SUNDAY
THE big day finally arrived. The Gas at the Millennium Stadium. Having got to the final of the Football League Trophy with victory over our arch rivals across the City, anything else was going to be a bonus. Sadly, anything else didn't come along.
Despite a late Saturday night on WoS, I was up with the lark on Sunday. My mate Haydn, his son Liam and accompanying entourage arrived outside my house just after 9.15 demanding sustenance. "Where's the best place to go for a big breakfast and a drink?" demanded my old school pal. I suggested the Wetherspoons around the corner. He could park the car outside my house and we could trot around to said pub, then walk the 20 minutes into town.
"Isn't there somewhere nearer?" he enquired.
Big Mistake No 1.
We drove over and parked the car in Sophia Gardens, then walked the short distance into town. One of Haydn's pals was on the phone to his mate. "Where are you?" he asked.
"The Wetherspoons."
"Which one?" A reasonable question. There are four or five in Cardiff and the surrounding area.
"The Ernest Willows in City Road."
Ah, yes. The one approximately 100 yards from my house. Doh!
Anyway, we intrepid Bristolians wouldn't be put off. We were directed towards the Prince of Wales where at 9.45am in the morning it was already heaving with Gasheads. We were told to queue at the front doors. The queue stretched around the block. These poor souls were operating on the one in, one out policy. I bet most of them didn't see the inside of the pub before the 1pm kick off.
Our little group decided to march on. And after three quarters of an hour we finally settled in at Lloyds where they had approximately three bar staff serving in the region of 800 people. By the time we got our breakfast, met up with another old mate Brocky, and walked to the ground, it was 12.30 - half an hour before kick off.
Still, we were in good voice. Thirty seven thousand west country accents drawling "Good Night, Irene, I'll see you in my dreams". The confidence was huge.
The bubble was deflated within five minutes, by which time we were 2-0 down and moaning to our heart's content. "Ah well, at least we beat the City," was our consolation chant.
But, lo and behold, Rovers as usual filled us with false hope, drawing back to 2-2 in a rousing second half and only being denied victory by the brilliance of goalkeeper Neil Sullivan, between the sticks for Donny.
Into extra time. No one was sure whether it would go to penalties or not. Six minutes from the end we were still hopeful. Then Irene's dream was blown apart and we headed for home, heads down, the Watney Cup from 1974 still the only trophy in our cobweb-strewn trophy room. That's what being a gashead is all about.
Met up for a consolation pint and a final smoke with Withers and Rosey at the Pen and Wig. We've decided the word of the month should be Bozo. It's a wonderful name for a completely foolhardy individual of a certain type. Can't explain the type, you just know who is a bozo and who isn't.
This conversation took place as we munched on spare rib flavour crisps (a new one on all of us). Meanwhile, Withers defiantly stood his ground when his cigarette packet flew off the table. "Never mind, I'm giving up tomorrow," said the firm supporter of the smoking ban or "traitor" as I now call him.
This man, one of the political movers and shakers in Wales today with a blog and column which commands the respect of... well quite a few people read it anyway, has refused to raise a voice in protest against this Fascist move by Rhodri and his Doddery mates. Shame on him. His reason: It will force him to give up and save oodles of cash.
Moments later, though, the wonderful one did a shock about-turn. He raced after the packet and seized it within his grasp. "I just realised there was one left," he said.
One ciggy later, though, and he is already feeling withdrawal symptoms. "Give us a fag, Rippers?" he demanded. "Bugger off, traitor. You supported this ban, now live with the consequences," was my firm reply.
The little man's face crumpled, his eyes looking up at me in pleading earnest ... it was a pitiful sight, as Rosey would agree. "Pleeze, pleeeeeze, pleeeeeeeeze, Rippers!" he wailed, his hands out like a dog sitting up on his hind legs, begging for attention.
It was so embarrassing I had to give in.
Withers, you're a bozo.
MONDAY
Scooby is off to photograph Rhodri and a Doddery having a "smoke-free" lunch in the Halfway in Pontcanna. The Assembly first minister is, without doubt, a bozo of the highest order. So, for that matter, is his gruppenfuhrer, sorry, wife, Julie who would rather shoot us smokers on sight than just kick us out of the pubs. For my part, I won't be drinking today.
TUESDAY
After swimming 50 lengths at the local pool to get this growing anger out of my system, I finally decide to take the plunge and enter my first "smoke-free" pub. It's booze day Tuesday but I am approaching it with some reticence.
In the Yard the Prince of Darkness is hovering gloomily over his pint of Krony, fingers scraping at the table as he mourns the death of little pleasures. Poor Becks, a non-smoker, then has to put up with over an hour of conversation centred around cigarettes. When Roberts turns up he looks like he has developed St Vitus Dance or something. I myself feel a nervous tick affecting my eye. This is horrible, terrible, the worst pain possible. We're like junkies deprived of a fix. Perhaps that's what we are. The beer tastes decidedly lousy. Maybe I don't like alcohol, after all. My God, I've been drinking it with gusto for the past 30-odd years.
Finally I wander home, disgusted. Brammy, meanwhile, has found himself a little haven - and I can't say where because Big Rhod-er and the smoke police might be listening in - where he has been contentedly puffing away with pint in hand (and I don't mean the local park). Spend the night switching between the cricket and the footy on TV.
WEDNESDAY
To avoid the drink I go around Kempy's for a curry, and we have a good time watching England lose to Sri Lanka off the last ball of a tremendous World Cup cricket match, discussing work as we do. I have a meal called lava lamb (not to be confused with lava lamp, which might prove a bit crunchy) while she settles for a chicken biryani. Then its home for an early night. The drummers are in session downstairs, it's boys night out for Scooby and the lads.
THURSDAY
Among our number in Thompson Towers, where the three Cardiff-based daily newspapers live, is a person I can only describe as Raffles. Certain of our number gave him this nickname because they are convinced he is a "gentleman thief". This well-spoken, jovial, dapper-looking gentleman seems a real bon vivre on the outside, but behind the exterior lies a mystery wrapped in an enigma. You half expect him to twirl his moustache and say "Don't you know" at various intervals.
He has been spotted wandering the corridors long after his fellow workers have left the building, opening drawers and rifling through them, though hard as they try my spies have no proof that anything has gone missing (may explain the disappearance of my face-off car stereo, though).
