.
Then Mrs Rippers, who is not exactly a fan of the horror genre, wanted to watch the film Drag Me To Hell, on Virgin Movies on Demand. So we paid our £3.95 - and saw about 15 minutes of it. Before long she was hiding her face in her hands as an ugly old gypsy woman put a curse on the film's heroine. When she eventually screamed out loud at a particularly stomach-churning part, I knew the end was nigh. Moments later off went the film and we settled for watching the last two episodes of The Wire Series 3 on DVD - not a bad substitute it has to be said.

Thursday and I was confident of digging out the motor and driving to work, but I ended up marooned at home doing some research required of me by the office lawyer (with reference to a Cardiff City back page exclusive we had done the previous week).
I took the chance to ring some of my contacts, then settled down to watch an enthralling last two hours of the third test between South Africa and England at Cape Town. England needed an unobtainable 467 runs for victory, and had lost three wickets for 132 the previous day. It meant they had to bat all day to save the game and, as is their wont, they kept me on the edge of my seat until the last ball of the day.
Somehow, with Paul Collingwood and Ian Bell having defended stoutly for the entire afternoon, they contrived to lose five wickets in the last 14 overs. It meant that Graham Onions - our No 11 batsman - was left to save the day and face the last over - just as he had done at Centurion Park, Pretoria, two weeks earlier.
And he managed it. Fantastic. England go into the last test on Sunday 1-0 up and with a great chance of claiming the series.

On Sunday Mrs R and I wanted to see the new film Sherlock Holmes, but got our times mixed up. Instead we opted to see the new Sci-fi film Avatar. Quite stunning. The visuals and special effects were breathtaking and the storyline not bad at all.

Turkey curry

2009-12-29T10:16:00.005Z

THAT'S it then, festivities over. But it was fun while it lasted. Mrs R and I spent a few days with the Fat Kid, the Vin monster and Big Boy up in good old Sarfend and I can't exactly call it relaxing. From 7am in the morning we were up and about as the two boys surveyed their Everest-style mountain of presents, some of which had been put together by the Fat Kid and myself the night before.
Now, this always drives me crazy. We had bought the Vin monster an electric scooter which weighed a ton and putting on the seat, handlebars etc wasn't as easy as it first looked. Then, of course, we had to charge it for 12 hours which meant hiding it wasn't the easiest of tasks.
The Fat Kid is a natural when it comes to fixing these things. She just looks at the parts and automatically knows where they go, whereas I study the German instructions with Lowry-like diagrams and haven't a clue what they are talking about. Still, between us we got it up and running, though the seat was another matter and we had to wait for the monster's father to turn up to fix it on properly.
Then there was the Big Boy's first ever bike, which was even more complicated with handlebars needing to be attached, pedals and stabilizers put on and the brakes fitted properly. We managed to do this, eventually, minus the brakes, which the Fat Kid didn't consider all that important, really.
And the other downside is that you are then dragged outside by the boys and have to stand around in frrezing cold tempratures watching them perform on their new methods of transport.
Of course, Xmas is the Monster's birthday and he is growing up fast. He now seems himself as th world's biggest fan of JLS, one of those boy bands who rose to fame as part of that annoying commercial money-making scam called the X-factor. He had JLS CD, JLS hoodie, JLS signed poster (a snip at £66 but, well, it was his birthday) and even JLS cake, plus 3 identical JLS calendars from assorted aunties and grannies. By the end of the day I was pretty sick of JLS.
The Fat Kid did tell a funny tale of how Vin and his mates were sat in the back of her car when she took them to the flicks as a birthday treat, singing along to the popsters in the manner of Mike Myers and Co singing Bohemian Rhapsody in Wayne's World.
Anyway, I digress. After making breakfast for everyone, opening prezzies, supervising the boys in the freezing cold and making tea for various callers, it was then on to preparing the Xmas feast and, for the first time in years, I decided we should go with traditional turkey. I was prompted to do this by the Turkey Crowns on offer in Morrisons which looked fantastic and would have no trouble fitting into the oven on the basis they were legless, which was more than I achieved over the whole Xmas period.
Anyway, I prepared the pigs in blankets, stuffing, honey-roast parsnips, roast potatoes, turkey, beef, sprouts, mashed swede and yorkshire pudding and was pretty pleased with my efforts. Less impressed, though, when all the hard work was done suddenly the two girls appear in the kitchen, inquiring "anything we can do?"
The answer was: "Yes, don't pick at the bloody food until I've dished it up and... go away!"
Unfortunately, the Fat Kid didn't have a kitchen table so the adults ate on trays and the boys had their own little table and chairs out. No matter, from the way the Vin Monster said: "You're like a chef," I think it went down pretty well.
By the evening, though, there was nothing to do but crash and watch Dr Who's Xmas Special, the Gruffalo and Gavin and Stacey. Then to bed for work in the morning, but a fine day was had by all, I think.
Oh yeah, prezzies... I had some shirts, a pair of work trousers, a Joe Strummer DVD, the Ashes 2009 DVD, In the Light and on this evening by the Editors, a Clash CD, an electric knife for cutting food and lots of other bits and bobs. I think I did pretty well...

Btw the Rippers rap went like this...
Subs don't kill stories, lawyers do,
Ask Neil Ashton he'll tell you it's true,
It's a fact that lawyers make you violent,
Particularly when your exclusive is kept silent,
You don't believe me? Here's my tale,
Ash sent a story over on his e mail,
About a ticket scam, plain and true,
But when the lawyers saw it they went "boo hoo",
You can't print this the head man said,
Or Fergie will sue us and we'll pay out a shed (full),
But Neil insisted "I didn't get it wrong,
If you ask me the whole thing pongs!"
No matter, though, it went to the Ed,
And he decided to kill it stone dead.

Chorus
Puns don't kill stories, lawyers do
Sound of the police Woo Woo Woo
(repeat)

He's a sub and his name's Geoff Critch,
Over the last year he's been working like a bitch,
He had to step in when Dykesy was away,
And fill in for Jonesy on another golf day,
He lives up north and has to travel down,
Listening to his i-pod to relieve his frown,
And when he's here he has a little flat,
He shares it with a cockroach so it's not all that,
And then on Sunday when everyone relaxes,
He has to join the Mirror just to pay his taxes

Chorus

His name is Macca and he's my boss,
Supports West Ham and he's at a f***ing loss,
They sell all their players and don't buy none,
If they're not too careful they'll be playing in league one,
The thing about Macca is he likes a rant,
If you do something wrong he'll call you a ...
He's been off the booze since going back to June,
So by 6pm he will be howling at the moon,
Well that's the lot, I've finished my rap,
I thought it was good, but no doubt it was crap...

Loads of Turkey left by the way so it's turkey curry, a la Brigitte Jones, for the next few days

Singing for your supper

2009-12-18T20:03:00.002Z

FOR weeks now the old hands on the Screws, particularly boss Macca, have been harping on about a Christmas tradition. It goes like this... Any new arrivals that calendar year are required to give some kind of performance at the end of the sports desk Xmas lunch. It's called singing for your supper, though why we should have to do this when we have already paid almost £50 for the privilege is completely beyond me.
Anyway, the tale we have had drummed into us is that last year our north east correspondent Martin Hardy performed a passable version of Bladon Races, a bit of a shock really seeing he's from the Newcastle area.
Anyway, as one of five new arrivals I thought I had better prepare properly for the big event and wracked my brain to come up with something to do. At first I was thinking of a football theme, like the Anfield Rap, but then it dawned on me that as a representative of Wales perhaps I should look closer to the principality for my inspiration. Finally, after 10 minutes of hard work, I came up with my version of the old Goldie Lookin' Chain classic Guns don't kill People... the twist was that I was to sing Subs Don't Kill Stories, Lawyers Do.
It dawned on me that to carry out such a desperate task I would at least needs some props to hide behind. Well, more regular readers of this neverending story may recall that I am the proud owner of a couple of Do Rags, which were purchased a few years back during an England cricket tour of the West Indies. That would solve one problem, and a baseball hat might also come in handy to hide behind and cover my head when pelted with dangerous flying objects.
I decided the verses should, perhaps, be about characters in the office and I wanted to sing the praises of one individual in particular, the hard-working Critch.
Now Critch has a rather noticeable stubble which, when he hasn't gone near the rasor for a while, can turn into the beginnings of a beard. He is also the oldest member of our happy clan so I thought it only right that said beard should be grey.
Finding one, though, was presenting a bit of a problem.
On Monday Mrs R and I visited Cribbs Causeway, the vast shopping centre on the outskirts of Bristol. Yet despite managing to sort a fair deal of the Xmas shopping, the grey beard eluded me. Then, taking an experimental route home through Patchway, we spotted a Xmas party store and did a quick about-turn to study all the fancy dress costumes etc. Finally, my lady wife discovered a long grey beard which we decided, with a fair bit of work, could be reformed into the desired facial appendage.
That night we got out the scissors and scythed away at the tough, grey stuff until it looked vaguely acceptable. We also, during our trip, found one of those giant, echoey kids imitation microphones which I thought would only add to the theme.
Suitably equipped, I set off for London early on Tuesday morning for the Bash of the Day.

Booking into the Holiday Inn down the road from Fortress Wapping was easily enough but getting from Limehouse into the city was a mare which reminded me why I had quit the smoke in the first place. A catalogue of closed stations and tube trains breaking down meant I didn't reach the meeting place - the Bell around the corner from Canon Street Station, until half an hour later than intended.
The place was already heaving with the great and the good from the Screws and I soon linked up for a beer with Bobby Bowden, the man who takes sole responsibility for my return to London. After a couple of lubricating Fosters we started talking about the forthcoming events, and I must admit the alarm bells suddenly went off in my head when he said he recalled Martin Hardy singing "Fog on the Tyne" at the previous dinner. "I thought it was Bladon Races?" I said, watching his eyes carefully to see if the whole thing was a wind-up. He just shrugged it aside - "What's the difference? It was all in Geordie anyway."
Good answer.
Once the great and the good were all gathered together it was on to a restaurant called the Don, an Italian in the heart of the city, where we were invited into a dining room exclusively for our use. I must say the service was excellent and the food - though hardly the kind of large Xmas dinner that I will be tucking into on the day in question - was tasty and, in the case of the pudding, very rich and filling.
Then, after a speech from Macca came the obligatory raffle in which, somehow, the world's two biggest gamblers and close cohorts Lethal and Adders, managed to carry off the first two prizes. There were cries of "fix, fix" but they just laughed it off and pocketed the cash, totally oblivious to the accusations of scandal going on around them.
And then it came. Macca announced that the new boys had to sing for their supper in "time-honoured News of the World tradition". He then revealed that, in fact, the tradition had only begun this year and this would be the first time. He then took up his post as Simon Cowell on the top table and invited his secretary and one of the other girls to take up the roles as Cheryl Cole and Danni Minogue from the X-factor. To complete the line up came one of the old skool Screws writers David Harrison, as Louis Walsh.

First up was Ash, our chief soccer writer, who passed out free lighters to the 35 guests then requested the lights be turned low before launching himself into what can only be described as Robbie Williams' Angels, as sung by Bob Dylan. The high notes were certainly a test too much but he deserved top marks for bravery and at least he got the audience singing along.
Critch followed with a 20-minute speech on why he had chosen to sing a certain song which wasn't funny but made his dad laugh. It turned out to be Laurel and Hardy's Trail of the Lonesome Pine.
And following swiftly on we had young soccer writer Greg and Internet Editor Adam in a duet, complete with dreadlock wigs containing coloured beads, revisiting the back catalogue of the little known Millie Vanilli (and I probably haven't spelt that right).
Finally, after a nervous wait brought on by the fact it was decided in alphabetical order, I was on "stage" or, rather, standing alone in the corner of the room with all eyes turned on me. I quickly hid behind a corner and opened my props bag. God knows how someone like David Bowie managed 20 costume changes a performance because I was struggling to get the Do Rag on straight and nervously trying to get the baseball hat out without spilling everything else onto the floor from the bag.
The chatter going on in the room suggested they thought I might have done a runner but finally... finally... I appeared, fully dressed for the occasion, to perform the first verse of my rap.
Then another costume break. And this time I could not for the life of me find the Critch beard. Now this, you understand, was my moment of comedy gold, the thing that would make the whole show work... and it had either fallen out of my bag on the way to the pub or was still back home in Bristol.
I scrambled around for ages, I could hear the natives getting restless, my heart was beating ten to the dozen and I was breaking out in a sweat. Oh Lordy. Then, finally, I put my hands on the beard, strapped it on and rejoined my audience.
Glad to say the reception was worth waiting for as I sang my verse about the great Critch.

To end on a make or break note I opted for a verse about the boss Macca. When I say make or break I mean it was either going to make him see the funny side or he was going to break my ankles. Thankfully it was the former.
After that we all moved on to a pub called the Vintry, then ended up in a bar called Revolution by which time I was so twatted I could feel my legs giving way so made my exit, jumping into a waiting taxi to be swiftly taken back to my hotel. A very enjoyable day, though, and I will put the contents of my rap up on my next posting.
Fortunately, and wisely, I have taken the week off.

Food of the World

2009-12-07T15:02:00.002Z

Word reaches me that Meeja Wales' own version of Thelma and Louis, Smashy and Paps, have decided they are going on a worldwide tour. The two brave souls have both handed in their notice - a huge loss for the newspapers they sweated blood for over the last few years - and are going to spend six months travelling around to the four corners of the earth.
I say brave because the hardest thing, surely, will be for them to handle six months of each other's company. Even when they shared a house in Cardiff they hardly ever saw each other.
And that's not the only breaking news from the hub of Welsh journalism. Ben double glazing has already left for pastures new, apparently trying his luck working for Cardiff's self-styled Sleaze Brothers freelance operation, and will soon be joined there by Catherine Mary.
Meanwhile Sandra Hoy-palloy has apparently got herself up the duff again and Cat, the incredible laughing news editor, is also with child. Like I said before, there must be something in the water.
Other departures include Katie Stormin Norman and Gavin the gig guide Allen. Wonder if anyone has actually looked into these departures and questioned whether anything might not be quite right at the centre of Welsh journalism? Unlikely, but I hear the Little Bowling Ball has already been given lessons on how to turn the lights off at the end of his 20 hours a day, seven days a week shift.

I discovered all this gossip when I had a wet-your-whistle stop visit from the Fugitive, the Wonderful One and Shutts at my Bristol hideaway yesterday.
I picked up Withers from Bristol Airport where it outrageously cost me £4.50 to park for 20 minutes. The Wonderful One, who would have had to pay £6 to get a bus to Temple Meads, was true to type though, his hand never venturing near his moth-devoured wallet.
When he got off the plane he looked remarkably well for someone who had spent the previous night at a Glasgow "Burlesque" evening and had woken up fully dressed in tuxedo.
He had even worn a top-hat for the occasion which he had bought from a mysterious hat shop that suddenly materialised in Grangetown. As Paps suggested, it sounded like something out of the much-loved kids programme Mr Benn. Actually brought a smile to the miserable one's face, so I'm told.
The Fugitive and Shutts later arrived at Chez Rippers and I was soon escorting them down the hill and around the corner to my lively local The Masons Arms where Withers immediately took a liking to the Stroudy cider while I made up for lost time quaffing back pints of Fosters. The Fugitive, though, was driving and had to refrain from the imbibing. As for Shutts, the tee-total one stuck to his diet cokes.
Interesting to see Shutts trying to meander his way around our little old cottage, though. It looked like a scene from Gulliver's Travels as the 6ft and lots Welsh giant ducked to avoid the low-beamed ceilings.

Congrats to Wathanovski and the Teacher on the birth of their first child - a daughter. Sorry, can't remember the name and deleted the message from my phone but the Welsh football correspondent is "over the moon".

Talking of celebrations, we were rewarded with a can of Carling each for work on the 16-page all-singing, all-dancing News of the World World Cup draw supplement after working an extra long Friday to put it together.
Boss Macca presented the cans with a flourish and thanked us for "all our hard work", removing them from his own personal fridge (I imagine they were gifts from the Premier League sponsors originally).
Lovely gesture nonetheless.
Next morning, though, I was feeling a bit ropey. And the reason manifested itself when I got to work and was informed that the lager we had supped at the end of the previous night's shift might not be quite contemporaneous.
"It was 14 months past its sell-by date," one of my informants revealed before making his excuses and leaving.
It was luxury, though, that because of the late-night working the company splashed out for a hotel room for the night for me. I stayed at the Holiday Inn at Limehouse - and very pleasant it was, too.

A spoon full of sugar...

2009-12-03T17:26:00.002Z

I'M beginning to think I have followed the wrong vocation. Judging by what has been going on for the last week I think I should be renamed Dr Rippers or, worse still, nurse.
While the delightful Mrs R has been feeling worse for wear following the shocking news of her pregnancy (I already feel extremely guilty for putting her through this experience) my incredible shrinking daughter is now just over eight stone and was laid low this week with a virus surprise, surprise.
You see, The Fat Kid is going to have to be renamed the extremely Skinny Kid before long.
The trouble is she tends to live off a bowl of cereal and a couple of slimming biscuits per day on the basis that she believes her nickname. I keep telling her it's rubbish but she won't listen to me. She goes to the gym three times a week but doesn't realise that she actually needs food to supply the energy to enable her to complete all these spinning classes.
Result: Her body gave in last week over sheer exhaustion.
Poor old fat, I mean Skinny, kid. You can even feel her ribs these days and where once she was just a smidgen smaller than me she now also seems to have shrunk so that she only comes up to my chin. Gonna have to fatten her up over christmas, I think.
Meanwhile, poor old Mrs R is really struggling. She can't stay up past 9pm and doesn't enjoy the fact that strange things seem to be happening to her body which are totally outside her control. I would like to help but don't know what to say - it's hormone hell, by the sound of things.
On a good note, I went to see the Gas play Exeter City at home on Tuesday. My fab football team managed to win 1-0 and move into the top six again. Never mind the fact that they were totally mullered, battered, outplayed for 89 minutes they somehow managed to hang on for their first clean sheet in 13 games.
Going up, going up, going up - lord save us.
Sadly, I missed the only goal of the game. I was standing freezing away in the Family Enclosure with my mate Haydn, whose son Liam plays for one of their junior teams and thus gets his dad free entry to the ground, when I decided that nothing was going to happen. Thirty three minutes in and the Gas had barely mustered a shot.
Sods law! As I am tinkling away an almighty roar goes up and Darryl Duffy has put the Boys in Blue ahead. Great.
I had to wait until shortly after nine the following morning to see the goal that had sent us soaring into the upper echelons of the division.