Raffles also claims to have lost his money in the chocolate machine on numerous occasions. It's situated in our office so we go through this little drama nearly every day.
Shaking the machine, our gentleman thief demands "Where's my chocolate? The machine has swallowed my money!" None of us have ever seen him put real money INTO the machine, however.
For this reason, it was galling for Withers when he put his own money into the same machine and failed to get the cigarette-substitute fix he needed. As he wandered off, muttering under his breath, Raffles appeared on the scene.
"Don't put any money in, it's not working," cried one of the more generous of my colleagues.
Ignoring the plea, Raffles inserted some "coins" (probably old roubles acquired in his distant past or perhaps even silver buttons off one of his many ancient blazers) and minutes later two chocolate bars dropped. Of course, one belonged to Withers. Before he could speak up however, the Gentleman thief had faded into the distance, munching gaily on his ill-gotten gains.
Gadzooks, what a cad!
That recipe I promised you of Finnish meatballs is as follows:
Ingredients:
3 slices of white bread, crusts removed, soaked in 5fl ozs of milk for 30 mins.
One egg
500g minced pork
500g minced beef
1 egg
1 peeled and chopped red onion
2 teaspoons of allspice
21/2 ozs butter
2 tablespoons of olive oil
1 tbsp plain flour
7 ozs sour cream
Cranberry Sauce
Salt and Pepper
Mixed bread with milk soaked up with mince, egg, onion, allspice, salt and pepper.
Make into balls the size of walnuts.
Heat some of the butter with the olive oil in a non-stick pan.
Fry balls in batches making sure not to burn the butter. Transfer them to a large saucepan.
Sprinkle flower in frying pan and mix until smooth.
Add butter and cook, stirring until golden.
Remove from heat and add 18fl ozs of hot water. Stir in sour cream and mix. Then pour over the meatballs.
The sauce may separate slightly but don't worry. Season, bring to boil and then simmer for 15 minutes. Serve over a nice pasta or some mashed potato.
Well worth it.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Finnish meatballs in a sour cream sauce
THE fervent little ball of fiery energy that is Bram seems to be burning out with just days to go before the smoking ban is introduced across the hostelries of Wales. I call him little ball because his appetite is such these days that he can only do up one button on his Joseph-and-the-Amazing-technicolour waistcoat that he wears every day to work.
Brammy has been on a mission over recent weeks, as readers of this blog will be well aware. It has been his intention to launch such an outpouring of human rage across this small nation that Welsh Assembly wallahs will shrink back under their blankets, turn off the lights and try to pretend they never even thought of banning us from smoking in public.
But it appears God has interfered with the highly-devout little man's plans.
First it came in the form of two local newspapers refusing to print his letter calling for a massing of the troops and a full-scale sit-in protest at the Boar's Backside on the fateful day - April 2. Then the Lord again moved in a mysterious way, ordering local shopkeepers to refuse him when he asked to put notices up in their shops calling the disaffected to his rally of the hard-put-upon masses.
And on Wednesday night came the final straw. He ambled his way up to the Boar's for a swift pint courtesy of his student card (yes, Brammy has himself a student card even though he must be in his hundreds by now and has never been within belching distance of a University) - only to find the place had caught fire!
Since then he has been wandering around, white as a sheet, muttering things like "Act of God... He doesn't want me to protest..." and other such witterings to anyone who cares to listen.
Perhaps he heard the Voice of God booming out that same night: "Hey, Rippers, where are we going for a pint?"
Becks, meanwhile, suggests that Brammy might be adding another song to his repertoire to play in the Abergavenny folk club of a Thursday night: "I didn't start the fire..." Eat your heart out, Bruce Springsteen.
Last night I cooked Finnish meatballs with spaghetti. Lovely. Recipe to follow later...
Brammy has been on a mission over recent weeks, as readers of this blog will be well aware. It has been his intention to launch such an outpouring of human rage across this small nation that Welsh Assembly wallahs will shrink back under their blankets, turn off the lights and try to pretend they never even thought of banning us from smoking in public.
But it appears God has interfered with the highly-devout little man's plans.
First it came in the form of two local newspapers refusing to print his letter calling for a massing of the troops and a full-scale sit-in protest at the Boar's Backside on the fateful day - April 2. Then the Lord again moved in a mysterious way, ordering local shopkeepers to refuse him when he asked to put notices up in their shops calling the disaffected to his rally of the hard-put-upon masses.
And on Wednesday night came the final straw. He ambled his way up to the Boar's for a swift pint courtesy of his student card (yes, Brammy has himself a student card even though he must be in his hundreds by now and has never been within belching distance of a University) - only to find the place had caught fire!
Since then he has been wandering around, white as a sheet, muttering things like "Act of God... He doesn't want me to protest..." and other such witterings to anyone who cares to listen.
Perhaps he heard the Voice of God booming out that same night: "Hey, Rippers, where are we going for a pint?"
Becks, meanwhile, suggests that Brammy might be adding another song to his repertoire to play in the Abergavenny folk club of a Thursday night: "I didn't start the fire..." Eat your heart out, Bruce Springsteen.
Last night I cooked Finnish meatballs with spaghetti. Lovely. Recipe to follow later...
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Beef Mince frittata with pasta tomato salad
WE'RE still pulling bodies out of the wreckage of the Great smoothy disaster of March 28, 2007. Well, to be frank, it was young Becks who was the worst victim.
Becks, you see, is rather partial to these peculiar full-bodied fruit smoothy-type drinks. He obtains what he calls a snapple from the House of Lard every Saturday and has even taken to satisfying his cravings on a daily basis.
Whether that obsession continues after today remains to be seen.
There I was with my back to the design desk trying to catch 40 winks without anyone noticing when suddenly a loud cry went up. Looking around there was blood on the carpet and no sign of Becks. Well, ok, not blood exactly - more the remnants of what's known as an innocent strawberry and banana juice drink - and its thick, gluey red substance can certainly make quite a mess.
The Prince of Darkness was looking stunned, having managed to avoid the splashback from this most dangerous of all spillages. Luckily there were no pets or sea birds in the vicinity because the mess resembled that of a rather nasty discharge from one of those very un-pc oil tankers which sometimes spill their loads on our pleasant beaches.