Roll out the Barrel

2009-11-21T12:17:00.002Z

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!

Oats so difficult

2009-11-18T15:14:00.002Z

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.

Baby food

2009-11-12T17:26:00.003Z

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!

Heineken poisoning

2009-11-06T14:31:00.002Z

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...

Fat Club

2009-11-02T15:41:00.002Z

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.

Healthy living

2009-10-26T13:21:00.002Z

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.

Smell you later

2009-10-19T12:32:00.003Z

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.

chinese spicy noodles when time is short

2009-10-14T14:34:00.002Z

Mrs R has been in full Felicity Kendall mood this week having finally started work on the allotment. It started off looking like one of the more inpenetrable areas of the Amazon rain forest but by hacking away with spade and pitchfork she has made some impression. Very impressive.
And she has also met some allotment folk, part of that quirky band of people who think it's fun to spend hours on end outside huffing and puffing until they are covered in sweat and red as beetroots. Mrs R doesn't like beetroots, but she certainly looked like one after another stint on Sunday afternoon.
I think allotment people are a bit like marmite... you either love them or hate them. Our neighbour, Deadly D from now on though I hope she never finds out this is her, has been virulently anti-allotment since they dumped half a ton of manure outside her back window one time. The other day I heard her ranting on in full Bristol accent to some poor gardening-obsessed dab.
"Yew can't park thuuur!" she shouted. And when he responded she proceeded to talk over the top of him in a my-voice-is-louder-than-your-voice way. Her two dogs joined in the fun, being not impartial to the odd bark now and then.
To be honest I was quietly minding my own business in doors but was alerted to the fact that World War 3 had broken out on my doorstep. I looked out the window to see the shaken fellow picking up a box and attempting the last word. "For F***'s sake, I am only putting these inside the gate, then I'll move my car," he explained.

It's been a pretty quiet weekend, really. Mrs R and I caught up with the week-long Criminal Justice series starring the lead guy out of the original Spooks series, who I think she has a bit of a crush on, to be honest.
On Monday I got on with my household chores and was then delighted to find that my driving licence had been returned with new address and MINUS 9 of the points that had been on it originally. Woo hoo! Thought that six had expired but didn't realise it was that many.
On Tuesday Mrs R and I went to see the Ricky Gervais film "The invention of Lying" which was highly amusing in a chick flick sort of way. Interesting though... The Gervais character had nothing on my daughter the Fat Kid when it came to being economical with the truth.

Last week it was getting close to my weekly jaunt to Southend and I was keen for something to eat but didn't want to do a ready meal. Then it hit me. A quick and easy stir fry. I adapted a few Chinese noodle recipe but as long as you have the core ingredients of garlic, ginger and spring onion you should be fine. I spiced it up with some chilli flakes.
WHAT YOU NEED:
vegetable oil
Chopped garlic (2 cloves)
Chopped ginger (teaspoon)
3 chopped spring onions
Carrot cut into strips
8 tinned water chestnuts, roughly chopped
red chilli chopped and deseeded
chinese rice wine
2 tbsp light soy
1 tbsp dark soy
veg stock
peanut butter
one egg
1 red pepper sliced lengthways
ham, bacon or some such sliced meat
cooked egg noodles

TO DO:
Heat a saucepan of water and cook the egg noodles for as long as packet says (about 4 mins)
rinse in cold water and leave standing
heat oil in a wok
When it is hot and slightly smoking add the garlic, ginger, spring onion and chilli
Stir around for about a minute until the aromas escape
Then add the meat and vegetables and stir fry for five minutes
Add the chinese rice wine, soy sauces and a small amount of vegetable stock
bring to boil and stir, then add a table spoon of peanut butter and stir this in too
Add the noodles, heat through and bring to the boil again.
Finally add an egg to the pan and draw the spoon through the pan regularly to stop the egg completely setting.
When it is all heated through spoon into a bowl and eat away

curry virgin

2009-10-09T16:07:00.002Z

SOMETIMES you hear a story that leaves you absolutely speechless. It might be about the Indiana woman who managed to give birth to Octuplets or the fact that a man kept his daughter locked up in the cellar for 20 years without anyone catching on.
In my case it came about in Wapping's finest hostelry the Wilted Rose on Thursday when our resident chief sports sub Jonesy, hardly in his formative years, suddenly revealed he had never, ever tasted a curry.
Now this was enough for the gathered hacks to spit their Carling Cold out in unison and stare at him as if he had announced he had just robbed the nearby service station. For my part this needed investigating further. "Never? But you realise this is the British national dish?" I informed him. "Surely you have been tempted to at least try it."
"No," said the unflappable Jonesy, suddenly realising that he had caused a major lunchtime incident. "It never really occurred to me. I've nibbled on a popadom once, but the attraction seems to have passed me by."
He did, however, concede he would be prepared to join us in the curry house one night to lose his curry viginity. But he admits the prospect is a bit scary. "I have no idea of the difference between these curries and I have no doubt I will be stitched up royally by you lot," he said. I suspect he may be right.
It all reminded me of my first experiences of curry with Millsy and the Winterbourne gang on Friday nights after a heavy session and a visit to one of the city's nightclubs, Romeo and Juliets or the Locarno Ballroom were two, I recall.
Our delegated driver was always Nello, on the basis that he was tee-total, and after much cajoling he found himself regularly parked outside an Indian in Gloucester Road at gone 2 in the morning. Then it was a case of bravado. We would charge in, worse for wear, and demand the hotest Vindaloo known to man.
This, of course, was red rag to a bull for the owner of said takeaway. No doubt he went into the kitchen area and told one of his willing helpers: "It's that lot back again, trying to pretend they're hard. Just chuck every chilli, hot curry powder and such available to you into the pan. We'll make them suffer."
And, true to his word, he did. It normally took about three mouthfuls before the extra heat kicked in and pretty soon the rest of a rather expensive meal was burning a hole through Millsy's mum's kitchen bin. Those were the days.

seaside donuts

2009-10-05T09:04:00.002Z

THERE have been two completely contrasting birthday celebrations this week. My daughter the Fat Kid is now 27, going on 15, while the wonderful Withers of Meeja Wales has reached the 30 milestone, though some might claim he portrays the gloomy disposition of a pensioner.
Mrs R and I were able to play a part in both festivities after I took my first week's holidays from the Screws, and it was all good fun, starting with the bonus of a fantastic day out watching my footie team the Gas record a terrific 3-2 away win at Southampton with over 2,800 fellow long suffering fans.

We travelled down to Southampton in Millie, Mrs R's purple micra, on Tuesday, a pretty easy trip through Bath, Warminster and Salisbury, booking in at the Premier Inn in the centre of the city. After a quick change of clothing it was off to try and find the shops, but after walking around in circles for a bit we decided it was a lost cause and opted for the pub instead. Mrs R was in full West country mode by now and started knocking back the ciders in the London Inn on Southampton's Oxford Street in the Old Town. We were joined there by a few more travelling Gasheads and soon wandered on to the ground, stopping just outside at another local hostelry where home fans and visitors mixed without a hint of trouble and plenty of good-natured banter.
Travelling on we stopped for a hot dog and chips from one of the vans parked outside. Mrs R's initial trepidation was spot on with my hot dog encased in a rather stale bread roll, but I polished it off anyway and then it was on into the Northam Stand to settle in among the hordes of Gas followers.
Everyone was in good voice and it was pretty soon clear that the away support were making more noise than the Saints fans, probably because our start to the season has been so much better than theirs - due mainly to the 10-point deduction they had been given at the start of the season after going into administration.
The Rovers fans were in witty form, reflecting on the subdued approach of the home supporters with a chorus of "Oo arr, it's a library" and rubbing them up further with "You're not famous any more."
The game itself was flowing, end-to-end stuff with our old strike star Ricky Lambert, sold to the Saints for £1m earlier in the season, getting a good reaction from both sets of fans. He set up Southampton's opening goal but Rovers equalised before half time through the man they got to replace him - loan signing Chris Dickson.
Then, just a minute into the second half, Lambert scored for Saints and to be fair Rovers wobbled for 10 minutes and looked like they might cave in. They fought back, though, and when substitute Andy Williams came on he changed the game with his enthusiastic runs down the right flank.
Joe Kuffour equalised for the Gas and then five minutes into injury time Williams sent us delirious with a sweet curling 25-yard shot into the top corner. Magic!
Mrs R and I celebrated with another beer on the way back to the hotel and then settled in for the night in readiness for the next stage of our road trip - back to Southend to see the Fat Kid.

Now the Fat Kid has a thing about hair - well her appearance in general, but hair in particular. She wants it to trail right down her back and claims that when her locks are short she looks like a boy. I think she's fine but vanity is unfortunately one of my daughter's main characteristics.
To this extent myself and Mrs R gave her a ridiculously high amount of money so that she could get hair extensions. Why so expensive? They have got to buy the hair in, apparently.
So, basically, someone goes out to a poverty stricken third world country, gives some poor starving local wench a couple of bob, cuts off her hair, dyes it and then makes a huge mark up by selling it to people like the Fat Kid at an extortionate rate. Nice business scam if you can get it.
Still, when we arrived in Southend she was very excited about the situation.
In the evening her bessie (that's best mate to the uninitiated) Carly McFarley, as I call her, turned up and we watched the wedding dvd for the 650th time - well, I exaggerate, but not a lot - and showed off the wedding album to the two girls, who had been bridesmaids on the big day. Then next day it was time to bond with the Big Boy who, at the age of 3, still has the appetite of John Cena, the WWF wrestling star he seems to be modelling himself on.
We took him up to visit Mrs R's mum and dad in Suffolk and went out to lunch at a local pub, where the Big Boy managed to polish off chicken nuggets, chips, loads of peas, and some of my carrots, too, leaving a completely empty plate. He kept telling us he was on his "best beeay'ver" and he was as good as gold, playing on the slides and swings and showing everyone the happy side of his nature. No whinges, moans or tears, he did us proud.
When we got back to Southend I cooked a meal of Carbonara for Mrs R, the Fat Kid and her boyfriend Scott and we watched the dvd again before heading for bed.
Friday morning was spent taking the Big Boy down to Southend sea front, followed by a short walk around Hadleigh. We enjoyed some seaside donuts which the Big Boy once again pounced upon before then polishing off chips and half my burger at McDonalds, plus some McFlurries ice cream. Didn't touch the sides.
By the time we got home the Fat Kid was back, new flowing locks attached, and feeling as pleased as punch.
In the afternoon we set off back to our little cottage in Bristol after an incident packed few days.

On Saturday I met up with the great and the good in Cardiff - and Withers was already moaning. "This is going to be a disaster! No one is going to come!" he moaned, standing outside the new Old O'Neill's having a cigarette.
How he worked that out I will never know. Two of his friends from Crewe had already taken up residence, while his mate Sharpy had travelled all the way from Glasgow and we'd crossed the bridge, too. Withers, like any old curmudgeon, always finds some reason for the glass to be half empty though.
Former flatmate Grace had set up her record decks upstairs and as the night wore on people started trickling in. Smashy, the Fugitive (with fresh David Brent-style beard), the Boss, the Prince of Darkness, Posh and Becks - they were all happy to prove the miserable one wrong.
By the time the room was fairly full I realised I was a little bit merry, having cut down on my drinking considerably since leaving the Booze capital that is Cardiff.
I think I first cottoned on to my state when I realised that my shirt was off and I was dancing mentally to some Smiths song or other and before I knew it the trousers were also rolled up for my infamous Angus Young of ACDC impression. Nothing for it, it was time to go home via Caroline Street where Dirty Dot provided much needed sustenance in the form of Rissole and chips with gravy. Just right.

We were staying with Paps and the old boy certainly did us proud. In the morning he provided the mugs of tea and fry up that is so invaluable after a heavy night on the Razz. As we tried to regain some kind of state of normality by watching Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure while leafing through the Sunday papers we tried to surmise how the night had ended for the Wonderful One. Last seen he was finding it pretty difficult to stand on his two feet, and memories of his teeth-smashing past were coming into sharp focus. Still, his Crewe crew hopefully helped him stagger home.

One of these home-grown pals goes by the name of Black Rob. On many occasions we have heard the Wonderful One talking about his mate from home, even retorting to one person who criticised him about an alleged "racist" comment that "My best mate is black."
Imagine our surprise then to find that black Rob is, in fact, a caucassian male who says he has no African roots whatsoever. I must confess I did go up and inquire of him and his mate, also white, "which one of you is black?"
To which his mate, without hesitating, pointed at Rob and said: "him".
Apparently Rob's nickname came about because he enjoys a bit of Wire-style street talk. He likes nothing better, it appears, than "Cruising with his homies, looking out for honeys" around his "Yard" in the projects of Crewe.
Right on, Black Rob.

A cocktail of drugs

2009-09-23T11:39:00.002Z

STAYING with the Fat Kid I have learnt some very strange things.
1. That everyone keeps their toilet rolls downstairs, even if the bathroom is upstairs (very odd, but she insists it is true) and
2. The best cure for insomnia is an Only Fools and Horses DVD.
I spend a couple of nights a week in dear old Shoeburyness lodging on the Fat Kid's floor so that I can then get a train into That London, as my ex-newsagent in Cardiff calls it, and go about my daily working business on the News of the Screws. It has certainly been an enlightening experience.
Every evening my daughter adjourns to bed at about 10.30 on the basis that the Vin Man and Big Boy tend to wake at about 6.45 each morning and charge into her bedroom. She, in turn, tells them to go and see grandad because "he will put cartoons on for you". Just what I need first thing in the morning - two hyperactive kids interrupting my slumbers and shouting "Tom and Jerry, Tom and Jerry". However, I digress.
At some stage in the middle of the night it is quite likely that I will have to pay a visit to the toilet and it is then when I tend to notice a familiar tune coming from my daughter's room. "la, la, la... la, la, la, la, la... la, la, la... la, la, la, la, la" followed by the delicate vocal tones of Chaz and Dave informing me "Only Fools and Horses work". This, it appears, has been playing all night while my daughter slumbers sweetly in her bed. Without this familiar and, from a personal point of view, rather irritating theme tune apparently the Fat Kid can't go to sleep. Bizarre.
Then quite often in the morning, going about my daily ablutions, the serenity of the moment is quite often spoiled by the realisation there are only two small sheets of toilet paper left on the roll. A search of the bathroom does nothing to provide a solution and it is only then the Fat Kid reveals, "Oh yeah, I keep the toilet rolls under the sink downstairs. Everyone does, don't they?"
That, of course, is when she can be bothered to buy toilet roll at all. Sometimes I get a text message on my journey up to London. "Can you stop for some loo roll please?"
So where does it all go? Cleaning, it appears. My ultra tidy daughter uses sheets and sheets of the stuff to buff up the bathroom until it is shiny and new. And the kids wonder why they are quite often consigned to using wet wipes to clean their little botties. My daughter's life? Strange, to say the least.

Not only have I still got my persistent shoulder and neck problems, for which I am now taking some huge pink pills which the doctor has prescribed (Ibuprofen 600mg - I imagine they are the size and strength of horse tranquilizers) but I have been struck by a particularly virulent cold for which I have been dosing myself with honey and lemon and Beechams flu plus. What with the blood pressure and colesterol tablets as well, I am beginning to rattle when I walk. A sign of old age, if ever there was one.

Talking of old age, the wonderful Withers turns 30 next week and I am delighted to say that Mrs R and I will be attending the celebration party on Saturday week at the new old O'Neill's. Can't wait...

Three mouthfuls of a giant doner

2009-09-18T15:08:00.002Z

MET up with Evans last night. The accident-prone one is now a leading light on the esteemed Ham and High Gazette weekly paper, which covers the lives of the rich and famous in haughty Hamstead.
Surrounded by stars, she has received phone calls from the classic actress Glenda Jackson, now a local MP, and watched the Christmas lights switched on by wildman Ronnie Wood. It is a far cry from Cardiff, where the nearest you come to rubbing shoulders with a famous person is to shake the hand of world-renowned tramp Shaky Hands Man, and there are health issues to be considered in doing that.
Rumour has it, by the way, that everyone's favourite street beggar has actually gone to Food Kitchen heaven, though this has not been substantiated in any way and a street-lined funeral procession has yet to be organised.
Anyway, back to Evans. We got together in a little wine bar called City Pride near Farringdon Station then travelled back to her new home in the leafy, picturesque town of Harpenden near St Albans. Very nice it seems, too.
We met up with her bloke Matt in a boozer called The George then, for some unknown reason, carried on the drinking in a less auspicious drinking den known as the Harpenden Arms. From there it was back to her gaff via the kebab house where the extended drinking sesh had bought on an attack of the Munchies.
Eyes being bigger than my belly I ordered an enormous doner kebab and chips but by the time I had stumbled up the hill to her flat my appetite had shrunk somewhat and I only managed about three bites before consigning the coronary-inducing meal to the bin.
Matt, by the way, has a secret Doctor Who room. The Time Lord's biggest fan has stocked it full of dalek figures, Cybermen models and all sorts of other sci-fi paraphenalia. Sad really. He was apparently too ashamed to give me a tour - possibly because he is a bit nervous that his newly acquired status as an editor might be brought into question by his childlike obsession - but I talked Evans into giving me the guided tour.
After that it was off to get the train into work again, feeling slightly hungover. But it was only a 20 minute journey to Farringdon, the sun was shining and I was at my desk by 10. An enjoyable night.

Kingfish baked in tomato

2009-09-16T17:01:00.002Z

MRS R will soon be chewing on yorkies and investing in a CB radio, calling herself big mama or some such call sign and complaining about having a bear in the air (and I don't mean Fenway). The fair lady last week took charge of a big white van and drove to Nottingham and back without mishap - well apart from nearly crushing some poor dear who braved a zebra crossing in Frenchay.
She took on the task to help Aussie Cath move to Nottingham to start a new law course at the University having given up her journalism career. And a very good job she did in a monster truck that wouldn't have looked out of place in a night of mayhem at the Millennium Stadium.
And we got a bookcase out of it, too, though stocking it with the hundreds of books I have bought over from Cardiff took some doing, particularly as I decided to organise them by author, which I spent most of Tuesday doing. Still, it's helped to clear and awful lot of cardboard boxes.

THE fish and meat van came around last week. This was a new experience for me. A bloke knocked on the door and told me he had all sorts of frozen meats and fish and that if I subscribed he would call every three months and I could buy something off the van. Excellent.
After looking through a mouthwatering selection of products I ended up buying enough exotic fish to fill up the freezer - hence the Kingfish recipe below.

Meanwhile, it looks like I am going to get into the habit of crossing the bridge every Sunday just so I can buy the Welsh edition of the Screws and can see how my hard work has materialised.
Mrs R and I decided to combine this with a day out and visited the Huntsman country pub just outside Chepstow for Sunday lunch. Very nice it was, too.
It's a picturesque little venue and the food was very nice and reasonably priced. I enjoyed a roast pork dinner with stuffing, Yorkshire pud and a selection of seasonal veg including roast and boiled potatoes. Mrs R went for the Roast beef.
For starters I had garlic mushrooms which were very tasty, while she opted for the Broccoli and Stilton soup being a self-confessed broccoli addict.
On the way back we stopped off in Chepstow to buy a selection of the Sunday papers, then shot back across the old Severn crossing to Cribbs Causeway in time to see the Tarrantino film Inglorious Bastards. Highly amusing with a great performance from Brad Pitt.
Monday was spent hopping over the bridge again to clean out Scooby's old flat, then I popped in on photographer Andy who had completed our wedding album. It looks really classy in a black bound pages with gold trimming and reminded us both of our special day.

After all the heavy lifting, emptying box after box of books on Tuesday I needed a beer so Mrs R and I went on a little pub crawl of Stapleton, starting in the Old Tavern where Elvis was again in the building, then moving on to the Masons for a highly enjoyable evening. Strolled home rather tiddly, I must confess.
I have also managed to secure tickets for the Gas game at Southampton in two Tuesdays time which took some doing. Why clubs let there websites give the responsibility of this to outside ticket agencies I don't know, but when I tried to buy them on line I was told there was only one adult ticket left. As a last resort I called the Mem and was told there were plenty of tickets on offer, for the same price as quoted on the site.
Wednesday and Mrs R and I were feeling rather hungover. Nothing for it but to have a big lunch so I opted to try some Kingfish, a popular food in all places south of the equator like Australia, New Zealand, Sri Lanka and Jamaica. The above meal is one of the Sri Lankan recipes which I obtained off the web.
What you need:
Kingfish steaks - cut into chunks
2 big onions, sliced
4 cloves of garlic, smashed
One small piece of ginger smashed
2 tsp turmeric
salt
3 tsp chilli powder
3 or 4 vine ripe tomatoes
10 curry leaves (if you have them, I left these out and it was fine)
TO DO:
Heat vegetable oil in a karahi
Add onion, ginger and garlic and when half cooked put in the chilli and turmeric powder
Mix well
Add chopped tomatoes, some tomato paste and 1/2 pint of water
Cook for about 10 minutes then put a layer of the sauce in a casserole dish, lay the kingfish on top then add more sauce
put in oven on 180 degrees or equivalent for 30 minutes.
Serve this with mash potato and some oven roasted veg like leeks, butternut squash, celery, red onion, yellow pepper and a couple of whole cloves of garlic. Delish!

Fast food frenzy

2009-09-12T10:29:00.003Z

ELVIS is alive and well - and living in Fishponds.
I know this because Mrs R and I bumped into him at a karoake night in one of our locals the other day.
He may have looked a bit wrinkly around the edges, and had put on a few pounds, but I imagine he looked exactly like you would expect him to in one of those computer generated images predicting his appearance after all this time.
And, boy, could he sing. I would go as far as to suggest he might have done it for a living at some stage - though he said his only real live action was at a couple of village fetes and fundraising nights. Hmm, fundraising in Vegas for the Mafia, I reckon.
Having a change from the Masons, this pub was the Old Taverne just up Blackberry Hill. As well as Elvis, I got talking to a lady in the smoking area (or back garden as we connoisseurs refer to it) who happened to be the mother of the new landlord. Her name was Valerie and she came from a couple of streets down from me in Frampton Cotterell originally. Robell Avenue off School Road.
She told us how her son had taken down a run down, shut boozer and given the place a refurb. It certainly seemed to be doing a good job if the Karaoke night was anything to go by. There was a good mixture of locals and students and pretty soon the lager was flowing (or Thatcher's Gold cider in Mrs R's case). At one stage a rather worse-for-wear student called Ben, if my hazy memory serves me right, tried to get Mrs R and I on stage. But after he forgot our names for about the fifth time - let alone what we had agreed to sing - we gave up and sneaked out.

I'VE always had a problem with ironing at the best of times, but having moved in with Mrs R my anxiety has reached a whole new level.
It seemed a bit churlish of me just to pick out my few shirts and a pair of trousers, give them a quick run over, then leave the rest of an overflowing basket to my other half, so last week I attempted to earn quick brownie points by rushing through some of the wife's garments, too.
Did I say rush? BIIIG mistake.
Now, I can't be a 100 per cent on this, but it does seem that fashion designers put together women's clothes like some kind of intricate jigsaw. Holding up one particular skirt my first thought was "how exactly do you get this on", let alone iron it. Not that I was considering turning into a cross-dresser, you understand, it just seemed there were so many parts to it that the only comparison I could think of was buying a pair of trousers with six legs, two of them sealed up, and one sleeve. Every way you twisted it there didn't seem to be a sensible, right way to iron it. So what seemed like a pretty swift task turned into a rather long and frustrating experience.
Of course, there is the material too, all chic and sheer and not to be left for too long under a scolding hot piece of metal. After that there are the pleats to deal with, the fluffy, flossy sleeves and all manner of other imponderables.
And, of course, women have to iron EVERYTHING. T-shirts, the quilt cover, the handkerchiefs, the curtains, facecloths - even the underwear.
Still, I did my best, and you can't say fairer than that.

Last Sunday I joined Paps, the Wonderful One and Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes) for a farewell to Cardiff drink - well, that was our excuse though I was only moving out of Scooby's flat. And an enjoyable afternoon was had by all watching England humiliated again at one day cricket in the Tut, then moving on to a rather bizarrely named student haunt called Koko Gorrillas where we had a mini pool tournament which landed me a small fortune - if four quid can be called a small fortune.
Then we finished the night - or I did personally - with a visit to the Pen and Wig before toddling off home for a final night's stay in my sparsely furnished flat.
As for the title of this missive, well I haven't cooked for a while since trying to get the new house up and running, so it's been a diet of takeaways and it is starting to show. My grandson the Vin Man certainly noticed it this week. Prodding me in the belly he exclaimed: "You're fat!"
I couldn't argue.

slug-gate

2009-09-02T09:24:00.002Z

I have been in complete agony over the last week. For some reason I have a debilitating pain which begins at the bottom of my neck and stretches right across to my left shoulder. It doesn't help when you are lugging boxes of books, cds, vinyl and all manner of crap which makes up the story of your life from my old flat in Cardiff to the new house in God's Own country.
Having tried pain killers, pain-relieving cream and all manner of other treatments - none of them having worked - there was only one thing for it. A trip to the guru.
Now I hadn't seen the guru for a few months and he has since moved to a new house in Canton, but I must say he was delighted to see me. When I explained my problem he looked at me knowledgeably and muttered something like "nerve-trap". I gather that means something like a trapped nerve but I am never really sure, partly because I rarely understand more than three words in every guru sentence. Still, the man is a genius when it comes to sorting out aches and pains.
Mind you, he does take you to the pain threshold before things get better. He proceeded to tug me, pull me, poke me, stab me and make me perform feats an Olympic gymnast might find a bit out of their league. Despite my screams he assured me it would help, and two days later I think it is starting to work.
So why the pain anyway? What is the cause? This time, unlike my last injury which was caused by doing too much Pete Townshend air guitar, I haven't really been throwing my 49-year-old body around in reckless abandonment. What I have been doing is driving a great deal, and I reckon it may be the fact that Bas - my extremely reliable but rather long-in-the-tooth Corsa - has no power steering. Just turning a corner involves a wrestling match with the steering wheel more akin to some kind of manouevre associated with John Cena (for the uninitiated, he is a WWF wrestling star whom my grandsons seem to treat like a deity).

I had a fab week on the Screws last week. Lots of pages to work on and design, loads of good stories from my correspondents and some willing helpers in the office. I was really looking forward to seeing the paper on Sunday. And that's where it all went wrong.
Over the last three weeks there have been some problems at the press and while hurtling back to God's country from the smoke on Sunday night I received a call on the mobile. It was Bobby Bowden, our deputy sports ed. "Sorry mate, but it looks like there are production problems again, and the Welsh edition may not get printed." B***ocks.
True to his word, there was no sign of a Welsh edition on Sunday, making my trip across the bridge to buy one - on the pretence I was moving more gear from the flat - a wasted journey. It is so frustrating to do a week's hard but rewarding work, only to have nothing to show at the end of it. I thought this only happened on the regionals, not at one of the biggest newspapers in the world. Oh well, let's hope the problem is soon rectified.

Meanwhile, Mrs R sent me a rather alarming text last week. "Eww! Just walked into the kitchen and there is a big brown slug on the tiled floor," she reported. Bravely, Mrs R gave the offending animal its notice, plonking it back out into the garden via a piece of paper.
The problem needed investigating. Lo and behold, last night when I went out to make a lovely cup of tea there, by the back door, was a smaller version of the offending beast. As I watched, intrigued, it turned around post haste (well, as post haste as a creature without legs can go) and slipped back under the little brushes at the bottom of the back door.
Now, I don't know about you but I don't really want slugs coming in and out of the house by their version of a cat flap (slug flag, I suppose you would call it) so a solution needs to be found pronto. I thought, briefly, about putting salt down at the back door but that would probably cause more mess than necessary and is tantamount to mass murder.

Dominos pizza - not that I remember it!

2009-08-27T15:09:00.003Z

WHAT a fantastic, magical, mysterious, wonderful world we English cricket fans live in! Having travelled half way around the world to see my team get shafted 5-0 with barely a whimper, I am able to sit in the comfort of my local pub and watch Andrew Strauss's boys extract ample revenge by regaining the Ashes. And they did it with possibly the worst Ashes winning side in the history of cricket.
Don't believe me? Well, look and compare the statistics, not just with the vanquished Aussies but with any England team in the past.
Let's be honest, without Strauss leading the way and Jonathan Trott coming in as an emergency last-minute choice as batsman then no England batter would have recorded an average of above 40. Not only that, but they were the only two players to score centuries while the Aussies recorded seven in the series.
Even with the ball the results weren't particularly favourable but, obviously, team spirit and performing at the right time had an important bearing on proceedings.
Whatever. While my mind was totally Ashes focussed on Sunday morning Mrs R reminded me we had things to do - like take her all-singing, all-dancing I-phone back to the shop so that we could actually get it to make calls and visit my stepmum Jean on her birthday.
First job was managed pretty uneventfully at Carphone Warehouse in Cribbs Causeway but then we decided to look for a small present for Mrs R senior. We eventually came upon a pink cake and flower arrangement and paid for that, then had to pop in at the drive thru burger king to silence the rumbling in Mrs R's tummy. My mind, however, was elsewhere. What was happening? We had taken two wickets early on but who was in charge now? It's terrible when you feel like this and are powerless to do anything about it, like scream at the TV screen.
My mood was getting raggedy too as our day seemed to involve a number of inconvenient delays. "Can I have a fag before we go to your mums," asked Mrs R bravely.
"Have one in the car!" I snapped.
I know, I snapped at Mrs R. Terrible thing. But this is what happens as a supporter of English cricket. The Aussies need 545 to win - the highest winning total in Test cricket by a country mile - yet we fans can still see our players letting it slip. No wonder we're the barmy army.
Anyway, quick trip to my stepmums to virtually throw the cake and card in her direction, then we are setting off again through myriad traffic to reach our little house. Mrs R says she will follow me over, which is a good thing because I can speed off in the direction of Cardiff straight away.
Just passing over the bridge I'm listening to the crackling radio which is about to burst my earphones. Hussey and Ponting look immoveable. Uh oh!
Then suddenly there is more crackling, quite a bit of shouting in the commentary box and... wow! Freddie has thrown down the stumps to catch Ponting short of his ground. There is an interminable wait for the third umpire but... wait for it... he's gone!
Michael Clark follows a short while later and I dump off gear at the Cardiff flat then leg it down to the Billabong to meet Paps. It's a really good afternoon, and Mrs R joins our happy band later, followed by The Wonderful Withers. Eventually England wrap up victory and it is time to lay into more lagers and celebrate further.
We move on to the Tut and after another couple of pints I really am feeling a bit sluggish. I cannot believe we have argued with a Welshman who questions why we are supporting the 'English' cricket team. In his spare time he is a Cardiff City supporter, and that explains a lot. He is one sandwich short of a lunchbox. Hmm.
Anyway, finally we toddle off home and it is Wren's idea to book a meteor pizza from Dominos. Of course, I fancy some too and when he turns up we tuck in like nobody's business.
Who cares? WE HAVE WON THE ASHES!

Black Rat

2009-08-21T16:26:00.005Z

MRS R is a year older and wiser this week and to celebrate her latest milestone we visited our local village hostelry The Masons Arms. It was a very pleasant evening as we whiled away the time in the beer garden and the smoking area, getting pleasantly smashed in the ambient atmosphere. Mrs R even did a little jig of celebration when she found a button she had lost from her coat the previous week - I pointed out that this suggested the cleaners didn't turn up at our boozer very frequently.
Still, as we were about to wobble our way home we got speaking to barman Jamie and happened to notice that rather a lot of his customers were drinking an orange, murky looking brew. Inquiring what it was, he informed me it was the local scrumpy and was known as Black Rat. Well, there was nothing for it, we had to have a hair of the rat, even though we were warned it was six percent proof.
We did err on the side of caution, however, and settled for halves. It was actually quite tasty and when we finished I asked our host how much I owed him. "It's on the house for your birthday," he informed Mrs R. What a nice man. We shall be calling again soon.

Mrs R is now the owner of a rather posh all-singing, all-dancing I-Phone. It does a number of things but I have yet to find the gadget that puts on the kettle for you - I am sure it is there somewhere, though.
Still, as with all new presents, there had to be a slight hitch in proceedings. It's like a kid when you unwrap a shiny new present, desperate to try it out and then realise your parents have forgotten to get batteries.
Mrs R has now waited three days but has been unable to make a call. Today she found out that the phone hadn't been registered properly so it's back to the shop on Monday to sort it out. I, of course, was calmness personified as we realised various things weren't quite working as planned. What I mean by that was I muttered, grumbled, humphed and ranted. You would think by now I would have realised this has no effect whatsoever in repairing the faulty equipment in question. Not a bit of it.

I have now been working back in the Smoke for six weeks and last night was the first time I had actually been out. I met up with my old mate Stu and we crossed over London Bridge to visit a nice little area called Borough Market, full of welcoming hostelries.
We had a couple of pints in The Globe while discussing England's under-performing first day in The Ashes decider at the Oval. We both agreed 307-8 was nowhere near good enough and predicted the Aussies would now bat for two days solid.
On from there we went to the Market Porter, then found an ancient little backstreet boozer called The George, I think. By this time my recollections were getting pretty hazy.
We returned via Stu's local and met a typical Cockney nobhead businessman who thought he was the bees knees. he told my mate that he could predict what he did for a living, then came up with all manner of totally incorrect guesses including garage mechanic and farmer. Stu, like me, is a hack.
Still, it passed the time and we finished the night with a Baileys before heading home via the pizza shop for the house he shares with Anna near Clapham Common. A fun night.

fry up on paper plates

2009-08-17T10:48:00.002Z

NEWS never stops in the busy world of the nationals and as such you are always on duty. This hit home to me with an incident at the offices on Friday.
It went like this. We were all called into the office of boss Macca for an update meeting and the subject got on to Kevin Pietersen's Ashes cricket column. After bandying some ideas about Macca picked up the mobile to explain to cricket correspondent Sam Peters exactly what he would require from England's prolific batsman.
"Sam, hi... Yeah wait a minute... just listen, can you speak to Kevin about exactly what it is like to play in a decisive test match at the Oval. You know, how to react to the atmosphere... yeh, hold on Sam... the best way to approach it and how you feel as an England... let me finish, Sam... yeh an England batsman trying to achieve the ultimate glory for your... what?... Oh, yeh forgot... Sorry Sam, don't worry." And the phone went down.
Macca then looked at his surrounding troops, surprised that their forthright leader had been cut off in full flow. "Shit, I forgot," he explained. "Sam's on a day off. He got married yesterday and I have just interrupted his wedding breakfast."
Stark contrast, you will probably agree, with Meeja Wales where you sometimes get the impression the school bell has gone, such is the stampede for the exit at the end of a "shift" for some people.

Mrs R and I are rapidly getting settled in the new house. We are surrounded by packing crates and had to do with paper plates for our fry up brekky on Sunday morning. It wasn't the best way to tackle a plate of bangers, bacon, tinned tomatoes and bread. In fact, Mrs R complained: "By the end of it there was a big hole in my plate."
Nothing new there, I suggested.

This morning we were forced to wait in for Virgin media to connect us with our new broadband, cable and telephone package. Our plan was to go out to celebrate Mrs R's birthday early (she is another year older and wiser on Wednesday) but we had to remain routed to the spot because of the annoying fact an independent courier had been enlisted to deliver said equipment and Virgin couldn't give us a clue what time it would actually turn up.
We did have a light hearted moment though when the bills arrived on the mat. The Virgin Media direct debit bill was addressed to a Mr N Rippleton. Not a particularly rare mistake, I have to admit, and a cross one has to bear when you have a name a bit out of the ordinary.
On opening the envelope and reading the contents, though, I must admit I creased up with laughter. Inside were the details of the direct debit they would be claiming from me.
The account details and the bank sort code were correct but under name it said the account belonged to a Mr Nicolas Gashead.
The person who had taken my order had somehow managed to get my name mixed up with the password I had chosen for my Virgin account. Still, I may well change my name by deed poll - it has a certain ring don't you think?
No objections from the wife, either. "I suppose I'm Mrs Gashead now, am I?" she ventured.