"Where's Becks?" we inquired, alarmed at the likely answer.
No one had seen him. And the time went by: five minutes, ten minutes, 15 minutes. Finally a search party was organised.
I found the innocent victim standing by the hand dryer, trousers in hand, clad in just boxers and socks, bemoaning his bad fortune and looking well shaken, and not a little stirred. He needed a stiff drink (and not a non-alcoholic fruit-based one) after that trauma. Thank God it was Wednesday club that night.
Ok, it's time I came out of the closet. I've got a bird. I'm fed up with all the speculation and innuendo that has been plaguing me in the office over the last month or so. For arguments sake we'll call her Wren, because she is a bird and once mentioned she wouldn't mind being in the Navy. Probably after four pints of cider, I think.
Talking of drinks we were out on Monday night and spent a pleasant evening in a Bristol pub. Pleasant, that is, until I suddenly realised that three pints of Red Stripe on top of a couple of other pints of lager meant your feet tended to wander in a different direction to the one your brain wanted them to go in.
The treat of the night was to be a Meteor (or is it Meatier? get it???) pizza from Domino's, but I was highly disappointed when said establishment was shut. Managed to wobble home with a pretty poor effort of a Chinese, then collapse. Sorry, Wren, but you will have to get used to it eventually, or chuck me. Come to think about it, I shouldn't really be putting ideas in your head.
Spent all day recovering yesterday from the Red Stripe episode. Last night, though, I decided I needed something substantial to eat and made what can best be described as a minced beef fruitata from a recipe I found in the Sainsbury's mag. Very nice, as it happens.
You need:
olive oil
A large sweet potato (thinly sliced)
1/2lbs minced beef
2 leeks
1 pepper (recipe says yellow but I used red)
2 large teaspoons of cayenne pepper
some cut chives or half a shallot (my preference)
three eggs (whisked).
What to do:
Heat the oil in a frying pan, then fry the sweet potato.
When it browns turn the heat down and continue for five mins to soften it.
Remove from pan.
Put in the mince, chopped leeks, chopped pepper and cook for 5-10 mins until mince browns.
Add the paprika, chives or shallot.
Stir and cook for another five minutes.
Add the eggs and stir until they set and then season with salt and pepper.
Put the sweet potato back on top and then heat under the grill for a few minutes in the pan, making sure the handle doesn't get too hot and that you have used a flame proof one.
Serve in slices with some pasta mixed with fresh tomatoes.
Very filling
Becks, you see, is rather partial to these peculiar full-bodied fruit smoothy-type drinks. He obtains what he calls a snapple from the House of Lard every Saturday and has even taken to satisfying his cravings on a daily basis.
Whether that obsession continues after today remains to be seen.
There I was with my back to the design desk trying to catch 40 winks without anyone noticing when suddenly a loud cry went up. Looking around there was blood on the carpet and no sign of Becks. Well, ok, not blood exactly - more the remnants of what's known as an innocent strawberry and banana juice drink - and its thick, gluey red substance can certainly make quite a mess.
The Prince of Darkness was looking stunned, having managed to avoid the splashback from this most dangerous of all spillages. Luckily there were no pets or sea birds in the vicinity because the mess resembled that of a rather nasty discharge from one of those very un-pc oil tankers which sometimes spill their loads on our pleasant beaches.
"Where's Becks?" we inquired, alarmed at the likely answer.
No one had seen him. And the time went by: five minutes, ten minutes, 15 minutes. Finally a search party was organised.
I found the innocent victim standing by the hand dryer, trousers in hand, clad in just boxers and socks, bemoaning his bad fortune and looking well shaken, and not a little stirred. He needed a stiff drink (and not a non-alcoholic fruit-based one) after that trauma. Thank God it was Wednesday club that night.
Ok, it's time I came out of the closet. I've got a bird. I'm fed up with all the speculation and innuendo that has been plaguing me in the office over the last month or so. For arguments sake we'll call her Wren, because she is a bird and once mentioned she wouldn't mind being in the Navy. Probably after four pints of cider, I think.
Talking of drinks we were out on Monday night and spent a pleasant evening in a Bristol pub. Pleasant, that is, until I suddenly realised that three pints of Red Stripe on top of a couple of other pints of lager meant your feet tended to wander in a different direction to the one your brain wanted them to go in.
The treat of the night was to be a Meteor (or is it Meatier? get it???) pizza from Domino's, but I was highly disappointed when said establishment was shut. Managed to wobble home with a pretty poor effort of a Chinese, then collapse. Sorry, Wren, but you will have to get used to it eventually, or chuck me. Come to think about it, I shouldn't really be putting ideas in your head.
Spent all day recovering yesterday from the Red Stripe episode. Last night, though, I decided I needed something substantial to eat and made what can best be described as a minced beef fruitata from a recipe I found in the Sainsbury's mag. Very nice, as it happens.
You need:
olive oil
A large sweet potato (thinly sliced)
1/2lbs minced beef
2 leeks
1 pepper (recipe says yellow but I used red)
2 large teaspoons of cayenne pepper
some cut chives or half a shallot (my preference)
three eggs (whisked).
What to do:
Heat the oil in a frying pan, then fry the sweet potato.
When it browns turn the heat down and continue for five mins to soften it.
Remove from pan.
Put in the mince, chopped leeks, chopped pepper and cook for 5-10 mins until mince browns.
Add the paprika, chives or shallot.
Stir and cook for another five minutes.
Add the eggs and stir until they set and then season with salt and pepper.
Put the sweet potato back on top and then heat under the grill for a few minutes in the pan, making sure the handle doesn't get too hot and that you have used a flame proof one.
Serve in slices with some pasta mixed with fresh tomatoes.
Very filling
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Beef Tenderloin with wild mushrooms
SHUTTS has settled on the type of car he wants. And just as you would expect of the tallest man in the world, he's going to buy a mini. Honestly. No sh*t. The man with a frame of 6ft 20 or so inches is going to squeeze into something that stands about 4 feet off the ground.
I'm already having images of him having to take out the front seats and cut a hole in the roof, then drive around like Dino, the dinosaur in the old Flinstone cartoons. Always one to count the cash, perhaps he will cut holes in the floor too and run around to save on petrol, making "vvrmm, vvrrmm" noises as he goes.