ESPN meat pie

2009-08-13T11:27:00.002Z

THE little bowling ball's pride and joy - his ancient Moggy - is no more. We are not talking about a household cat here, however, but his Morris Minor 1000. The old motor has survived a number of scrapes and has been patched up more times than Freddie Flintoff's wounded knee. Unfortunately it finally met its match while tootling down a country lane the other day.
To make matters worse for the Bowling Ball, who only ever reached a top speed of 20 in it, he was not driving the car at the time. Rather, he had lent it to one of his mates, 'Drew Jenkins.
Now I don't suppose 'Drew bumbles about at the same speed as Bowling Ball and would hazard a guess he was hurtling down country lanes at an absolute maximum speed of, say 32mph, when suddenly a wild horse leapt out in front of him.
Unable to avoid the rampaging object he ducked as first the horse careered into his front bumper, then did a somersault over the roof of the old jallopy, finally smashing the back window as it rolled to a stop in the road behind him.
'Drew, concerned for the animal's welfare, jumped out promptly, only to look on in amazement as the horse shook its head as if to try to rid itself of an inconvenient headache, scrambled to its feet and then hoofed it off into the distance, seemingly none the worse for its adventure.
The same couldn't be said of the Moggy. "It's a write off," admitted the little Bowling Ball glumly.

Talking of the little Bowling Ball, Wales' equivalent of Roger Whitaker, on Monday Mrs R and I finally spent the night in our new cottage and decided that, to celebrate, we would visit the local hostelry - the Mason's Arms in Stapleton, Bristol. And a very nice little boozer it turned out to be.
I was a bit wary at first when I noticed the three red nosed locals at the bar drinking something which looked rather dangerous. It was thick and murky with an orange tinge and I could only deduce that it was what we West Country folk call "Natch" - that is natural dry cider, or scrumpy, as others know it.
Mrs R was certainly enthused when she learned there were FIVE different ciders available as well as a number of real ales like old Gobshite and Monkey Scrotum. I, being the adventurous kind of chap I am, settled for a pint of Fosters.
Two pints later, on visiting the little boy's room, I noticed a framed picture on the wall with a plaque that read: Our Secret Garden. I realised it was actually referring to the Masons itself.
So, grabbing Mrs R and her scrumpy, we headed out to investigate and not only found a smoking area to put all of Cardiff and most of Wales to shame, but also a tiered beer garden in full bloom making its way down in the direction of the River Frome. A beautiful setting.
Unfortunately while sitting there we had to listen to the absurd whitterings of two former inmates of the nearby Colston's private school who, for some unknown reason, had to speak very poshly and very loudly about all their old chums like Fudgwick and Lampton and, no doubt, Blob (that last reference only relevant to those who remember the old Rowan Atkinson sketch which consisted entirely of reading out a school register).
Then we thought we had been saved from this inane posh codswallop as a group of people joined us in the smoking area, scaring off the wannabe contestants from the Twit of the Year show.
It was only afterwards that I noticed the guitar. Aaargh! We had entered the pub frequented by Bristol's version of the Little Bowling Ball, complete with his entourage of faintly strange followers.
And my mood didn't lighten up when he began to pluck away at the first song of the evening. It turned out to be the guitar version of Duelling banjos, the song made famous by the inbreds in that nightmarish Horror film deliverance. All I needed then was for one of the number to turn to me, revealing lopsided head and one twitching eye, and inquire with Wurzel accent: "You're not from around 'ere, are you?" It would have sent me running for my life, Mrs R trailing in my wake.

Back up to London on Wednesday after a few deliveries at the house, and this morning there was a pleasant surprise in the offices of the Screws. Sports Editor Macca turned up with a large green holdall, then announced: "Anyone want a meat pie? ESPN have provided them to us for free. There are loads of them." Well, in these hard times, beggars can't be choosers, can they?

9.45 to Shoeburyness

2009-08-08T11:19:00.002Z

Mrs R and I are now the proud owners of a two-bedroomed cottage in God's Own Country. The deal on our little nest went through on Friday after we spent a feverish last week making sure all the finances were sorted and forms signed.
But the move was not without alarm - literally.
As I was up in London working on the Screws, my lovely wife took possession of the keys this morning and then set off with anticipation. There was only one nagging doubt in her mind... the estate agent couldn't find the alarm code.
When she opened the door the inevitable happened - alarm went off and there was no way she could stop it. The previous owners were unavailable by phone and the next door neighbour (who might have been able to throw light on the situation) was nowhere to be seen. Mrs R pressed all manner of buttons without luck as she managed to raise the entire Stapleton population from their Saturday morning slumbers. Welcome to the neighbourhood.
Eventually, after half an hour of ear-piercing racket, the estate agent text through the alarm code and peace prevailed in the sleepy little village on the outskirts of Bristol.

Earlier in the week we had gathered exactly the amount of cash we thought we needed for the deposit, only to be told by our solicitor that we were two grand short. After feverish discussions about how on earth we could make up the difference I decided to inquire exactly how we got our sums so hopelessly wrong.
It transpired that the entire solicitor's bill had been added to the overall payment, which was fine. I explained to her that I had intended to pay that by credit card after the sale had gone through. I couldn't believe my ears when she said: "Oh we don't have any facility for credit card transactions." My God, it was like travelling back in time to the days of Dickens and Messrs Scroat, Stote and Gobshite esq.
It meant juggling about with various different accounts, but thankfully it was all sorted in the end.

So back to London for me and I had an interesting experience on Friday night.
Having opted to stay on for a couple of beers with my new colleagues at the Wilted Rose so that I didn't spend 20 minutes waiting on a deserted platform at Limehouse, I eventually turned up for my train back to the Fat Kid's house with barely time to spare.
I must say the Friday night 9.45 Fenchurch to Shoeburyness train journey is one that will be stamped on my brain for some time.
Firstly, there were far more people on the train than I expected. Secondly, they were all quite noisy. Thirdly, a large proportion of them were drunk.
As we travelled through charming places like West Ham, Barking, Upminster, West Horndon and Laindon I couldn't help but earwig a conversation between two dyed-in-the-wool Essex girls.
One of them spent a large percentage of time on the phone to her boyfriend while mouthing things to her friend. She then looked stunned, her mouth dropping open as the person on the other end of the line continued to talk.
Afterwards, she said: "Oh, my boyfriend's dad has cancer."
A little while later, when the boyfriend rang again - obviously to inquire if she would be visiting him that night - she very subtly asked: "Hmm, who is there? It won't be much fun will it and I am very hungry. No I think I'll just go home tonight."
There followed a very interesting discussion about children. "They're lovely an' all but I caan't imagine spending all that time with them."
As we approached Thorpe Bay she was on the phone ordering a taxi. Her mate said: "But ya only live round the cawnaa!"
"Yeah, but I daan't wanna get raped, do I?" came the reply.

At this stage, desperate for some relief having supped three pints an hour early, I decided to visit the convenient convenience on the train.
Big mistake. I reached the carriage and pressed the button on the toilet door but it didn't open, so I moved around to see what the problem was, promptly slipping in a large pool of purple coloured vomit and managing to splash my shoes and the trousers of my new suit. Fantastic.
I doubt I'll be catching the same train again any time soon.

Fish, chips and curry sauce to go...

2009-08-01T12:50:00.002Z

A FEW cheeky early beers followed by a couple of sambucas, falling on your face and creeping into bed at 2.30. You could say it was just a normal Friday night.
Unfortunately this wasn't MY Friday night, I am talking about Mrs Rippers here. She obviously feels that someone has got to carry the mantle now that I spend most of my Friday evenings working and the rest of it trying to get home to the godforsaken back end of beyond known as Shoeburyness, Essex.
I finally received a text from my loved one at 10.55am this morning, having tried to inquire of her well-being a few times during the previous night and this morning. The message I got was that she had gone out for her flatmate Dan's birthday and visited a number of lively hostelries in God's Own city, before taking to the dancefloor with gusto after the sambucas had taken their toll. Good girl.
Unfortunately, at some stage in the early hours she decided it was well past her bed time - that normally being 10.30 on the dot - and as she left the club she missed her footing, falling over and scraping her face on the concrete. Oh, dear. Luckily Leighton - Dan's other half - was on hand to pick her up and send her on her way without the need of a 999 call and a night in casualty, and I don't mean as an extra on the TV programme of that name which is, for the time being, filmed in Bristol.
I guess I should count myself lucky, though. So far I have seen no video footage of her wrapping her tights around her head, stripping off her top and shouting "1, 2, 3, 4, 5" at the top of her voice.

As for me, it has been a very sedate week it has to be said. I journeyed up here on Wednesday at 5am in the morning as I had secured an extra shift but didn't want to leave the day before. I parked up very conveniently at Upminster station, which meant I had only a short train ride to Limehouse, the nearest station to my office. Perfect.
On Friday I decided I would follow the same scenario, but it all went t*ts up. I had forgotten that there was a train strike in one area and that everyone who usually got those trains would adopt the same policy. So when I arrived at Upminster the station car park was full. Bugger. With no other place in the godforsaken town to park I then drove to Laindon, only to find the same result. In the event I had no option than to drive all the way in to work and, fortunately, was able to park for free in the Tobacco Dock car park. This has been a very handy facility for Screws employees over the years but I just happened to find it on the last day before it shuts its doors forever. Just my luck.
As for cooking, I did rustle up a quick carbonara for the Fat Kid and her "Bezzie" Carly on Wednesday night. Didn't matter to the Fat Kid that I had been up since five in the morning. She isn't a great cook, my daughter, and has a very persuasive manner about her. In the end it was much appreciated.
After my long drive in and out of work on Friday by the time I got home it was pushing 10pm. At least the local chip shop/chinese is pretty good in Shoeburyness so I treated myself to Fish, chips and curry sauce before crashing out. Probably about the same time Mrs R was getting into her first Sambuca, I reckon.

Turtle in the soup

2009-07-29T15:32:00.003Z

The wonderful Withers of WoS has returned from his travels with a tale of animal cruelty so gross that I imagine weirdos from all over the country will be declaring war on one of his pals. The story came about during the wonderful One's rather strange decision to spend a fortnight travelling through the lesser known holiday resorts of Croatia, Montenegro and Albania, to name just a few.
Now, you would think that the mere presence of this motley crew would be a precursor to a new Balkans War and, by the sound of it, that nearly did come to pass.
The story begins with Withers and his gang climbing into a taxi in Albania and demanding to be taken to the border with Macedonia. No sooner have they done this than they find themselves shooting along potholed roads, heads bouncing against the roof with seat belts nowhere to be seen.
Hanging on for dear life to anything they can, they suddenly find themselves screeching to a halt in the middle of the road to avoid... a rather large tortoise.
The driver, who doesn't speak a word of English and has been prattling on in his mother tongue, only breaking off now and again to cackle insanely at his own Albanian joke, abruptly jumps out of the car, runs down the road and picks up the jaywalking creature. He returns to the car, smiling from ear to ear, and thrusts it into the lap of the Wonderful One's ne'er-do-well mate Sharpy.
With that off they go, their heads once again bouncing against the roof as their Albanian driver picks up speed again.
Suddenly, from Sharpy's seat, there is a loud squeal, followed by a curse. The next thing everyone knows is that the driver is ranting uncontrollably at him in a language Sharpy fails to understand... and this is a man who lives alongside the incomprehensible accents of Glasgow folk when he's at home.
What Withers and his other pal do know, however, is that their guide is a very angry man.
When the others come to their senses they look in the front seat to see Sharpy with a wet patch on his trousers... but no tortoise. It swiftly dawns on them what has happened, though Sharpy is keen to explain.
"It pissed on me so I chucked it out the window," he says rather sheepishly as Albania's version of Travis Bickle gives him a murderous stare, his bloodshot eyes protruding from their sockets.

Meanwhile, I am back at the Screws a day early this week. I set off at 5.30am this morning, unfortunately waking a bemused Scooby in the process, so that I could arrive at 10 and help out because of a shortage of staffing numbers during the holiday season.
It was a pretty uneventful weekend, really, however. Having only arrived back at 1.30 in the early hours of Sunday morning, Mrs Rippers and I spent the whole of Sunday lazing around watching the last five episodes of the Wire Second Series. And very good it was, too.
I did manage at some stage to cook Spanish chicken and roast potatoes for lunch (but I've already imparted the recipe earlier in this blog so won't be repeating it).
On Monday, after Mrs R had headed off to work, I sorted out a few necessary chores before meeting Jarhead for some beers at Las Iguanas in Mill Lane. We couldn't resist for long, though, and finished off the night in the new old O'Neill's. A good night was had by all and the head was pounding a bit next morning.

Works canteen (oh, joy!)

2009-07-24T18:26:00.003Z

THIS may be the Premiership of newspapers, but the nicknames are really only League Two standard compared to the wonderful world of Meeja Wales. Having said that I guess I invented most of them so pretty soon my work will have to start here in earnest, too.
At the moment the ambience is very much like that I imagine exists in the dressing rooms of Manchester United, Liverpool, Arsenal and the like. For instance, there is no Prince of Darkness and no wonderful Withers of the World. Instead we have Macca (the boss), Dykesy, Jonesy, Jimmy, Jakey (I expect, though only knowing him slightly I just call him Jake) and Critch. Hmm.
Anyhoo, they certainly know how to dine in the manner of Premiership stars. Instead of visiting the Withered Rose around the corner, which has been the norm, on Thursday the boss took us to La Strada, a very posh little Italian bistro right on the marina. Marina in Wapping? You've got to believe it.
A very pleasant afternoon was had to, with our waiter providing us with an endless source of amusement.
I don't know whether he has seen me on YouTube but when I ordered the Peroni he warned: "That is a bit strong, sir. It is about 5 per cent. May I suggest the bottled beer."
Hmm. So stunned was I that I relented. But stranger things were to follow from our medically qualified Italian host. When Macca, who is on a six months booze-free diet (what on earth has happened to the nationals since I last worked here?), ordered a lemonade he was told: "Are you sure? We have some really good wines. You really should have some wine. Would you like to taste this lovely little number?"
I thought the boss might explode but he managed to cool his temper and wave away the insistent helper. As our waiter was leaving he pointed out: "Bloody hell, lucky I'm not Paul Gascoigne. Imagine trying to resist that kind of pressure."
Best laugh, though, was reserved for my old mate Bobby Bowden, the deputy sports ed who is mostly responsible for bringing me to these parts. Bobby makes Twiggy look pretty overweight, but when he ordered his meal the waiter warned him: "It's a bit heavy, sir, are you sure you wouldn't want something lighter?"
"Oh no, that's fine I am quite hungry," said Bobby.
"Well, if you insist. But some of these are much lighter."
How we laughed. It became the butt of our jokes after Bobby polished off his lunch with room to spare. The fear was he might not be able to fit through the turnstiles on the way back into Fortress Wapping.

Thursday lunch meant that today I had to take it easy. Fortunately there is a fab canteen here. It takes about half an hour to get there, though, through probably the longest working building in the world. When I first came for an interview I arrived at security two minutes early. By the time I got to our little outpost I was about 25 minutes late.
Doesn't help when you finally reach the canteen and really you have left your pass behind. There follows another long walk back to the office. Safe to say I think I have done a London half marathon today ahead of schedule. Still, it is worth it. Four different counters selling four different types of grub. Maaarvelllous, as Marvellous David might say.

Free grub on a Saturday!

2009-07-19T08:07:00.005Z

PHEW! I've completed my first week on the News of the Screws and come out the other side, a bit mangled and dog-eaten but otherwise feeling ok.
I must admit it has been a bit of a shock to the system, not working for the most famous newspaper in Christendom but having to cope with the antiquated technology which makes Meeja Wales seem almost space age in comparison. But more of that later, I have a week to catch up on, including the TWO leaving dos I managed to fit in.
You may recall that the last time I updated you on the situation I had been forced to spend my last day editing the South Wales Egg Cup. This was because Troublat was moving into a new house, big Al (otherwise known as the big boss) was spending a day at the Test match and The Boss was in Ireland to celebrate his dad's birthday. Apparently this involved holing up in a bar in Donegal for a number of days - a kind of test of endurance. And I had evidence of this the previous night.
At about 9pm I had a text message from The Boss, hardly Richie Benaud when it comes to handing out the cricket knowledge, which read: "The Ashes is on in the background of the pub. Flintoff is batting, it's awesome. Oh, the Aussies have knocked another one out."
Not sure about the terminology but he went on to add: "Who do you think is winning?"
Of course, being the cricket font of all knowledge I gave him a very detailed and circumspect reply which basically told him that it was about even, but that we would only know after a couple more days.
Lying in bed at well past the witching hour (when only the Prince of Darkness and his hordes are abroad) I was awoken again by my phone beeping out a text alert. Struggling out of bed I picked up the offending object.
"Wa' the hell does tha' mean?" came the message from the Donegal pub. And, yes, when having partaken of some of the black stuff in the Emerald Isle I do believe The Boss even texts in a Scottish accent.
Asking him about it a few days later, he admitted: "Sorry, wee man, ah'd forgotten aboot the previous message completely. Ah was joost tryin' ta loook like I knew something aboot the game as it was taking place in Cardiff."

Leaving Do Number 1, when I finally arrived at the new old O'Neil's at gone 7 having said goodbye to the Egg Cup and planning to never speak about the experience again, I was delighted to find the great and the good already well into their sessions. Jarhead, for instance, had escaped the clutches of the sports department shortly after 5 (no change there, then) and had already partaken of a few pints of the loopy juice they sell in Zero Atmosphere (the gastro pub around the corner).
I was immediately waylayed by the little Bowling Ball and an old work colleague the Welsh Sheikh, who had just returned for a short break from the latest middle east country where he had made his home (I am a bit sketchy on the details but think he said Qatar).
All in all, I was extremely pleased with the turnout. Roger "heaven knows I'm happier now" Morrisey, who retired a short while ago, turned up unexpectedly as did others like the Fab BB, telling his London bosses he just HAD to be in South Wales to work on an important story.
In the early part of the evening I got talking to the two Katies, Stormin' Norman and 'The Body' Bodinger, who were in good form, then after a time Mrs Rippers turned up.
Soon we were enjoying the company of a rocking band called Two Tickets for the Gun Show, or some such. By this time I was well on the way and couldn't help heckling the Aussie singer.
At the end of the show he came up and asked me why I had done so. When I pointed out that we fully paid up members of the Barmy Army feel compelled to do such things he revealed: "I'm a kiwi". Prefuse apologies followed.
After that it was on to the City Arms where my own personal DJ Jase, having experienced a bit of a downturn in fortunes of late (for three weeks only around four people had attended his Sound of the Suburbs sessions on a Friday, poor dab) was delighted to see us and play all my favourite tunes. For some reason I felt in an early 70s Skinhead and Suadehead mood and acted accordingly, requesting Double Barrel by Dave and Ansell Collins followed by the Resurrection Shuffle by Ashton, Gardner and Dyke. Brilliant stuff.
As the night closed in Mrs Rippers came to see if I was ok, noticing that at some stage my shirt had somehow slipped off. I got up to speak to her or, rather, my mind did, but my body stayed exactly where it was - I guess that is what they call legless. Pouring me into a taxi, we made our way home.