"Why the hell are you getting a mini, Shutts?" we all chirped in unison at this astonishing revelation.
"The Missus wants one," he revealed, shifting the blame as he is wont to do.
"But didn't you put your foot down and demand something a bit more practical?" I asked.
"No, it's ok. Mind you, we won't be able to fit any passengers in the back. Still, she's set her heart on it so there is little I can do about it."
Talking about people being badgered into things by their other halves, the Prince of Darkness is now the proud owner of a dog. He is decidely grumpy about this, having answered the pleas of wife and kids with the outburst "No, no, no, no, no". The Princess of Darkness totally ignored him as usual.
I'm not quite sure the dog that was chosen fits the Prince's image, however. You would think he might possess a hellhound, a black rottweiler or the hound of the baskervilles. Umm, not really. He's actually got a labradoodle, which I assume is a cross between a labrador and a poodle. How one of these is physically produced is beyond me. Doesn't seem possible. But there it is.
People around the Cwmbran area of Gwent will be locking their doors at the sound of its distant howling, quaking in their beds as the Prince strides the streets, dragging it on its midnight walks. Probably in a muslin bag.
Unable to get hold of veal this week, I instead bought a very tender piece of beef and followed a great recipe from Anthony Bourdain. First, though, I made up my own chicken stock by roasting carrots, shallots and celery in the oven then putting them in a large saucepan together with the bones of a cooked chicken I had bought from Sainsbury's, some thyme, bayleafs and back peppercorns. Filling the pan close to the top with water, I gently simmered this for about four hours or so, then strained the vegetables out with a metal sieve and poured the stock into a measuring jug.
For the tenderloin:
margerine
olive oil
1lb of beef tenderloin
A selection of wild mushrooms like Shitake and oyster mushrooms.
Shallots.
Double cream.
A small bottle of madeira wine.
Salt and pepper.
To do:
Heat oven to gas mark 4.
Wash the meat and shake on some salt and pepper. leave stand for about 20 mins.
Heat up a non-stick frying pan then add olive oil and a knob of butter. Wait for the butter or margarine to sizzle then die down, then sear the meat on all sides until nicely brown.
Remove meat from pan and put into ovenproof dish together with its juices. Put in the oven for 25 minutes.
Meanwhile heat a small saucepan, melt in some more butter or marge, then add the washed mushrooms. Cook until they soften and start to brown.
Add 2 fld ozs of madeira wine and scrape up the juices as you mix it. Add the shallots and continue to cook.
Remove the meat from the oven, poor the juices back into a frying pan and leave the meat to stand.
Heat up the meat juices then add 2 more fld ounces of madeira and bring to boil, add the mushroom mixture then 5 ozs of the chicken stock, stirring all the time. Boil rapidly until sauce is reduced by half, then add 4 fl ozs of double cream, turn down but continue to stir. Add pepper and salt as required.
Cut up the steak and serve with mashed potato, roasted squash and roasted leek. Then poor over the mushroom sauce.
I'm already having images of him having to take out the front seats and cut a hole in the roof, then drive around like Dino, the dinosaur in the old Flinstone cartoons. Always one to count the cash, perhaps he will cut holes in the floor too and run around to save on petrol, making "vvrmm, vvrrmm" noises as he goes.
"Why the hell are you getting a mini, Shutts?" we all chirped in unison at this astonishing revelation.
"The Missus wants one," he revealed, shifting the blame as he is wont to do.
"But didn't you put your foot down and demand something a bit more practical?" I asked.
"No, it's ok. Mind you, we won't be able to fit any passengers in the back. Still, she's set her heart on it so there is little I can do about it."
Talking about people being badgered into things by their other halves, the Prince of Darkness is now the proud owner of a dog. He is decidely grumpy about this, having answered the pleas of wife and kids with the outburst "No, no, no, no, no". The Princess of Darkness totally ignored him as usual.
I'm not quite sure the dog that was chosen fits the Prince's image, however. You would think he might possess a hellhound, a black rottweiler or the hound of the baskervilles. Umm, not really. He's actually got a labradoodle, which I assume is a cross between a labrador and a poodle. How one of these is physically produced is beyond me. Doesn't seem possible. But there it is.
People around the Cwmbran area of Gwent will be locking their doors at the sound of its distant howling, quaking in their beds as the Prince strides the streets, dragging it on its midnight walks. Probably in a muslin bag.
Unable to get hold of veal this week, I instead bought a very tender piece of beef and followed a great recipe from Anthony Bourdain. First, though, I made up my own chicken stock by roasting carrots, shallots and celery in the oven then putting them in a large saucepan together with the bones of a cooked chicken I had bought from Sainsbury's, some thyme, bayleafs and back peppercorns. Filling the pan close to the top with water, I gently simmered this for about four hours or so, then strained the vegetables out with a metal sieve and poured the stock into a measuring jug.
For the tenderloin:
margerine
olive oil
1lb of beef tenderloin
A selection of wild mushrooms like Shitake and oyster mushrooms.
Shallots.
Double cream.
A small bottle of madeira wine.
Salt and pepper.
To do:
Heat oven to gas mark 4.
Wash the meat and shake on some salt and pepper. leave stand for about 20 mins.
Heat up a non-stick frying pan then add olive oil and a knob of butter. Wait for the butter or margarine to sizzle then die down, then sear the meat on all sides until nicely brown.
Remove meat from pan and put into ovenproof dish together with its juices. Put in the oven for 25 minutes.
Meanwhile heat a small saucepan, melt in some more butter or marge, then add the washed mushrooms. Cook until they soften and start to brown.
Add 2 fld ozs of madeira wine and scrape up the juices as you mix it. Add the shallots and continue to cook.
Remove the meat from the oven, poor the juices back into a frying pan and leave the meat to stand.
Heat up the meat juices then add 2 more fld ounces of madeira and bring to boil, add the mushroom mixture then 5 ozs of the chicken stock, stirring all the time. Boil rapidly until sauce is reduced by half, then add 4 fl ozs of double cream, turn down but continue to stir. Add pepper and salt as required.