It was a quiet weekend with just a full chicken, chips and curry sauce on the Saturday to accompany our 24 hour recovery plan, which involved lazing around and watching a surfeit of videos.
On Sunday, convinced England were going to lose the Test match having lost five wickets before lunch and still trailing on first innings by the small matter of 170-odd runs, Mrs R and I could bear no more. We opted to forget our woes for a few hours and go to the cinema where we watched Jonny Depp's latest movie, Public Enemies, which is about the gangster era of John Dillinger. Very enjoyable in a bang, bang, shooty, shooty way.
Coming out of the cinema I got in the car to find out how many England had lost by only to learn that Paul Collingwood was still at the crease, playing a monumental innings in a bid to save the game. We high-tailed it back home, at least I did and I was the driver (so there) and watched the rest of the action.
Amazingly, England held on to a draw when their last two batsmen, Jimmy Anderson and Monty Panesar (whose bat is normally as effective as a stick of rhubarb) lasted the last 11 overs to deny the Aussies. Magical.

On Tuesday I returned to the office for the BIG presentation. The Boss made an interesting speech where he referred to me as Rambo because of my penchant for wearing my tie wrapped around my head (I've been called Rimbo before, but not Rambo). What he doesn't realise is that the "look" is based on that great party boozing game we used to play called The Beerhunter. I had to put him straight.
I had some great gifts, thanks to a not-so-secret conflab between Mrs R and the Wonderful One, including a miniature digital radio which I can listen to while on my way to work at the Screws, and an amusing little album all about cricket by The Duckworth-Lewis Method, apparently a band dreamed up by one of the blokes from the Divine Comedy - it's a lot of fun.
On the basis that I was joining a newspaper at the centre of a famous phone-tapping scandal, I also received the third series of The Wire. Interesting. All week people think they have been the only ones to think of the joke: "I'm not giving you my mobile phone number, you'll tap it."
When my newsagent became the 50th person that week to suggest it I almost chewed his head off. "Sorry, Richard," he said, as he does, "I thought I was being original."

So to the Screws and what an interesting week it's been. I drove up to the Fat Kid's on Wednesday, slept on the sofa with a nice big quilt, then was up with the lark to get ready for the day in my new silver grey suit which Wren had bought me. I was originally planning to travel to Southend Central but the Fat Kid pointed out that Shoeburyness station was just around the corner so she gave me a lift and I boarded the 8.05.
I must say the train was very comfortable and, though it took over an hour, listening to my new radio the time flew by. I was intending to go all the way in to Fenchurch Street but was delighted to find the train stopped at Limehouse, just one Dockland Light Railway stop from Shadwell and Fortress Wapping. Sorted.

First thing I discover my old pal Rob "fancy a job" Bowden won't be there to welcome me. The Deputy Sports Editor and Millwall fanatic is actually on a champagne freebie at the first day of the Ashes test. Lucky bugger.
I am introduced, though, to Big Macca, the larger-than-life sports editor on the paper whom, I get the impression, doesn't suffer fools gladly - well, doesn't suffer them at all, really. I will have to be at my very best.
Thankfully Critch is there to help me. Critch is an old hand with over 30 years experience on the nationals, a guy they all call for when they are deep in the doodah. He has been doing the Welsh edition up until my arrival and is able to point me in the right direction most of the time.
We work here on In Design which, somehow, links into a system called Hermes. It seems a little bit longwinded for someone used to designing the page, writing the headlines, subbing the stories and even writing them sometimes on good old WoS. Still, I am sure I will get used to it in time.

Another old mate Adders, who has been on the Screws since I used to news edit Westgate, quickly enlists me in the lunchtime O'Booze club, conning me that there is actually food being served in the Mouldy Old Rose, the local pub around the corner. Here I meet a group of likely lads who would bet on which rain drop reaches the bottom of the window first. On this occasion I get dragged into betting a pound on the next person to hole a putt in the Open golf. It is sudden death knockout with no skill attached. You just put your pound in and hope that when it is your turn the Beeb are showing someone with a tap in for par rather than an 80 footer for an eagle.
Critch warns me I am in a gamblers' den.

Having been advised to mind my p's and q's at Meeja Wales it was great to hear some really powerful swearing on Friday. A late arriving advert elicited this response from one of my new colleagues. "You are f***ing joking, are you trying to f*** me cos this is totally f***ed. This is the biggest newspaper in the world and we are getting well and truly f***ed over.
"I tell you what - what size is it? 20 x 2? How much they paying for that? I tell you what I'll f***ing pay you six grand to keep it OUT of the paper. Yeah. F*** sort it."
Ok, that is not a literal translation but, yes, it made me smile a bit. I wonder if that Advertising Manager reported him to the Politically Correct police in that fun-quashing department called Human Remains. If so, I don't think it would make too much difference here, if I am quite honest.

Saturday was all go and it was great to be dedicated to one job and one project, even though as Welsh Sports Editor your plans change regularly on the basis that you have to keep a close eye on what is happening on the main edition. Still, I enjoyed the buzz and particularly the free food which is supplied every week in the Conference Room - a fantastic spread to be honest and I enjoyed the Morrocan Beef Tagine with rice. Lovely.
I had a dedicated designer, Sophie, and sub, good old kiwi Angus, who still doesn't smile much but can really shift some stuff. He did a great job for me on Saturday and helped to make sure things went fairly smoothly.
At 9.30 I got away and headed back to see Mrs Rippers in Bristol. The drive through London was pleasant, following the Embankment all the way and passing Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. Once I hit the M4 it was a clear run and I arrived in God's Own city at just gone 12. Tiring, but perfect.

Adobo of chicken and pork

2009-07-10T13:39:00.002Z

WELL it's my last day at Meeja Wales and somehow I have been lumbered with taking charge of the South Wales Egg Cup. Editor Mike Troublat Hill is moving into a new house while the Boss and the Big Boss are both away. I think maybe I am expected to do my own leaving speech as well, such is the staffing situation within these four walls.
Not only that but we seem to be struggling for a decent lead story. Surprisingly, no cats have been found stuck up trees in Grangetown today but, as always, we will do our best.
The cricket, too, seems to be going from bad to worse. Ricky "punter" Ponting made England suffer with 150 yesterday while opener Simon Katich also managed a ton. As I look at the screen the Aussies have amassed over 400 and still have six wickets left. Lumby days.
Still, met Mrs Rippers in the boozer for a nice leaving do lunch where I knocked back sausage and mash before returning to mission control. Tonight I will be heading out to the new old O'Neills and the City Arms, the two hostelries which most value my custom.
News of my departure seems to have spread prematurely around the streets of Cardiff. My newsagent mentioned as much the other day - though I think he assumes I have been sacked.
"Hello, Richard," he said, as is his wont. "I notice your picture is no longer on the letters page of the Egg Cup. What's happened?"
Oh yeah, my favourite job. Editing the letters of the Egg Cup. If I ever question why I decided to quit this salubrious establishment I will just think back to the mind-numbing days of sifting through the incoherent ramblings of Betty from Splott of a morning.

The other day I cooked a very interesting dish, having bought a cooked chicken and joint of gammon from Sainsbury's. It is called Adobo of chicken and pork and this is what you do...
Ingredients
A cooked chicken
Cooked pork leg with fat
2 tsp sugar
4 tbsp sunflower oil
5 tbsp wine or cider vinegar
4 plump garlic cloves (crushed)
1/2 tsp black peppercorns lightly crushed
1 tbsp light soy sauce
4 bay leaves
1/2 tsp ground turmeric
salt

TO DO:
Cut chicken and pork into big pieces
Heat oil in wok and add vinegar, garlic, peppercorns, soy sauce and bay leaves. Stir well.
Stir in turmeric and add salt
Bring to boil, cover and simmer.
Add meat, reduce the liquid and cook for 10 to 15 mins.
Serve with brown rice.

Speciality sausage and chips

2009-07-09T13:29:00.002Z

WELL done, Cardiff. Despite all the moans it has got to be said that the plan to play the first Ashes Test in the Welsh capital can be considered a big success. The first day's play, for which myself and Mrs Rippers were lucky to be in attendance, was entertaining stuff and the razzamataz which accompanied it was pure theatre. Of course, the Welsh felt the need to invite their Diva classical singer Katherine Jenkins along - she seems to perform at every sporting function these days - but it is fair to say her rendition of the national anthem went down a bomb.
Unfortunately the players had to then meet various Welsh 'dignitaries' and the likelihood is they had no idea with whom they were shaking hands. All we needed was Max Boyce (who?) to recite a stupid poem and you would be forgiven for thinking it was a Wales rugby game. Why can't they get away from these cliches? I ask myself on regular occasions.
We had arranged to meet Kempy, the former WoS news editor, and her mum Sue at 9.30 but things didn't pass too smoothly at chez Rippers in the morning. First we discovered our pet moth Mozzer had died overnight (very sad), then Mrs R couldn't decide whether sandals or flipflops should be the order of the day. Having finally managed to extricate ourselves from the house we soon had to return because of a worry - unfounded in the end - that a window had been left open.
There were then various stops at banks, the fag shop and Burger King before we finally made our way to the ground. By then it was almost 10 and Kempy was ringing me regularly demanding: "Where the hell are you?"
"Blame Mrs Rippers," I said, getting a scowl for my trouble.
Despite the hiccups, we got inside the ground fairly quickly and were delighted to find we had seats behind the bowler's arm. Not only that but my old mate Benno, former deputy editor of the Western Snail, was sitting a row in front, having returned for a couple of weeks from his new home in Melbourne.
As for the cricket it was exciting stuff with England finishing the day on 337-7 with Kevin Pietersen top scoring with 69 before getting out in trademark style - trying to play an impossible shot when there was actually no need for it.
During the afternoon the Barmy Army struck up a great deal of noise, joined by a group of schoolkids who were decked out in green having been sponsored by a supermarket chain. I am sure these kids will have improved their vocabulary no end having learnt a host of interesting new words from English cricket's famous supporters - "We all sh***ed Matilda" and "Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, w***, w***, w***'' were among the most favoured songs.

During the day we enjoyed a few beers and I even indulged in what was termed a speciality sausage and chips, though the only 'speciality' I noted was the £5 price tag.
Kempy, meanwhile, had to leave early to send off a picture to one of the national newspapers.
By the time we walked away at around 6.30pm we had enjoyed a sun-fuelled, fun-filled day - excellent.

Ello, ello, allotment aggro

2009-07-07T12:14:00.001Z

Mrs Rippers fancies herself as a bit of a Felicity Kendall. She has been talking about adopting the Good Life and growing vegetables and flowers on an allotment attached to the cottage we are buying in Bristol. With my culinary expertise I must say it would come in handy, but now it seems we may have stirred up a hornet's nest among the gentry of the little village.
Mrs R rang to inquire about the allotment today to be told that some people were very upset about the fact it had been advertised along with the house when, in actual fact, there was a waiting list. God, hope this doesn't turn into some kind of Straw Dogs scenario with the locals muttering "You're not from around 'ere" before attacking us with their pitchforks. Ooh err, watch this space.

Like many married couples, it didn't take us long to acquire a pet. And this one is rather cheap, too.
Mrs R loves nothing better than to open all the windows on a hot evening when the lights are on, so that we are visited by numerous creatures of the night (thankfully the Prince of Darkness doesn't know where I live, or where I stash the alcohol for that matter). Anyway, returning from cooking in the kitchen the other day I noticed a beautiful, snowy white moth on one of the curtains. Immediately I pointed him out to Mrs R who, being the gentle creature she is, warned me that I wasn't to squash it or bash hell out of it as used to be my solution to most fluttery, flappy things (as Withers knows too well).
So instead I have adopted it and we have called it Mozzer, Mrs R came up with the name because it is Morrisey's nickname, apparently. So Mozzer and I have been living in domestic bliss for the last few days and I must say he is pretty easily pleased. He seems to find a place and settle on it for hours, sleeping away the day.
You have to be careful, though. He does seem to like places like the floor and the carpet where he cunningly disguises himself, so well in fact that I dread the day that I wobble home and accidentally tread on the poor dab.

Nouveau Cuisine (Can I have some more please?)

2009-07-03T09:43:00.003Z

Have you heard the one: "The ironing board's on my foot."
"No son, but you hum it and I'll play it..."
The old joke sprang to mind this week as I was rushing about my business, getting considerably more stressed than I really needed to one morning this week.
With the humid conditions I had showered and ironed a summer shirt, then dressed but was already feeling uncomfortable with the heat. Mrs Rippers and I had talked about things we needed to do to sort out a mortgage, and I'd had a message from the Royal Mail to say a parcel was waiting for me at the depot because the full fee had been short by £1.08 and I had to make up the difference.
Thinking I could sort everything out before attending a really important management meeting with Meeja Wales at 11 (never mind the fact I won't be working for them eight days from now) I rushed into the front room to find my shoes. As I did so my right foot gave the leg of the ironing board a huge kick, my small toe wrapping itself one side of the leg while the rest of the foot went the other way. I swore rather a lot, then sank onto the sofa and swore a lot more.
After that I hobbled to the car and drove to the Royal Mail depot in considerable pain. When I handed over the receipt slip it turned out the "parcel" was actually my Father's Day card from the Fat Kid, two weeks late because she hadn't put enough stamps on the envelope. In effect, then, I bought my own Father's Day card this year. No change there, then.
By the evening I had a huge bruise covering my little toe and half my foot - I don't suppose I will learn anything from this disaster, though, like putting the ironing board away after using it.

On Tuesday lunchtime I met some of the guys I will be working with in my new role. They all work for Coley at Westgate - son of Bono, the Dazzler and Tea Caddy. We had a good chat about what I would be expecting from them in the future and Mrs R gave me a very good little phrase that I am hoping Son of Bono will put up behind his desk in future: Pressure Is A Privilege. I must admit I am getting quite excited about my big move.
We met at a Barocco's Bar in Cardiff, which used to be known as Izit but now Izn't, and ordered some food. I opted for a seafood pasta dish while Son of Bono went for a lemon chicken salad and Tea Caddy chose the Wild Boar sausages and Mash. Altogether it came to just under £20 I reckon.
When it arrived it is fair to say we weren't exactly overwhelmed. The Wild Boar sausages were definitely the best choice, because my plate contained about 10 strands of ribbon pasta and a mussel in a shell. Son of Bono was equally upset at his portion which contained about three small disks of chicken, a meagre sprinkling of rabbit food (ie lettuce) and a swirly thin line of some kind of sauce.
The waitress returned as we started to tuck in. "Everything all right with your food, sir?" she asked Son of Bono. "Um, it's not exactly a big portion is it? Perhaps you could ask the chef if he has any more anywhere."
"It's a new menu, sir, we are trying it out today."
So, in effect, we were guinea pigs - which maybe explains why we got guinea pig portions...

The following night was completely the opposite. My former sports desk colleagues took me for a meal to a restaurant called Prezzo where I enjoyed a meat calzone meal. Expecting pasta, it actually turned out to be the Italian version of a giant cornish pastie. I couldn't finish it and wobbled home very bloated.
It was a great night with Jarhead, Shutts, the little bowling ball, Smashy and Owenov as we swapped long-forgotten stories of our time on the WoS sports desk. Great days.

candy flossies

2009-06-29T11:54:00.008Z

THURSDAY, June 25 - 11.15pm

WHEN the text came through from my daughter I was waiting for the punchline. "Is Michael Jackson dead?" she inquired. It must be a joke, I thought. I waited, but no follow-up punchline was forthcoming.
I then found out that she had heard rumours on BBC 24 bulletins, but as yet they were unconfirmed. I immediately texted Paps with the news. "Yeah, just got back into the office," he replied. I checked my watch. It was 11.30pm. That meant Paps, the head of news/teamaker extraordinaire, had only been out of the office for four hours - just enough time to listen to that day's edition of the Archers, I reckon. What a pro - or saddo, considering your take on things.

To me it was one of those days when, as a journo, you just want to be there. That is, unless you can't give a toss about your chosen profession, I suppose - and there are some of those about.
I lifted my aching bones from the sofa, where I had been watching a DVD, sleptwalk (if that's a word) to the car and dozily drove the mile or so back to the office I had left just three hours earlier.
On duty were the Big Boss, Rob Kneesupmutha, Orson Wells, Cath Mary, Paps, Neil Gibbo Gibson and late man Vimal. A small crew, but plenty of people to turn around the next morning's Snail and make some effort to record actual breaking news in the South Wales Egg Cup which, like most evening papers, now prints the night before.
Paps was in his element, going through the wires and piecing together the story, while also finding background info with which to reproduce the Michael Jackson story. No online people, though - funny that seeing this is the sort of story that should be appearing online first in the new Meeja Wales environment. Paps was left to upload the story, too. The Prince, from his lair, made his contribution, too, by texting the first Wacko Jacko joke of the night - "I guess his heart didn't Beat It," he helpfully suggested.
Still, by 1.15 we were out of there... job done. And, in the words of the Prince of Darkness, "I had a bit of a buzz on."

Paps may have been up-to-the-minute with his news editing on Thursday but the rest of his life seems entrenched in the 60s and 70s (and even before then). When I told him I had been watching another of my Audrey Hepburn box set that evening he chimed in with: "Was it Paris When It Sizzles"? Well, amazingly it was - a film I had never even heard of until I took it out of the box and put it on.
Paps, though, just turned 40 but with the tastes of a 75-year-old bedridden codger, had obviously watched it a thousand times. Bedridden codger? Well if you took a look around his house to establish who lived there, in the manner of Loyd Grossman on Through the Keyhole, you would be forgiven for thinking it must be Splott's answer to Jim Brennan of Eastenders fame. The videos (probably in Betamax) include box sets of the Sweeney and Porridge, together with Carry-On posters and all sorts of ancient memorabilia. He even has the Sweeney theme tune as a ring tone on his mobile (yes, he does have one of those).
As touched upon before, his evenings seem to involve sitting in his old comfy chair with his slippers and the gramaphone, which blares out the Archers to anyone who cares to listen (and there are few of those these days, I would wager). I wonder if the old boy has one of those ear trumpets, too?
Still, I suppose if it is a choice between popular culture and Paps' old-worldly ways, it is a close run thing as to which I prefer.

One thing that DI Jack Regan and DS George Carter never had to encounter, I imagine, was the Public Relations fluffy. In fact, I could imagine John Thaw's character blowing a fuse at having to deal with this scourge on modern society.
That said, this is the one element of modern culture that Paps has more than enough time for. Regularly he spends a good 10 minutes talking animatedly on the phone to one fluffy or another, saying how exciting it was that they had invited him or one of his reporters to the opening of a jar of marmite.
Some fluffies get even better treatment than others, too. Now and again Paps disappears into the privacy of the Orson Wells b***cking room - known because it is also the room where Orson takes his staff to task - so that he can conduct a private conversation on his mobile with Jocasta or Mimi from Prepubescent PR.
Now, God forbid I should draw conclusions as to what these conversations are about but they tend to end up with him announcing a couple of hours later "Think I might just nip off to such-and-such a pub to see some friends". For friends read fluffies. At least, that is the conclusion of his well-trained and alert colleagues.

On Friday we said goodbye to another five people from the IT department, which is beginning to sound extremely echoey. Two of the old guard, Arfur Blissful and Jeff Fried Egg, have been around for so long I reckon they started when the newspapers were chipped out of tablets of stone and all they had to do was to make sure the chisels were sharp.
They will both be greatly missed though as will Nas, as much for his cricketing prowess with the Snail and Egg Cup weekly slugathon team as for his technological skills.
After that we sidled off to old O'Neill's where we bumped into the legendary Welsh rugby fly half Barry John, who had spent a decent time out and about in the local hostelries and was full of stories by the time he met us. As Withers pointed out: "Bloody hell, Rippers, he repeats his anecdotes more times than you repeat yours!"
At that moment Paps piped up "I've just got to go and meet some friends in the Pen and Wig."
Smashy knew exactly what this meant, Fluffies, and intimated as much by shouting in a high-pitched, flossy voice: "Friennnnd, Speshial Friennnd," to which Paps dropped his head, raised a finger and charged off in the direction of said pub.

We joined him soon afterwards. Before we got to the pub, however, the Prince looked at me darkly and warned: "Don't spoil it for him, Rippers. Don't call them fluffies."
Red rag to a bull I am afraid. I couldn't resist it when introduced to the girls from Bathwater PR despite black looks from all around. As for Paps, having had his evening rudely interrupted I imagine he finished the night curled up in his old sagging chair, watching Carry On Camping and dreaming of a young Babs Windsor.

Meatfeast jacket potato and gravy

2009-06-25T13:52:00.002Z

WOW, things don't come in halves in my life. Having got married and landed a new job, it seems that Wren and I have now secured a new house. It's a little cottage in a village called Stapleton just outside Bristol and it is absolutely fab. We have managed to land it at what I would regard a bargain price, too, but have a look for yourselves on this link: http://www.haart.co.uk/buying-house/Mapsearch/search-results/Property-details_97161.aspx
Believe it or not, the sellers want us to complete the exchange by July 21, which is less than a month away. It will all depend on banks and solicitors, but it is all very exciting stuff.

Meanwhile, the Prince of Darkness has, not surprisingly, sold his soul. Well, not quite accurate, really. It's more a case that he is actually in danger of losing his sole. The unearthly one's winkle picker boots are threatening to fall apart after he scuffed them while dragging young virgins through the ghostly backstreets on his way from one den of iniquity to the other. The sole has now completely detached but, with the Prince a bit strapped for cash, he is having to put up with the indignity for now.

Just before I leave the wonderful world of Meeja Wales, I have finally found a suitable substitute for the office canteen. It is a caravan outside Cardiff Station which sells all manner of delicious meals - like Roast Pork with jacket potato, gravy and stuffing. Scrummy.
The Prince has been hobbling over there regularly for his full-on breakfast baguette, but I didn't realise all the culinary delights it had to offer. Yesterday, for instance, I had a meatfeast jacket potato which contained pork, beef, chicken and stuffing - all covered in thick globs of gravy. Smashing.

Sloppy Joes (sort of)

2009-06-23T12:05:00.004Z

I'M not saying that it was a hard day on the good old Wales on Sunday at the weekend, or indeed that the Wonderful Withers of WoS is so miserable he makes Morrisey look like the perpetually smiling TV chef Ainsley Harriot in comparison, but my erstwhile colleague's sigh could be heard all over Cardiff at around 9.30 on Saturday night.
In response, The Boss turned to him and asked, "Oi, yer wee Sasenach. Wo's wrong wi' ye?"
The tormented one simply replied: "Oh, when will death come?" Quite.
It may have been that the poor sap had been working as news editor with the help of just one reporter and had to wade through a pile of MPs expenses claims which had been printed in the Daily Telegraph that day. On the other hand, it may have just been because he had been forced to prize open his moth-infested wallet to hand over two quid to Smashy for a bet they had made on the previous night in old O'Neill's.
The subject of the bet had been the Prince of Darkness and his progress with a young lady with whom he had struck up a conversation that evening. Smashy predicted things would progress little further on the basis that a. the Prince had already started sinking Sambucas, and it wasn't even 9pm.
b. He seemed to be regaling her stories of his experiences at rock festivals, which dated him back to the era before the Beatles came into existence.
and c. She actually seemed pretty intelligent.
Meanwhile, Paps was attempting to chat up the entire Northern Ireland women's basketball team who were obviously preparing for their big game the following day seriously, by sinking drink after drink and becoming decidedly merry. He, of course, needed the help of Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes) who regularly endured knowing glares from his girlfriend the solicitor who, it must be said, has the patience of a saint.
Eventually, tired of watching the Prince in action, we retired to the City Arms which, even on a Friday night with a disco in full swing, is looking more and more like a ghost town. Wren and I ended up with the dance floor to ourselves while Smashy and the Wonderful One decided to quit while the going was good. Withers, now convinced that the Prince would have failed in his mission seeing he was barely coherent when we left him, passed over the two quid and no more was said.

This morning, though, the Wonderful One was in a much more cheery mood. Seems the Dark Lord had cracked it and Smashy reluctantly turned up at his desk to return the coins and add two more of his own.
This proved that a. the Prince can't be relied on to keep schtum about anything and
b. the Wonderful One is easily pleased.

Yesterday, Wren and I decided that rather than pay out a fortune in two seperate rents we would try to buy or, at least, rent a place together in Bristol. For me it would be easy to travel up the motorway to London on a Wednesday, then stay with the Fat Kid for a few days while working on the Screws before returning home to God's Own city. With Tuesdays off, there would also be a good chance of regular weekend visits to see the Gas.
Unfortunately, househunting is not an easy business, particularly when you have to master the Bristol traffic. We first went to a village called Stapleton just outside town and a little cottage that was idyllic, with an allotment out back and everything. The price was good, too, but Wren and I suddenly realised we hadn't sorted out a mortgage, or even had a chat with a financial advisor.
We decided that might be a good step.
Later, Wren insisted we visit Fishponds, which also sounds idyllic until you realise there isn't a fish pond in site and, if there was, the carp had probably been killed off long ago from the fumes eminating from the lorries, Kwik-fit centres and MOT stations in the vicinity. Not my idea of a relaxing home from home.
Finally, after a few more false starts, we ended up in Westbury-on-Trym, a lovely little village within a sparrow's fart of the centre and Bristol nightlife. It seems a good choice and we looked at a couple of rental properties which weren't bad.
After six hours on the road, though, my temper was beginning to fray and "grumpy grandad" came out in full mode. Wren told me as much as I cursed, crunched the gears and attempted three point turns in places where it was almost impossible to perform them (that scene out of Austin Powers, when he tries to manouevre a motorised vehicle in a tiny corridor springs to mind).
Finally, we called it a day, much to my relief, and ended up at my parents where we were delighted to show them the wedding dvd and pictures, Jean having missed our big day.
Back over the bridge then and by the time I got home it was 10pm. I had planned to make the famous meatballs and decided to do so any way, but save them for a later date. I came across a quick meal to cook while they were in the oven.
It is meant to be served in tacos or pitta bread but, having neither, I ate it with penne pasta.
Sloppy Joes
What you need:
8oz mince.
A pepper (I used a chopped yellow one)
Half an onion
Some sliced mushrooms
Tomato paste
Worcestershire Sauce
Tabasco, if you have any, or chilli sauce or ketchup.
Olive oil.

What I did:
Heat the olive oil in a frying pan, then soften the chopped onion, sliced mushrooms and pepper.
Add the mince and brown.
Then add the tomato paste and stir in for two minutes.
Add the Worcester sauce, tabasco to taste or chilli sauce and ketchup.
Cook for a few minutes more, then serve with the pasta.
Quick and easy

Nettle wine

2009-06-20T11:35:00.002Z

I never had The Boss down as one of those tree-hugging, hippie types until he told me of one of the adventures of his misspent youth.
It all came about because I happened to mention that Scooby was off to Avebury with his drums to celebrate the summer solstice which, according to him, means bashing the hell out of his skins while wearing only a loin cloth and a smile and jigging around a circle of stones.
"Did ah not tell ye about ma adventure with some of ma wee mates when I was in ma teens?" The Boss offered in his melodic Irish tones.
When I answered in the negative, he proceeded to inform me of a time when he and his pals - no doubt known as Stiff, niff, jiff and anything else ending in iff (in the manner of all his mates) - sneaked off into the countryside to partake of some rather illicit alcohol.
While they were crawling through the woods they came across a strange sight. There was a fire blazing a few hundred yards away and they sneaked up to witness a group of cowl-wearing sun worshippers chanting in some foreign tongue while moving slowly around the flames.
The boys were convinced they had come across some sort of witches' coven and whispered excitedly to each other. Unfortunately, whispering in the throaty, guttural drawl of Rab C Nesbit tends to carry a bit on the breeze and they soon realised their talking had attracted the attention of said coven.
The witches began to call to them. "Come out, come out, whoever you are..." and, after a brief consultation, the boys decided the game was up and they might as well take their punishment.
Strangely, though, the coven were more than happy to welcome them into the gathering. They passed around such delicious alcoholic treats as nettle wine and soon the Boss and his pals were giddy with the excitement of it all.
Then, as the sun began to rise to herald a new dawn, the solstice worshippers threw off their cowls and stripped butt-naked. They then implored the boys to do the same.
The Boss, now feeling at one with the earth and rather trolleyed on nettle wine, immediately took up the challenge and cast off his clothes, quickly followed by his buddies.
They then all linked arms and proceeded to sway and dance around a young tree sapling planted in the ground - a symbol of the earth's fertility.
Only trouble was The Boss didn't realise that swaying on a shedful of nettle wine can sometime get out of hand. Overbalancing rather dramatically, he toppled straight over onto the young sapling, snuffing out its young life before it could even dream of becoming a tall and mighty tree.
Silence. As The Boss rose to his feet he was greeted by looks of stunned, open-mouthed horror and wished the ground would swallow him up, too.

Chicken curry off the bone (from Dirty Dots)

2009-06-19T11:04:00.005Z

ANYONE of a certain age reading the title of this blog entry will think "Ah, right, he went out, had a shedful, ended up in Kiwis, then stopped off in Caroline Street on the way home". Caroline Street, by the way, is known more commonly in Cardiff as chip alley.
I can tell you now that the above scenario is totally without foundation. Some bits are true, of course, but I can categorically state that I actually visited Dirty Dots - the most renowned of chip alleys eateries - in the middle of the day while sober. Not stone cold sober, though. For the rest of the story we must rewind 15 hours or so.

And where do we end up? The new old O'Neill's on the Hayes, of course. Having managed to find a parking space right outside the office I opted to leave the car at work overnight and stroll into town to meet Smashy, Jarhead and the Blair Witch. And before long I was getting well into the lager on a spirited mission to "catch up" my Meeja Wales colleagues, who had been inbibing for a good few hours.
As the evening went on and we were joined by Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes) Dave the Suit and Sarah "Not guilty" Me Lud, we were informed there would be some musical entertainment. Asking one of the barmaids who this might be, she answered: "You know the one. He's a kind of paedophile Santa Claus." Hmmm. Surely the little Bowling Ball hadn't secured another gig?
But no. Shortly, this ramshackle bloke with tattoos and long grey beard, aged around 140 I should think, took to the stage and started playing a number of trad songs. He got through House of the Rising Sun by the Animals (which I informed him was the first song most budding guitarists, including moi, learnt to play), I Walk The Line by Johnny Cash and Fairytale in New York without the benefit of the lovely Kirsty McColl.
His guitar was wierd, to say the least. It had the overall guitar shape but only the wooden fretboard was solid, the rest was just empty air. But, unfazed by the serious heckling coming from our table and a nearby stag party, he continued to strum away to his heart's content.
Then it dawned on me. This folk singer who really belonged in a folk museum might know the one folk song that is dear to my heart. And sure enough, after my request, he played the whole uncensored version of Goodnight Irene, the prayer of all true Gasheads.
Afterwards, he informed me he was playing a gig in Bristol the day after. It was taking place in Brislington. I told him Irene would go down very well there if he played it. I didn't inform him that Brislington was, in fact, at the centre of Sh**head territory and he might not escape alive if he performed it. Well, I didn't want to alarm him.
Strangely, though, when I later went to the bar, one of the staff approached me and asked if I was, indeed, a "gashead". Imagine my surprise when, after answering in the affirmative, he informed me that he was, too! Bliss. We do, indeed, get everywhere.
After that it all became a bit of a blur. This morning I stirred from a deep slumber and looked at the clock. 10.30! I am normally in work by 10 on a Friday. I quickly checked my phone. The alarm hadn't been set. Oops. Not only that but there were absoluted NO text messages for me, informing me of my terrible tardiness. Not a one. Which got me thinking... Does this sum up my value to the whole Meeja Wales operation?
A good six years ago after a famous Sunday Mirror Christmas Party I remember a similar coma engulfing me and waking the next day to find 40 missed calls! Late for work at Meeja Wales? None. I could have been ripped limb from limb by Cannibal seagulls and no one would have noticed. Alarming really.
Anyway, enough of this. I jumped up, showered and set off for the bus stop and managed to get into work for 11am. No one batted an eyelid apart from the Wonderful One, who said: "You went out last night without me? Why didn't someone ring?"
Because, dear boy, you informed everyone very loudly at work last night you were going home and even insisted: "I am ALLOWED to go home now and again, aren't I?" before heading for the exit.
Then I kind of coasted through the rest of the morning before heading off for a spot of lunch. Then, as if from nowhere, this craving came across me. Chicken Curry off the Bone and chips from Dorothy's in Caroline Street. I haven't had it for about four years and, my, it still tastes good. They even advertise it outside this salubrious establishment. "The original home of Chicken Curry off the bone" it says. Not sure, but they may have been pipped to it by some establishment on the sub-continent, if I were to hazard a guess.

The Burger King

2009-06-18T13:06:00.002Z

IT is true to say that the Prince of Darkness, while not feeding on the blood of young virgins, adheres to a pretty strict diet. And I am not talking here about his liquid intake of double voddies, sambucas and Peronis.
Looking at him you would think the Dark Lord, who weighs in at about 7 stone sopping wet, lives off lettuce leaves and slim-a-soups. Not a bit of it. It's more like he watched Morgan Spurlock's Supersize Me, where the man in question lived off a diet of McDonalds for a month, and thought it was some sort of healthy eating guide to be followed remorsely.
Here, exclusively, is an example of what he ate last week.
Monday: Two big macs. Tuesday: Two big macs. Wednesday: Two big macs. Thursday: Two big macs. Friday: Two big macs. Yet he didn't seem to put on an ounce. Perhaps that, more than anything else, is proof that he has some kind of pact with the devil.
When he's not eating big macs he tends to make a huge vat of spaghetti bolognaise at the weekend, then returns to it throughout the week to take care of his dietary requirements. How healthy it is to leave the vat on the stove and reheat it every day of the week, I am uncertain, but it certainly doesn't seem to have done the Prince any harm.
Then there is the dinner time feast. This is when the Prince slips out for a bite to eat, returning every day with a breakfast roll from the little shack over the road by the station, oozing with greasy bacon, sausage, egg and sauce.
On occasion, though, he has shocked his colleagues at Meeja Wales by returning with a bag of fruit. As he explained one day: "I think the guy in the fruit store feels sorry for me, he called me over and plied me with bananas and grapes and only charged me a quid."
One thing I have never seen the Prince go near, however, is garlic. And if he gets any thinner he won't be able to see his reflection in the mirror. Mind you, I seem to recall that is par for the course for these creatures of the night.

Wren and I watched a pretty good film on DVD last night. It was a psychological thriller called Derailed, starring Clive Owen and, remarkably, Jennifer Anniston. Remarkable, I say, because this was no rom-com and was as far removed from Friends as it was possible to get. It featured some particularly nasty characters but had a great twist at the end. Well worth a viewing.

The wonderful One (an unreserved apology)

2009-06-16T10:31:00.002Z

YESTERDAY I may have given the impression that the Wonderful Withers of WoS had compared his recent disappointments in the love department to a football team failing to win a league game. This, I now accept, is totally untrue.
To put the record straight he actually compared his miserable failures with the opposite sex to that of Eddie Johnson, the pretty non-descript American striker and perennial substitute at Cardiff City, who spent an absolute age trying to score his first goal - so much so that he could probably have been reprimanded for breaching the trade descriptions act by calling himself a "striker". He actually said: "I am a lot like Eddie Johnson in that the longer he went without scoring the more the pressure built up inside him, particularly with all the heckling he was getting from the terraces."
So, you see, it is absolutely nothing like being a football league team that cannot win a game, and feel the pressure the more it goes without them breaking their duck, particularly with all the heckling they get from the terraces. The analogy is obviously COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY DIFFERENT.
Withers, I apologise unreservedly.

Actually, to be fair he keeps getting in positions to score (although I hesitate to use the footballing analogy that he keeps getting into the box), and the suggestion I made the other day to the boys, that he was just the warm up act for the Prince of Darkness, is now looking more and more inaccurate, too.
On Monday night we joined up with the Fabulous Baker Boy, in town to take his folks to the Take That concert (so he claims), Monsieur de Lebussier and Mad Liz in the new old O'Neill's. It was a very pleasant evening which took an unexpectedly entertaining twist when we bumped into a lady from Chiswick in London claiming to be called Zenith. When asked what her surname was she came up with something totally unpronounceable with lots of clicks and gutteral sounds. She claimed it was down to her Zulu upbringing but we soon twigged she was a bit of a joker.
This was great for the Wonderful One who, as you may have heard earlier in this blog, fancies himself as a bit of a stand-up act himself.
'Zenith' was in town to campaign against a new Biofuels plant being located in Newport, her argument being that it will actually help destroy the rain forests - though I am unaware of any rain forests in Chiswick.
Still, in her spare time she just happens to fancy herself as a comedienne and has, in fact, been on a few courses in pursuit of this hobby. They were soon engaged in a bout of witty reparte which had the Wonderful One beaming from ear to ear.
Not so Mad Liz, who chose this moment to demonstrate how she has obtained her nickname. The Mad one, perhaps in a fit of pique having being robbed of the undivided attention of the Fab BB, joined in the conversation by saying: "Why don't you f*** off back to your hotel, Zenith. I don't like you." What a mentallist! as Alan Partridge might say.
Eventually we managed to calm her down and her and our guest were almost friends by the end of the evening.
As I left the boozer the Wonderful One and Zenith (real name Sue, disappointingly) were still deep in conversation. Go on, Eddie son... no pressure.