Cut up the steak and serve with mashed potato, roasted squash and roasted leek. Then poor over the mushroom sauce.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Soup crisps
ALEXANDER Graham Bell, Thomas Edison, John Logie Baird... the greatest minds in WoS came up with an invention last night which, I am convinced, will push these old codgers into the dustbin of history. It shouldn't take a genius to work out that this "Eureka" moment came about in that Academy of learning better known as The Yard.
It all began with the Wonderful One himself, Withers, who was telling the Prince of Darkness, the Fab BB, The Voice of God and myself about a conversation he had been having with Rosey the previous evening when both were, I understand, rather tired and emotional from a long day on the alcohol.
The subject matter got on to crisps with Withers posing the quite understandable question: "Why the hell did anyone invent Prawn Cocktail crisps - and who eats them?"
Apparently a new barmaid joined in the conversation, explaining that they were her favourite flavour.
Withers wasn't convinced: "No one says Prawn Cocktail flavour are their favourite crisps. They don't taste of prawns for a start."
It was a worthy point which had the rest of us nodding in agreement.
I surmised that Prawn Cocktail was the only starter that had been turned into a crisp and that perhaps we could come up with a new range of potato chips based solely on this premise. You could have stuffed garlic mushroom flavour, melon flavour, pate on toast flavour...
Then it hit us, all at once. Withers and I looked at each other, the lightbulbs going on above our heads, and we both cried: "Soup crisps".
You could have a packet of tomato flavour, or oxtail flavour, or chicken flavour crisps with a container of hot water in a vacuum flask. You could then tip the crisps into the bowl, pour over the water and the crisps would melt. Then you could eat the soup.
Eureka!
Sadly the idea doesn't quite retain its appeal in the cold light of day although our casual sub Emma was quite keen to develop it further. "You could have a full three course lunch of just crisps," she suggested. "Imagine it: stuffing crisps, roast potato crisps, yorkshire pudding flavour..." Sounds like the idea might run and run.
Good old Captain Mainwaring, our blonds-have-more-fun features editor, has taken us rather literally when we have chirped in with comments about "Son of Len". So much so that she nearly asked the Terminator-like security guard how his Dad was. At this we were all falling about laughing. I think, somewhere, the captain had missed the point. Son of Len isn't really Len's son, you see. He just has an identical jobsworth attitude, possibly having spent his apprenticeship under Len Senior.
Of course, if he discovered his nickname Son of Len might be even less amenable. The writers are quite glad that the captain never actually struck up a conversation with him. The repercussions, particularly with regard to obtaining a pool car, could have been horrendous.
Interestingly, Son of Len has recently been much more cheery, perhaps because his mam has been putting his favourite filling into the sandwiches he caringly removes from his lunchbox every day - it's quite eery when he smiles at you, like the Terminator turning from baddie to goody between parts one and two. You are left wondering when he will turn back again, like his alter-ego Arnold Schwarzennegger does in Terminator Part Three, Rise of the Machines.
It all began with the Wonderful One himself, Withers, who was telling the Prince of Darkness, the Fab BB, The Voice of God and myself about a conversation he had been having with Rosey the previous evening when both were, I understand, rather tired and emotional from a long day on the alcohol.
The subject matter got on to crisps with Withers posing the quite understandable question: "Why the hell did anyone invent Prawn Cocktail crisps - and who eats them?"
Apparently a new barmaid joined in the conversation, explaining that they were her favourite flavour.
Withers wasn't convinced: "No one says Prawn Cocktail flavour are their favourite crisps. They don't taste of prawns for a start."
It was a worthy point which had the rest of us nodding in agreement.
I surmised that Prawn Cocktail was the only starter that had been turned into a crisp and that perhaps we could come up with a new range of potato chips based solely on this premise. You could have stuffed garlic mushroom flavour, melon flavour, pate on toast flavour...
Then it hit us, all at once. Withers and I looked at each other, the lightbulbs going on above our heads, and we both cried: "Soup crisps".
You could have a packet of tomato flavour, or oxtail flavour, or chicken flavour crisps with a container of hot water in a vacuum flask. You could then tip the crisps into the bowl, pour over the water and the crisps would melt. Then you could eat the soup.
Eureka!
Sadly the idea doesn't quite retain its appeal in the cold light of day although our casual sub Emma was quite keen to develop it further. "You could have a full three course lunch of just crisps," she suggested. "Imagine it: stuffing crisps, roast potato crisps, yorkshire pudding flavour..." Sounds like the idea might run and run.
Good old Captain Mainwaring, our blonds-have-more-fun features editor, has taken us rather literally when we have chirped in with comments about "Son of Len". So much so that she nearly asked the Terminator-like security guard how his Dad was. At this we were all falling about laughing. I think, somewhere, the captain had missed the point. Son of Len isn't really Len's son, you see. He just has an identical jobsworth attitude, possibly having spent his apprenticeship under Len Senior.
Of course, if he discovered his nickname Son of Len might be even less amenable. The writers are quite glad that the captain never actually struck up a conversation with him. The repercussions, particularly with regard to obtaining a pool car, could have been horrendous.
Interestingly, Son of Len has recently been much more cheery, perhaps because his mam has been putting his favourite filling into the sandwiches he caringly removes from his lunchbox every day - it's quite eery when he smiles at you, like the Terminator turning from baddie to goody between parts one and two. You are left wondering when he will turn back again, like his alter-ego Arnold Schwarzennegger does in Terminator Part Three, Rise of the Machines.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Curried mint chicken with peppers and rice
THE Fat Kid has been on the phone again.
"What are you buying me for mother's day?" she asked coyly.
"But you're not my mother Fat Kid! Why should I buy you anything?"
"Well, I am A mother. And I need some new trainers for the gym. They cost about £35."
The truth is I don't believe in Mother's Day - it's an invention of card companies who just want to make more money out of us all. But I DO believe in a quiet life. There is a cheque winging its way to her as we speak.
Big Boy is crawling now apparently, and he went swimming for the first time last week. He loves it, so the Fat Kid tells me.
Fat Kid also informed me she wants to take the kids on holiday. I told her it would cost £200 and asked where she was planning to get the money from.
After avoiding the issue she slipped in another question: "Are you taking us on holiday this year?" Having spent so much in Australia, it will have to be a freebie I reckon.
It's been a very busy Saturday at work. Lo and behold, Wales actually won a rugby match. Not only that, but it was against the English, so my colleagues are back to their crowing best. It will all end in tears when the World Cup comes around.
One of my favourite meals came from a TV programme involving Ken Hom. It mixes the wonderful flavours of curry with mint.
For the marinade you need:
2 Chicken breasts cut into chunks
The white of an egg
2 teaspoons of cornflour
salt
(marinate in fridge for 20 minutes)
Ingredients for the sauce:
Chopped red and green pepper
1 chopped garlic and 1 chopped red onion
Dash of soy sauce, dash of chinese rice wine
5 fluid ozs of chicken stock.
2 tablespoons of Madras curry paste.
2 teaspoons chilli bean sauce.
chopped mint leaves.
To do: Heat a wok so it is very hot, add groundnut or vegetable oil and when it starts to smoke quickly sear the marinated chicken until it turns golden, then remove and set aside.
Cook the garlic and red onion in the pan, then add the peppers, soy sauce, rice wine and stock. Cook until the peppers soften, then add the Madras curry paste and chilli bean sauce before returning the chicken to the pan.
Stir regularly and reduce liquid until you have a thick, chinese style curry sauce.
Add the mint and spring onions if desired, and serve on a bed of rice.
"What are you buying me for mother's day?" she asked coyly.
"But you're not my mother Fat Kid! Why should I buy you anything?"
"Well, I am A mother. And I need some new trainers for the gym. They cost about £35."
The truth is I don't believe in Mother's Day - it's an invention of card companies who just want to make more money out of us all. But I DO believe in a quiet life. There is a cheque winging its way to her as we speak.
Big Boy is crawling now apparently, and he went swimming for the first time last week. He loves it, so the Fat Kid tells me.
Fat Kid also informed me she wants to take the kids on holiday. I told her it would cost £200 and asked where she was planning to get the money from.
After avoiding the issue she slipped in another question: "Are you taking us on holiday this year?" Having spent so much in Australia, it will have to be a freebie I reckon.
It's been a very busy Saturday at work. Lo and behold, Wales actually won a rugby match. Not only that, but it was against the English, so my colleagues are back to their crowing best. It will all end in tears when the World Cup comes around.
One of my favourite meals came from a TV programme involving Ken Hom. It mixes the wonderful flavours of curry with mint.
For the marinade you need:
2 Chicken breasts cut into chunks
The white of an egg
2 teaspoons of cornflour
salt
(marinate in fridge for 20 minutes)
Ingredients for the sauce:
Chopped red and green pepper
1 chopped garlic and 1 chopped red onion
Dash of soy sauce, dash of chinese rice wine
5 fluid ozs of chicken stock.
2 tablespoons of Madras curry paste.
2 teaspoons chilli bean sauce.
chopped mint leaves.
To do: Heat a wok so it is very hot, add groundnut or vegetable oil and when it starts to smoke quickly sear the marinated chicken until it turns golden, then remove and set aside.
Cook the garlic and red onion in the pan, then add the peppers, soy sauce, rice wine and stock. Cook until the peppers soften, then add the Madras curry paste and chilli bean sauce before returning the chicken to the pan.
Stir regularly and reduce liquid until you have a thick, chinese style curry sauce.
Add the mint and spring onions if desired, and serve on a bed of rice.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Saveloy, battered sausage, chips and curry sauce
YOU can't trust anyone these days. There I was waiting patiently in the canteen for my lunch and chatting politely to the manager when he dropped a bombshell on me.
"So the old chef has left then, has he?" I asked innocently.
"Oh, you mean Dirty," he replied.
"Dirty, why do you call him that?" I inquired, dreading his answer as I did so.
"He was a very dirty man. Dirty kitchen, never washed his hands, even when he had been to the loo. A filthy individual."
Oh my God, I thought. The bloke had been working in the canteen for well over a year - and I had eaten there nearly every day.
"Do you not think you might have told me about this a bit earlier?" I wondered aloud.
"Didn't think, really."
I'm surprised we haven't all dropped down with Salmonella poisoning.
We've got a new security guard, too, who we have nicknamed Son of Len. The old Len was what the more unkind members of our staff would dub a jobsworth. He was shifted off to our printing press in the bay, making way for his clone, Son of Len, to move effortlessly into his place.
Last night we spent a highly amusing few seconds watching Son of Len do his famous impression of The Terminator. As he walked through the front car park a car alarm went off and he span viciously on his heels and used his x ray stare to try and locate the offending vehicle. You could just see the cogs whirring in his little brain as the data registered. "Does not compute, does not compute".
This was followed by another car alarm, from another direction, and once again Son of Len swung into action. If he had been in possession of an Uzi the cars in the vicinity would have been sprayed with bullet holes. This scenario continued a few more times until it seemed Son of Len was going to self-destruct, the chaotic confusion causing his circuit boards to overload. As he wobbled off towards the side lodge we were doubled up on the pavement.
"Hasta La Vista, Son of Len."
A few beers later and it was off to the chip shop for saveloy, battered sausage, chips and curry sauce. Some of my colleagues have commented on the distinct lack of recipes and cooking on a blog entitled What I Cooked Last Night.
Tough t*tty.
"So the old chef has left then, has he?" I asked innocently.
"Oh, you mean Dirty," he replied.
"Dirty, why do you call him that?" I inquired, dreading his answer as I did so.
"He was a very dirty man. Dirty kitchen, never washed his hands, even when he had been to the loo. A filthy individual."
Oh my God, I thought. The bloke had been working in the canteen for well over a year - and I had eaten there nearly every day.
"Do you not think you might have told me about this a bit earlier?" I wondered aloud.
"Didn't think, really."
I'm surprised we haven't all dropped down with Salmonella poisoning.
We've got a new security guard, too, who we have nicknamed Son of Len. The old Len was what the more unkind members of our staff would dub a jobsworth. He was shifted off to our printing press in the bay, making way for his clone, Son of Len, to move effortlessly into his place.
Last night we spent a highly amusing few seconds watching Son of Len do his famous impression of The Terminator. As he walked through the front car park a car alarm went off and he span viciously on his heels and used his x ray stare to try and locate the offending vehicle. You could just see the cogs whirring in his little brain as the data registered. "Does not compute, does not compute".