Roast beef with horseradish and rose wine glaze

2009-06-15T11:21:00.006Z

THE Wonderful Withers of WoS is feeling the pressure. He admitted as much on Friday when we visited an out-of-town venue rather than try to negotiate our way through the mass of stinking humanity that had descended on Cardiff city centre for an Oasis concert at the stadium.
There was another reason, too. All the pubs in the area, including the Cardiff beer and cider festival, were serving drinks in plastic glasses. Yuk!
So we had to walk a bit further but ended up at the Pen and Wig, a cool boozer with a largely student clientele and arguably Cardiff's best beer garden.
After a particularly fraught day on the South Wales Eggcup, where everyone seemed to be getting deliriously excited about some story about a bendy bus, I arrived very late to join up with WWW, Jarhead, Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes) and Smashy. It was pretty obvious that, having given them three hours start, they were well into the swing of things.
In fact, I knew as much before I even got there thanks to a text message from Jarhead which simply read: "Sh** it's great here. Proper glasses and birds in suits?!"
Had he mentioned boots as well it would have amounted to Jarhead heaven.
Anyway, the beer was obviously slipping down well... so well, in fact, that the Wonderful One didn't realise that instead of buying him Stella Artois, the others had been playing tricks on him and providing him with all manner of other beverages, including a Carling Shandy I do believe.
I was, of course, accompanied by the Prince of Darkness, who immediately upped the pace and by the time Paps joined us Withers was beginning to metamorphosise from writer and broadcaster to slurring, incoherent zombie.
At this time we were joined by a Yard bird (as the barmaids at our FORMER fave venue are known) and her mate, who actually appeared to find the Wonderful One rather hilarious. I don't know whether it was his witty one liners that had her engrossed or if she was just captivated at the prospect she had come across the missing link -its early attempts at communication involving a series of grunts and giggles.
Anyway, the amassed crowd were fascinated to observe this meeting of minds and were quick to encourage Withers that he was actually doing pretty well. This, of course, had the opposite of the desired effect on the Wonderful One.
I advised him that now would be the time to arrange a future meeting or, at least, get a phone number before toddling off home. Unfortunately he did the worst thing possible in his circumstances - he arranged to meet her later.
Next day I inquired of his progress and he confessed that when he reached the arranged meeting place she was nowhere to be seen. Mind you, it's probably a good thing, too, judging by the state of him.
He did, however, explain to me how difficult it was to be Withers these days - particularly when in pursuit of a happy liaison with a member of the opposite sex.
"It's like being a football team desperately trying to get your first league win. The more it doesn't happen, the more pressure you feel. It gets to the point that you think you'll never win one. And it doesn't help with the crowd on your back, too... like you lot."
Fair point, mate but, as I imagine every England football and cricket manager has told his teams over the last 40-odd years, "It's not the winning that counts, but the taking part."
Whoever actually came up with that saying must have been a real loser, mind you.
Far better to follow the scattergun approach of the Little Bowling Ball, whose theory is that if he has enough shots at goal at some stage one of them will go in.

Talking of strange liaisons, a new club opened in town on Friday night and our wedding photographer Andy was there to snap all the celebs. Celebs? There were absolutely none. Not even Noel from Hear Say managed to attend this time, and by all accounts he will show up at the opening of an envelope.
Mind you, Andy was taken aback when he was introduced to a woman who claimed to be on the reserve list for this year's Big Brother show. She looked pretty familiar and when he twigged to sent his snap into Meeja Wales for the Prince of Darkness to view.
"Hoo's tha' boord then, mate?" asked the boss, intrigued.
"I don't know. She looks familiar, but..."
Then Andy rang in to solve the Prince's memory crisis. "She's that pole dancer who took us back to her house, stripped off and then had you dancing around the pole in her front room," he revealed.
"Oh yeah!" said the Prince, who had viewed numerous pictures of her previously as part of a feature on the Big Bro series which appeared in the South Wales Eggcup yet failed to recognise her totally. I don't suppose alcohol played any part in the memory loss, though.

On Saturday night Wren and I enjoyed a very tasty bit of beef, basted in an interesting glaze of rose wine, hot horseradish sauce and thick honey.
You need:
Lean beef joint of topside, sirloin or rib of beef - I used topside
1/4 pint of rose
4 tbsp horseradish sauce
1tbsp thick honey.

TO DO:
Calculate the cooking time of the joint from the packaging, then roast in a preheated oven at 180 degrees/gas mark 4-5. Meanwhile put all the glaze ingredients in a saucepan, bring to the boil and simmer for about 5 minutes, stirring occasionally.
30 minutes from the end of cooking time, remove joint from the oven and spoon the glaze over the top, then baste occasionally until the joint is cooked.
Stand 10 minutes before carving, while returning roasting dish to the top of the hob, adding a good sprinkling of flour to the meat juices. Mix in while heating then add some stock to make a reasonably creamy gravy. Serve with vegetables and new roast potatoes.

Wassabi crisps

2009-06-12T10:20:00.003Z

WE are surrounded by the wonderful world of text speak these days - the abbreviated language of youth. My daughter the fat kid is somewhat of an expert at it. I get messages which regularly end in the phrase lol, which I am reliably informed means Laugh Out Loud, or tb, which is shorthand for text back. There are others far too numerous to mention, but I must admit I was perplexed about the one I came across the other day.
Now, I've never really thought of the Prince of Darkness to be a trendsetter. Unless, of course, it has suddenly become trendy to prey on student virgins, dance like a wonky three-legged table in the middle of an earthquake, live in a crypt and never emerge till dusk or hum the tunes of Frank Zappa to yourself, but a recent tale has made me re-evaluate his ability to get "down with the kids".
The boss and his doppleganger Billy Muirfield, a former columnist of the esteemed Wales on Sunday, were out having a few drinks this week when a text message came through from the dark lord inquiring of their whereabouts.
The boss immediately asked him what he wanted and was a wee bit perplexed by the answer.
"Wha' the hell does tha' mean?" inquired the Boss in his lilting Irish brogue.
He passed across the phone to his compadre who, shockingly, happens to be a Rangers fan - something The Celtic-infatuated Boss seems to have failed to register.
All the message said was "dvc".
For the next half hour they tried to work out this bizarre message until giving up the ghost and settling back to enjoy their drinks. Eventually the Prince himself turned up but by then everyone had forgotten all about the strange texted abbreviation.
Next day and the Boss suddenly recalled this strange occurence. He proceeded to pass his phone around the room, hoping that someone might be able to shed light on proceedings. Not one of us had come across the shortform before.
Then on came that little light bulb that sometimes shines above the Wonderful One's head. "Got it!" he shouted, as if he had uncovered a rare fossil.
"Oh aye, so wha's it mean then, ye ken?" asked the boss.
"DVC... Double Vodka and Coke," replied the Wonderful One. Obvious.

On Thursday night there were a few beers supped in the new old O'Neills in the company of the Prince, the Wonderful One and Danny Boy (the Poipes, the poipes). The latter was looking forward to a long weekend, which would involve a stag party of, no doubt, momentous proportions.
"But it's your long weekend. What does the solicitor say?" I asked.
"Oh, it's ok," said the voice of reason. "I've told her she can go and visit her mother for the weekend."
What a thoughtful chap.

Getting home it was pretty late and I had no desire to cook. For that matter I had no desire to set fire to the kitchen or ruin any of my pots, which would have been the inevitable consequence of putting something on the stove, then falling asleep in front of the Yankees v the Red Sox.
I therefore settled for a packet of Wasabi crisps. Wasabi, apparently, is Japanese horseradish - and very nice they were, too.

Breakfast at Tiffany's

2009-06-10T11:22:00.004Z

Ok, I confess. I have a nasty habit - one might call it an addiction. Where some people gamble, others drink (no, that's not the addiction I am referring to - how dare you!) and others still dabble in drugs, I find I cannot go into a supermarket without buying much, much more than I need.
For example, I will nip into Sainsbury's to buy a few essential items and end up running up a bill in excess of £100 after filling my trolley with things I will probably never get around to eating. You know, there is that special shelf of "exotic" foods, and for some inexplicable reason I will grab a jar of pickled Indonesian goat testicles, just because "you never know when they might come in handy".
My cupboards are full of such bonkers purchases with sell-by dates that go back to a time when Slade topped the charts and Neil Armstrong was taking "one small step for man".
Well, that's my case for the defence anyway as I will need one after the story I'm about to tell.

After a good swim in the new international pool I had to pop into Morrisons on Monday. My mission was clear. I had run out of risotto rice for paella and also needed some butter and cold meats for the week's sandwiches (a necessity since the beloved Meeja Wales canteen was taken from us just over a year ago).
I toyed with the idea of just getting a small basket, but in the past I have ended up carrying two of these, full to bursting. Passers by might easily mistake me for one of those little Turkish weightlifters who can lift things twice their size, but risk a hernia in the process.
So I got a trolley. Not the big trolley you understand, just one of the smaller ones.
Forty minutes later I was at the checkout, loading bags upon bags into said trolley. The checkout girl smiled at me as she announced: "That'll be £77.50." Are they on commission, do you think?
A wee bit expensive, too, when you consider I was only hoping to buy fillings for a week's worth of sandwiches.
Anyway, forget goat's testicles. Among my many purchases were four large chorizo sausages (you never know when you're going to need a chorizo sausage), a large bottle of hot chilli sauce, a job lot of steak and kidney pies (because they were a bargain) and the Audrey Hepburn dvd collection. Yes, that's right. Audrey Hepburn.
My reasoning? It was only £6, included five films AND the full manuscript for Breakfast at Tiffany's.
Now, on purchasing said DVD I did actually read the back, which described the aforementioned film as a "delightful Romantic Comedy", in fact just the sort of thing we red-blooded males buy all the time I'm sure you will agree.
It just seemed a logical purchase at the time. The Audrey Hepburn Collection - £6. Fantastic.
It's only when I received the bill for my purchases that it dawned on me that it is this sort of impulse buy that leaves me shockingly broke by the end of the month.

Still, having made the purchase I had to watch the film. And, I admit, it's a classic that I hadn't seen before. One of the reasons I wanted to see it was that it was written by Truman Capote and, having read his book In Cold Blood and seen the film Capote, I must admit I am intrigued by his work.
To be fair, it was a pretty enjoyable couple of hours in the company of Ms Hepburn and George Peppard whom, I recall, used to be in a series I watched years ago about a detective called Banacek before his starring role as leader of the A-team.
Afterwards I admitted to Wren how I had spent my evening. "That sounds fab," she said, "we'll have to read the scripts together now."
Ummm, no. One night getting in touch with my feminine side is enough thank you. She'll have me dressing in tights next.

Lamb Pot Roast

2009-06-09T11:49:00.002Z

Scooby fancies himself as the new Stephen Spielberg but is finding it a bit tricky to master the software for his video camera. The photographer-cum-drummer-cum-landlord was kind enough to agree to produce a DVD of our wedding, but so far things haven't gone according to plan.
First take was beautifully edited with some very appropriate background music but, unfortunately, the wedding ceremony was reproduced twice. Take two, and Scooby managed to remove the duplicate (as Mrs R said, "I think once is enough for anyone") and it all seemed to be perfect, apart from the fact that my wife's speech was interrupted rather rudely by a piece of music being imposed over the top.
Being a little bit self conscious about the whole public-speaking thing she assumed that her speech was so poor that Scoobs had deliberately chosen to edit it this way. Either that, or perhaps something had gone wrong with the sound recording during the speeches.
When I asked him, politely, whether he had any out-takes of Mrs R's speech so that we could listen to it, he was shocked. He said he certainly hadn't intended to mask out her moment in the spotlight. So back went the DVD again.
Take three, and everything seemed perfect with the music in the right place and Mrs R's speech reproduced in full. Trouble was, the double wedding ceremony had been re-inserted.
Sheepishly I had to return to the producer again, but by now it had dawned on me what had gone wrong. Having re-done the footage to make sure the wedding ceremony wasn't repeated, our budding Spielberg had forgotten to change the music accordingly so it now appeared later in the film, just at the time Mrs R was making her speech.
He is back in the video suite, attempting to rectify the problem as we speak. By the time we get our DVD I expect we'll be celebrating our silver wedding anniversary. I'm sure it will be a work of art, though.

Word reaches me that Dave the Suit, who likes to think of himself as the doyen of Cardiff political journalists as he hobnobs with the great and the good on the local council, has found another string to his bow. Apparently during the latter stages of Smashy's infamous birthday bash he was seen throwing himself about with gay abandon to the music on offer from my own personal DJ Jase in the City Arms. In fact, at one stage he was seen leaping, Nureyev style, onto one of the tables in the City Arms, to the amazement of his colleagues.
I hear that the spies from the Welsh Millennium Centre are now trying to make contact. They fancy him as the next Sugar Plum Fairy.

Last night I returned home from enjoying a few relaxing beers with the Wonderful One and Jarhead in the new old O'Neill's to continue my latest cullinary delight, a lamb pot roast.
WHAT YOU NEED:
A lamb joint. I used a half shoulder but a half leg joint is recommended.
1 tsp sunflower oil
1 tsp each of thyme, rosemary and mint
500g new potatoes, cut in half if they are large
12 button onions (I used one large onion, sliced)
A sliced carrot or two
2 celery sticks, timmed and cut diagonally
One of those new stock pots advertised by Marco Pierre White
450ml boiling water
150ml dry white wine
A cup of frozen peas
One tsp of tomato puree
salt and black pepper

TO DO:
Pre-heat oven to 190/gas mark 5
Put lamb on a plate and rub all over with a mixture of the herbs and oil
Season with salt and pepper
Put into the oven for 45 minutes then remove and add the veg.
Pour the wine over the veg, then add the boiling water mixed with the stock pot
Cover and cook for a further 30 minutes.
Remove from oven again and mix in the puree and peas.
Cook for another 20 minutes, then set out the veg and slice the lamb on top.

That's what you should do, anyway. I cooked the majority of it before popping out for a beer, then returned to add the peas and the puree. I also left it to cook longer than expected so that I could revel in the Aussies sharp exit from the first round of the world Twenty20 Cup. I think it is a ploy though, so that they can be fully rested before thumping us again in the Ashes.
Hope I'm wrong.

Rich fayre

2009-06-06T13:15:00.002Z

I DON'T know what it is with my local newsagent, but he has become very friendly with me since his picture turned up in the South Wales Eggcup as a local business champion. He also happened to notice my rather overlarge byline and picture on the letters page and now he wants to talk to me about everything under the sun. The trouble is he cannot remember my name, however many times I remind him.
This morning was a perfect case in point. Popping in for a pint of milk I arrived at the counter where there was a slight delay while the cogs clicked around in his head. "Hello... um... um..." he said as I waited patiently for my purchase. Then, just as I was about to jog his memory, he had a Eureka moment. "Nick!" he said, his face glowing with pride as if he had just got the final answer in Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.
Having overcome this major hurdle he then decided to discuss the merits of my job, the weather, the political situation and my wedding.
"Well, Richard, when are you moving on then? Not very good weather is it, Richard? What about that Gordon Brown, Richard, eh? Enjoying married life, are you, Rich?"
I couldn't help being reminded of the character Trigger and the way in Only Fools and Horses that he always refers to Rodney as Dave.

Last night was the boy Smashy's birthday and he was joined in the celebrations by a good contingent from Meeja Wales, plus Ballsy, who was making a rare visit to our neck of the woods from London.
Also joining us was Shutts, who looked like some kind of giant, overripe banana in a garish American bomber jacket provided courtesy of the San Diego Padres, having recently returned from a trip to America.
Unfortunately our mottley crew have taken to drinking in the gastro-pub that is Zero Degrees early on Friday evenings because of a happy hour where they dispense strong pints of lager for the princely price of £2. Just great, except that by 9pm many of us are feeling decidely worse for wear.
As we watched England lose to the mighty cricketing talents of Holland in the opening game of the World Twenty20 Cup, our chances of remaining reasonably sober weren't helped by the Prince of Darkness, who decided to mark our colleague's big occasion by going for the shots.
"15 sambucas!" he shouted excitedly at the barman. Hmmm. None of us really fancied Sambuca at 8pm. It completely caught out the bar staff, too, who didn't have enough shot glasses so had to serve them in half-pint pots. It was all downhill from there.
I opted to wobble home at 9.30 but my sources tell me that Smashy was still going strong, dancing to his favourite Indy music in the City Arms at 1am in the morning - and he still made it to work for 10.30. Top effort.

a fag and a can of bow

2009-06-05T11:20:00.003Z

THE wonderful Withers of WoS has moved into a new luxury, self-contained apartment in the salubrious area of Cardiff known as Taff Embankment. The miserable one was delighted to finally get a place to himself after sharing for so long with an assortment of oddballs and ne'er-do-wells although I must admit this blog will miss his constant tales of woe which have kept us fully entertained over the years.
Having said that, he turned up at work today with a story that made his previous experiences pale into insignificance. For, looking out of his window last night during a break in Question Time, he happened to spot a couple of young ladies, attired from head to toe in leopard skin clothing and puffing away on ciggies while holding cans of Strongbow in their other hands.
As they strolled up and down they made various gestures at passing motorists, bringing Withers to the conclusion that they were, in fact, Ladies of the Night and he had moved into a notorious red light district.
As he watched, his next door neighbour stepped out onto the pavement and began to remonstrate with them, suggesting that they might care to dress a bit more appropriately because they were bringing the tone of the neighbourhood down.
I would have thought the fact that the wonderful one had moved in was enough to lower property prices a few grand as it is.

Some poor souls have mistaken the little Bowling Ball for a musician and actually booked his 'band' to play at their wedding. The truth is that he doesn't have a band, just a disparate group of wannabe guitar players who sit around in dingy corners of Cardiff's most ill-frequented hostelries strumming away to tunes which have little or no resemblance to the songs they are desperately trying to replicate.
Sorry to say even my own preferred watering holes are not immune from the odd, unwarranted strum-sesh from this disparate band of brothers. Walking into the new, old O'Neill's the other day I realised that my enjoyment of the juke box was being impaired by some tuneless wailing and strumming. Further investigation found the Bowling Ball and a couple of other random old soaks bashing away at something that they assured me was "Make Me Smile", by Cockney Rebel, but could more appropriately be named "Make Me Cringe".
Best of luck to the 'Happy' couple, I say.

Hair of the Toggy

2009-06-02T10:23:00.003Z

Cockney cheeky chappie Rob Kneesupmutha Brown had a bit of a bad hair day on Monday. Turning up to work the photographer with the rapidly receding hairline looked quite normal from the front. But when he turned around there appeared to be tufts of long hair poking out amid his otherwise shaven bonce.
Being the discreet person I am, I shouted: "Bloody hell, Browny, what has happened to your hair?"
Immediately he moved to cover up the sprouting shoots, which appeared to be growing like weeds out of the back of his carefully tended garden of stubble.
"Oh God, I was hoping no one would notice," he admitted, finally donning a rather bizarre baseball cap backwards. "I was using my clippers today and the batteries went half way through. I had no alternative than to come to work like this."
Being follicly challenged myself I could understand the dilemma, but I think I might have risked a wet shave all over rather than turning up like an extra from Schindler's List.

The Prince of Darkness got somewhat confused on Friday night. Not surprising really since the dark lord had taken the day off and spent the majority of a sun-kissed afternoon sitting outside Las Iguanas in Cardiff's quaintly named Cafe Quarter knocking back jugs of cocktails with the Wonderful Withers of WoS.
By the time Jarhead and I joined the happily inebriated pair, the Prince was already telling the same stories to anyone who was prepared to listen. "You know the guitarist who plays in O'Neill's?" he slurred. "Well, he serves behind the bar in here. I've been having a bit of a chat with him."
Shortly afterwards, retiring to the bar to order two jugs of Long Island Iced Tea with extra vodka (purely for himself, I surmise) he seemed to get his wires crossed when addressing said Barman.
"What would you like?" the barkeep inquired of the unearthly one.
"How about some Arctic Monkeys?" asked the Prince, vacantly.

Next day and it appears the Prince was in need of a hair of the dog, too. When the Wonderful One texted him to inquire of his welfare early the next morning, the crypt-bound one replied: "Just having a gin."
News reaches me that he later set out camping. But rather than tent poles, pegs, calor gas cooker and lots of useful balls of string, the Prince's only contribution to getting back to nature? A bottle of voddie tucked into his backpack.

Lager in Lyme

2009-06-01T10:44:00.004Z

Well it appears pigs DO fly. Mrs R and I spent a lovely weekend in Lyme Regis, attending our first 'official' engagement as a married couple. Self-proclaimed perennial bachelor Pete and his missus Helen were tying the knot at a lovely little wedding ceremony.
The day had begun with a bit of a false start, followed closely by a Rippers-style tantrum. Having loaded up the car, laid out our formal wear neatly and settled into our seats, I realised that I had forgotten the car stereo. Despite a mad 15 minutes stomping through the house shouting at myself while Mrs R bravely tried to calm me down, we were unable to find the missing equipment and, loathe to travel such a distance without music, we had to empty the entire contents of the car and switch them to Millie, my wife's Nissan Micra.

Having battled the millions of drivers on the M5 setting off for the south coast to take advantage of some rare British sun, we still managed to arrive an hour and a half early and booked in at the Talbot Inn, a very nice little boozer in Uplyme just a stone's throw from the village hall where the reception and party was taking place. We had a comfortable little chalet at the back of the pub and quickly changed into our best togs for the occasion.
Meeting up with Scooby, who was the official wedding photographer, Mrs R drove us down the steep hill and into the winding streets of the centre of Lyme where people had flocked to celebrate the heatwave conditions. We managed to find a parking space easily enough and proceeded to St Michael's the Archangel church.
The ceremony was brief and enjoyable, though I felt a bit of a party pooper wearing a cream linen suit which virtually matched the groom's attire. Fortunately, I wasn't the only one. There were several others who had raided their summer wardrobe for the occasion and passing strangers could be forgiven for thinking it was some bizarre tribute to the nostalgic 70s drama series Randall and Hopkirk (deceased).
The vicar was one of those with-it, trendy types who waxed lyrical about the choice of the second hymn, and how we would enjoy it immensely. It was a happy, clappy little African spiritual number entitled This Little Light of Mine. Trouble was, though everyone knew the chorus on the basis that it repeated the title endlessly, when it came to the verses many couldn't quite grasp it. I was certainly a bit flummoxed by the tune and thought miming and mumbling would solve the problem - until I realised that everyone else had the same idea. Sorry, vic!
I must say the happy couple made everyone smile with their choice of music as they left the church. Only Mrs R looked a bit perplexed, if not a little upset.
I got to the bottom of this later on. "I thought it was a very funny way to end the ceremony, didn't you?" I asked.
"I'm not sure. I thought it was a bit rude really," she volunteered.
"Oh, come on. I think it was a really nice, lighthearted moment to play the theme tune from Monty Python's Flying Circus."
Mrs R's mouth turned into a round O. Then she revealed: "I thought it was Nellie the Elephant!"
After the ceremony we made our way back to the village hall, a beautiful setting with a local cricket game going on next door. The happy couple had adopted the Pigs Might Fly theme for the occasion, because both of them had professed they were unlikely to marry - ever. The cake contained little pink pigs in icing, with delicate wings fitted to them, while there were cut out flying pigs around the room.

The wedding breakfast was an all-you-can-eat cold buffet, which certainly appealed to Scooby. In the tradition of nearly every photographer I know, he piled into the food and was quickly back for seconds. Meanwhile, I was sipping water (there was no lager until the bar opened at around 6) while those around me - the builder, wife Wendy, Mrs R, Mungo and girlfriend Allison, not to mention Scooby - were getting stuck into bottles of red and white wine that had been provided for the tables. Looking around, it soon registered with my Jilly Golden-type acquaintances that there were a lot of tables which hadn't touched their bottles of wine. With Scooby's mobile home parked outside, he, Mungo and the Builder set off on a mission around the room, returning with arms laden with wine which was then transported back to the van for use later in the evening.

Meanwhile, the speeches were taking place on the top table. Helen's brother, who had given her away, took it all in his stride. Pete, however, opted to discard his notes and then managed to forget all the rules of etiquette associated with the groom's speech, which nearly caused an international incident (he had forgotten to present his mother's bouquet or praise his new wife for her radiance).
Helen spoke well, as befitted a teacher used to standing up in front of a bunch of adolescents, before best man and brother Robin managed to give us a full breakdown on Pete's experience with a number of the old bangers - sorry, vehicles - that his younger sibling had owned over the years, including the tale of how, only recently, Pete had driven off from a garage with the petrol hose still attached to his camper van. He was five miles down the road by the time he realised there was a long black pipe snaking behind him.

Pete's sister Wisidora (on account of the fact she used to play the witch of the same name in the children's programme) was busy organising volunteers to put away tables after the meal while, in keeping with the family theme, her husband David and his band took to the stage and turned out to be a resounding success. Like a cross between the Commitments and the Blues Brothers they had something for everyone and the dancefloor was packed before long.

The wine thieves, meanwhile, were starting to feel the effects of their actions. As the evening drew to a close the Builder took to the stage, grabbed the mic to shocked looks from the band, and expressed undying love for his wife. He then tried to force the disbelieving Mungo onto the stage and persuade him to propose to his girlfriend of 11 years. It just wasn't going to happen.
Eventually the Builder, with a head-dress of daisies balanced on his hairless bonce, was dragged from the stage and led away by his unimpressed wife.
A chaotic end to a great night and, though Mrs R and I were sent on ahead to see if the Talbot was still serving, with the pub in darkness we decided to call it a night.

On Sunday we wound our way back home, tired but happy. First, though, we had a stroll along the sea front in Lyme, then decided to return via Glastonbury in order to avoid the M5. We stopped off there for a nice lunch - I had chilli and rice, while Mrs R enjoyed nachos and mixed bean chilli. By the time we got back it was about 5.30pm and time for a lovely cup of tea, followed by a snooze on the sofa before viewing our wedding pictures for the first time courtesy of photographer Andy.

Greek prawn casserole

2009-05-29T14:33:00.002Z

IT'S been a rather tough and frustrating week on the good ship Meeja Wales, to be perfectly honest. It wasn't helped when we were relying on a page 3 story in the South Wales EggCup about UFOs being spotted over the fair city of Cardiff.
It wasn't until 8pm in the evening that we got to see the pictures, which amounted to small white pin pricks on an otherwise black background - hardly evidence that ET was about to land in Pontcanna Fields. There then involved a 45-minute flurry of activity to rescue the story and make the best use of the pictures on offer... not a great day.
Wednesday, too, ended up being a rather long one and I only got home in time to see the second half of Manchester United's failed attempt to become the first team to win back-to-back Champions Leagues. To be fair they were totally outplayed by Barcelona in a 2-0 defeat, despite the assurances of all the Brit-biased journalists in this fair land.
The final ignominy came on Thursday night. Having parked my car in the usual pay-and-display berth and walked in to work I returned in the early evening to find a small red packet taped to my windscreen. A parking ticket, informing me I had failed to display my payment stub properly. A 30p ticket was therefore likely to cost me £20.
What had happened, unfortunately, was that the wind whipped up when I slammed my door shut must have made the ticket twist over on the dash, and some observant traffic warden had seized on the opportunity like a dog spying a particularly juicy bone. I shall appeal, I assure you.
The thieves at Cardiff County Council already make a packet out of various traffic scams these days, what with charging over the odds for resident parking and with pay-and-display machines all over the city. Robbers.

Anyway, while watching United's European demise I rustled together a very tasty prawn casserole from - you've guessed it - the Observer Food Monthly.
Ingredients
A packet of raw prawns
120ml olive oil
One onion chopped
2 garlic cloves, thinly sliced.
1 large leek (I didn't have one, so ommitted this)
A can of chopped tomatoes
1 tbsp of tomato paste
2 sliced celery stalks
1 green pepper, cut into strips
1 red pepper, cut into strips
(you can also add a yellow pepper if you fancy it)
salt and pepper
A small amount of hot water
A handful of parsley

TO DO:
Heat the oil. Add onions, garlic and leek and cook on a low heat for five minutes until softened.
Add tomatoes, tomato paste, celery, peppers, salt and pepper and hot water.
Bring to boil and cook, covered, for 30 minutes until liquid cooks down.
Lay prawns on top, sprinkle with parsley, season again and cook for a further eight minutes.
I enjoyed this with some garlic bread and some brown rice.

A sniff of the barmaid's... potato wedges!

2009-05-27T14:10:00.004Z

The Prince of Darkness had that lean and hungry look in the new old O'Neill's the other night and this must have been noticed by the barmaid.
As he stood at the bar, smacking his lips together and talking about some liver and a nice chianti she realised she had to do something too or her neck might be on the chopping block.
Half way through her dinner she turned to the Prince and said, "Would you like to finish off my potato wedges." Never one to look a gift horse, or double vodka for that matter, in the mouth he grasped the plate and proceeded to polish off the remaining morsels, much to the shock of partner-in-crime the Wonderful Withers of WoS.

Sunday afternoon was the final day of the Premier League season and we managed to rustle up a chorum for the event, meeting in the Varsity Bar in Greyfriars Road, Cardiff. Danny Boy (the Poipes, the Poipes), always one on the look out for a bargain, had managed to get hold of some kind of membership card that entitled the owner to a beer discount. Then, realising that a jug of Carling was a mere £7.99, the Poipes, Smashy, Paps and I proceeded to have two of them as we witnessed the demise of Newcastle United, the over-rated shambolic outfit who failed to raise more than a murmur in protest as they sank into the Championship under the watchful gaze of acting manager, and charisma-full former striker, Alan Shearer. Looking at Shearer's fizzog it was of little surprise that his team performed like a wet weekend in January.
Moving on, we enjoyed a couple of drinks with the Fab BB, Mad Liz, the Prince and Withers at Bar Ha Ha! before I wandered home to meet the Mrs, who had spent the afternoon toiling away at her work station in Bristol.

On Monday I was fully aware that the cheap Varsity Beer was having an unsettling effect on my stomach. Putting this behind me we drove out to Hay-on-Wye for the world famous book festival. Mrs R was very excited and proceeded to buy 10 new books. At the rate she reads I expect her to finish them sometime in the year 2020. I invested in five books myself and was impressed with the bargains that could be had in this wonderful little corner on the Welsh border.

On Tuesday night after a horrendous day working on the South Wales Egg Cup, Mrs R and I were accompanied to the cinema by the Prince and Jarhead to see State of Play, the Russell Crowe political thriller based on a three-part BBC series from some years back. Very enjoyable, though I must say I envied the leniency of the deadlines. Crowe hardly wrote a thing during his time chasing up sources. Still, I could see Jarhead was particularly impressed, particularly with the way that Crowe was quick to rubbish the puff-pastry world of internet journalism. Well worth the watch. Smashy (not Nicey) was a little bit surprised, though, when I sent out an invite to all my Meeja Wales colleagues. "Don't think you've got this marriage lark sorted yet, Rippers," he said. "What does Mrs R think of you inviting all your mates out on a cosy night to the cinema?"

Paps, meanwhile, has had his finest hour. He has put together a disc of the pictures he took during the evening's frivolities at our wedding. Above is a rare shot of the Prince of Darkness in dark conversation with the three Witches of Eastwick. I am surprised he didn't turn to dust when the flash went off.

Stuffed Peppers with mince

2009-05-23T18:19:00.002Z

THE boss has so many Irish relatives that no doubt there is a branch on his family tree connected to that great long-distance runner Sonia O'Sullivan. Perhaps this explains his recent keep-fit drive. But forget four minute miles, or half marathons or 10k runs. The boss has come up with a new form of cross country - the six-minute run.
This week he put on his new go-faster trainers, sprinter's vest and silky, non-friction shorts and headed off for a quick lap of Victoria Park. It seemed to go quite well for the first 60 seconds or so. Unfortunately by the time he had got half way around eye witness report seeing him doubled up, breathing through his a*** with tears flowing from his eyes.
Resident Meeja Wales athlete Mike "Troublat" Hill was quick to question him about his route to fitness. "So how often does tha' go on these treks," he asked.
"Well I did go running about this time last year, so I thought I would be alright," he confided.
Now Troublat is thinking of entering him in the South Wales Eggcup's Race for Life with a webcam attached to his head so that we can all watch his progress.
I reckon it would be like that scene in the Blair Witch Project where, after six times around the woods, the girl peers into the camera, fear in her eyes and her nose dripping from her exertions, confessing how scared she is. Troublat reckons that the webcam will end up focussed on the pavement where a pool of vomit will have formed under the boss.

Apparently as part of this health kick he has also bought a new bike. He forked out on a piece of state-of-the-art equipment, totally unaware that it had only one gear. Don't be surprised if you see the Boss heading backwards down a hill near you, face stuck in some kind of frozen grimace and shouting in his dulcet Irish tones: "Ah, fook! Ah fook! Ah fook!"

I thought for one moment on Friday morning that Van Helsing had finally caught up to the Prince of Darkness, surprising him with a wooden stake through the heart in his musty lair on Cathedral Road. At 11.15 there was still no sign of the Dark Lord at his work station when normally, hungover and bedraggled maybe, he is there on the dot.
As questions started to be asked in the house (particularly by those who had seen him getting stuck into the voddies in the Soda Bar in the early hours) I decided the best course of action was to send him a text. Seconds later my phone rang. "F***, f***, f***," he said, in a phrase not unlike the trick-cycling Boss, "I've just woken up... the alarm didn't go off. That's NEVER happened to me before. Thanks for the text mate, it woke me up!"
Twenty minutes later the Prince was hot-footing it through the doors, having donned his fastest cape to spirit him from house to office. To be fair, he looked in a far better state than most days. "I actually woke at 8 and thought, 'I'll just sleep a bit longer, I don't have to be up for ages."

Friday night and the gathering of the clans took place in the old new O'Neills. Smashy and Paps, the wonderful one, Ben Double Glazing, a member of our ace reporting staff, and the Prince himself were sinking beers at a rate of knots. At some stage I was giving the poor old Prince an earbashing over what, I am at a complete loss to recall,. The wonderful one decided it was a good time to interrupt and, without thinking, I pushed out a left arm jab and caught him right in the eye. I have no idea why, the poor fellow certainly didn't deserve it. Spent the next half hour apologising before tottering home.
I must have been in a bit of a state because I forgot to text Mrs R to tell her I was home and woke up next morning in desperate need of Resolve Plus.

The big news, for those who don't know, is that I am actually leaving Meeja Wales for pastures new. I have landed a job at the News of the World, sports editing the Welsh edition. Big stuff indeed. It now means that I will be able to deal in scurrilous scandal and get paid for it, rather than do it for my own pleasure on this blog.

On Wednesday night I cooked up a meal of stuffed peppers with a mince and parmesan filling. Yes, Withers, it was out of the Observer Food Monthly (an old copy from about two years ago) and was delivered by good old Nigel Slater. In fact, I mixed up two of his recipes - tasty mince and stuffed peppers.
WHAT YOU NEED:
50g butter
cubed bacon (I used pancetta)
one medium onion - diced
2 flat cloves of garlic (crushed)
2 sticks of celery (chopped)
100g mushrooms (sliced)
2 bay leaves
400g minced beef
canned tomatoes
stock
nutmeg
three peppers (I used one red, one green and one yellow)

TO DO:
Melt the butter in a heavy pan (I used my non-stick wok), then stir in pancetta and cook for five minutes without colouring much. Add garlic and onion and mix in, the add celery.
Cook for a further five minutes before adding the mushrooms and bay leaves.
Turn up heat, add the meat, and brown. Put in on one side and cook on a reasonable heat, then turn over bit by bit until it is all brown.
Add the tomatoes and the stock (I put in water then added one of the new stock pots), nutmeg, salt and black pepper. Bring to boil, then turn heat down slightly.
Meanwhile, heat the oven to 200 and cut the peppers in half. Discard seeds, then lower them into boiling water and leave for 6-8 minutes until they go slightly limp.
Remove from the water with a draining spoon. Spread olive oil on a baking tray then roll the peppers in it and turn upwards so that they can be filled. Put in the mince mixture and top the peppers with a good measure of parmesan.
Put in the oven and remove 20 minutes later. Being quite hungry I had them with a bit of Penne Pasta