This was followed by another car alarm, from another direction, and once again Son of Len swung into action. If he had been in possession of an Uzi the cars in the vicinity would have been sprayed with bullet holes. This scenario continued a few more times until it seemed Son of Len was going to self-destruct, the chaotic confusion causing his circuit boards to overload. As he wobbled off towards the side lodge we were doubled up on the pavement.
"Hasta La Vista, Son of Len."
A few beers later and it was off to the chip shop for saveloy, battered sausage, chips and curry sauce. Some of my colleagues have commented on the distinct lack of recipes and cooking on a blog entitled What I Cooked Last Night.
Tough t*tty.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Marmite on lovely French bread
THE Wonderful Withers, forever plotting on how to get free drinks out of people, last night came up with a classic. There we were, drinking in the Immoral Inn with Brammy, Keri the worst copytaker in the world and a chorum of Bram's Celtic Harem. Now most of us had our drinks in front of us within easy reach and completely visible to all. Withers, as the contrary one is wont to do, had a different idea. He thought it would be a jolly good idea to place his pint of SA right behind my right elbow on another table. Having drunk more than half his pint he guessed that at some stage his luck would be in and, sure enough, as I swivelled to ask him a question my elbow brushed the remnants of his pint and knocked it over.
The Wonderful One's consternation was beautifully choreographed. "Bloody hell, Rippers, that was a full pint. What are you going to do about it?"
To which I replied: "What twat would leave a pint behind someone's elbow anyway?"
Anyway, just to keep the peace I bought him a new one. I wait with great anticipation for his next free-pint obtaining ploy.
It was lovely to see Keri, the worst copytaker in the world, again. I used to work with her about 17 years ago in the early days of WoS. She always gave us a good laugh, not just because of her sunny disposition, but also because she treated English as a foreign language, as befits a good old Ely girl (that's Ely, Cardiff, the place twinned with war-torn Baghdad - not the one within throwing distance of Cambridge University).
My favourite Keri story is the one where a hack ringing in his story described a footballer as a bit of a prima donna. Keri tapped it out without fuss and when the copy turned up she had intelligently translated it. "Pre-Madonna" It said. So there WAS life before Madonna then.
She greeted me like a long-lost brother and told me: "You haven't changed a bit", the fact that I parted company with my hair a little while ago seeming to escape her attention.
Then, getting straight to the point, she laid in with: "I hear you went on a blind date?"
Now where this mythical rumour came from I have no idea. I passed it on to my spin doctor.
Got home last night feeling extremely tired. Having bought a French "baton" of bread the other day I just had the energy to spread on some marmite, then it was off to bed.
The Wonderful One's consternation was beautifully choreographed. "Bloody hell, Rippers, that was a full pint. What are you going to do about it?"
To which I replied: "What twat would leave a pint behind someone's elbow anyway?"
Anyway, just to keep the peace I bought him a new one. I wait with great anticipation for his next free-pint obtaining ploy.
It was lovely to see Keri, the worst copytaker in the world, again. I used to work with her about 17 years ago in the early days of WoS. She always gave us a good laugh, not just because of her sunny disposition, but also because she treated English as a foreign language, as befits a good old Ely girl (that's Ely, Cardiff, the place twinned with war-torn Baghdad - not the one within throwing distance of Cambridge University).
My favourite Keri story is the one where a hack ringing in his story described a footballer as a bit of a prima donna. Keri tapped it out without fuss and when the copy turned up she had intelligently translated it. "Pre-Madonna" It said. So there WAS life before Madonna then.
She greeted me like a long-lost brother and told me: "You haven't changed a bit", the fact that I parted company with my hair a little while ago seeming to escape her attention.
Then, getting straight to the point, she laid in with: "I hear you went on a blind date?"
Now where this mythical rumour came from I have no idea. I passed it on to my spin doctor.
Got home last night feeling extremely tired. Having bought a French "baton" of bread the other day I just had the energy to spread on some marmite, then it was off to bed.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
My parents sunday lunch
IN the voice of that famous film trailer man: "Chris Beckett is... THE TICKETMASTER". Seems the artist formerly known as Becks has a new string to his bow, according to sources close to the talented one. The news reaches me from two of my most reliable sources, Rosey and Withers.
It appears Becks is prone to invite his close friends to join him for an evening out, watching rubbish bands and such like.
Those pals, not wishing to hurt the sensitive designer's feelings, generally say, "Yes, I'll think about it" believing that by the time the gig comes around their words will have exited his memory. But Becks is far too clever for that. His plan, hence the new nickname, is to actually go and BUY the tickets, then invite erstwhile friends to part with their hard-earned dosh and spend an evening watching, say, Dartz. "Absolute garbage," as Withers put it, and I don't think he was talking about another band appearing on stage at the Barfly. Having done this twice now, the cohorts are wary. In future they will just be saying "No thanks, mate, no hard feelings."
Talking of bands the highly influential Nathan, a kind of modern Tony Wilson of Hacienda and crap telly show fame, managed to wangle me two tickets for the Kaiser Chiefs at the students' union. Now the last time I was at Cardiff Uni to see a gig was The Jam in 1979, so I was viewing the evening with as much trepidation as anticipation. I decided to ask along Scooby as I needed a fellow "oldest swinger in town" to bolster my confidence.
Turned out it wasn't too bad after all, a nice mix of people, some decent cheap beer at student prices and a cracking performance by the Chiefs, so much so that even I was chanting "Chiefs, Chiefs, Chief" like some American baseball-loving bozo by the time it came to calling for an encore.
A little gaggle of student girls were stood next to me and I decided to impress them with my psychic powers. "You can join in the chorus to this one - you only have to know five words," said whatsisname, the lead singer (got to remember their names they are going to be a huge band over the next couple of years). Turning to the little fresher next to me I whispered: "Na, Na, Na, Na, Na". Wow, was she impressed, looking all starry eyed when the Chiefs blasted into the song. Genius or what? Well, what? really. It was blindingly obvious. Either students these days are even thicker than they used to be, or the girls were just along for the ride and had never heard the Chiefs before.
All in all an eventful night, with Scooby helping a girl to her feet who appeared to collapse from heat exhaustion and, I hate to suggest it, but maybe too much alcohol or even a funny tablet or two. I also managed to squeeze my plastic glass due to an involuntary tic (that's old age for you) spilling three quarters of my pint over the floor and getting stares from all around as if I was a drunk. How very dare they! Crowned it with a nice pint of 5 per cent Heineken in the Tut (now known by its old name of PCs but it will always be the Tut to me) before going to bed.
Woke up bleary eyed for a full day at the office on Saturday, plonked the post outside Scooby's door and left him to sleep it off.
Quite a busy day, Wales lost another match and blamed another referee, this time for not allowing them enough extra time at the end of the game to turn defeat into victory. Our sister paper the Western Mail had already used Clock-Gate, and every other Gate imaginable, so the headline writers were no doubt struggling on Sunday. Can't wait for controversy to strike at the local Market Garden so they can have "Garden-Gate" blazened across the front page.
An eery feeling crept over me when I reached home late that night. The Alarm was off, the door unlocked, the post still outside Scooby's door. Had he failed to recover from our night out? From what I remember he was fairly sober - not that I remember much.
Decided that maybe he had just popped out before me, but when he hadn't returned on Sunday morning I thought I had better send a text. "U ok, Scoob?" was the gist.
Turns out he had received a phone call at home in the early hours of Saturday morning inviting him around to a mate's for an impromptu party. Not ready to call it a night he set off at about 2 in the morning.
Nice to know some of us old 'uns can still hack it.
Sunday I went to visit my folks who are a month away from selling their house and moving into a smaller flat. Enjoyed a beautiful roast lamb dinner so much I had second helpings.
They had finally found a big bloke to get up the loft after my miserable failures, and my Dad was waiting with a box of old Gashead programmes. "You can have these," he said. They date back to 1972.
It's been a very nostalgic weekend.
It appears Becks is prone to invite his close friends to join him for an evening out, watching rubbish bands and such like.
Those pals, not wishing to hurt the sensitive designer's feelings, generally say, "Yes, I'll think about it" believing that by the time the gig comes around their words will have exited his memory. But Becks is far too clever for that. His plan, hence the new nickname, is to actually go and BUY the tickets, then invite erstwhile friends to part with their hard-earned dosh and spend an evening watching, say, Dartz. "Absolute garbage," as Withers put it, and I don't think he was talking about another band appearing on stage at the Barfly. Having done this twice now, the cohorts are wary. In future they will just be saying "No thanks, mate, no hard feelings."
Talking of bands the highly influential Nathan, a kind of modern Tony Wilson of Hacienda and crap telly show fame, managed to wangle me two tickets for the Kaiser Chiefs at the students' union. Now the last time I was at Cardiff Uni to see a gig was The Jam in 1979, so I was viewing the evening with as much trepidation as anticipation. I decided to ask along Scooby as I needed a fellow "oldest swinger in town" to bolster my confidence.
Turned out it wasn't too bad after all, a nice mix of people, some decent cheap beer at student prices and a cracking performance by the Chiefs, so much so that even I was chanting "Chiefs, Chiefs, Chief" like some American baseball-loving bozo by the time it came to calling for an encore.
A little gaggle of student girls were stood next to me and I decided to impress them with my psychic powers. "You can join in the chorus to this one - you only have to know five words," said whatsisname, the lead singer (got to remember their names they are going to be a huge band over the next couple of years). Turning to the little fresher next to me I whispered: "Na, Na, Na, Na, Na". Wow, was she impressed, looking all starry eyed when the Chiefs blasted into the song. Genius or what? Well, what? really. It was blindingly obvious. Either students these days are even thicker than they used to be, or the girls were just along for the ride and had never heard the Chiefs before.
All in all an eventful night, with Scooby helping a girl to her feet who appeared to collapse from heat exhaustion and, I hate to suggest it, but maybe too much alcohol or even a funny tablet or two. I also managed to squeeze my plastic glass due to an involuntary tic (that's old age for you) spilling three quarters of my pint over the floor and getting stares from all around as if I was a drunk. How very dare they! Crowned it with a nice pint of 5 per cent Heineken in the Tut (now known by its old name of PCs but it will always be the Tut to me) before going to bed.
Woke up bleary eyed for a full day at the office on Saturday, plonked the post outside Scooby's door and left him to sleep it off.
Quite a busy day, Wales lost another match and blamed another referee, this time for not allowing them enough extra time at the end of the game to turn defeat into victory. Our sister paper the Western Mail had already used Clock-Gate, and every other Gate imaginable, so the headline writers were no doubt struggling on Sunday. Can't wait for controversy to strike at the local Market Garden so they can have "Garden-Gate" blazened across the front page.
An eery feeling crept over me when I reached home late that night. The Alarm was off, the door unlocked, the post still outside Scooby's door. Had he failed to recover from our night out? From what I remember he was fairly sober - not that I remember much.
Decided that maybe he had just popped out before me, but when he hadn't returned on Sunday morning I thought I had better send a text. "U ok, Scoob?" was the gist.
Turns out he had received a phone call at home in the early hours of Saturday morning inviting him around to a mate's for an impromptu party. Not ready to call it a night he set off at about 2 in the morning.
Nice to know some of us old 'uns can still hack it.
Sunday I went to visit my folks who are a month away from selling their house and moving into a smaller flat. Enjoyed a beautiful roast lamb dinner so much I had second helpings.
They had finally found a big bloke to get up the loft after my miserable failures, and my Dad was waiting with a box of old Gashead programmes. "You can have these," he said. They date back to 1972.
It's been a very nostalgic weekend.
Friday, March 09, 2007
Christmas dinner in March
ALWAYS ones to bulk with convention, my sports desk enjoyed our Christmas dinner on Wednesday - three months after the festive period. Truth be told, we had a little bit of cash spare from freelances who choose to bribe us in order to get their stories in the paper. Not a conventional, or even legal, policy I agree, but as long as it isn't broadcast publicly (oops, what the hell am I doing)...
Anyway, we enjoyed a very pleasant evening at La Tasca, a Spanish Tapas bar in the Brewery Quarter of Cardiff. Shutts, failing to appreciate that I was poised to do his appraisal, made the first faux pas of the night. "Smoking or non-smoking?" asked the waiter.
"Non-smoking," said the soon-to-be-presented-with-his-p45 youngest member of our sports desk.
The ensuing outcry - if you can describe the hollering of myself and Roberts as an outcry - quickly persuaded the waiter that we would rather sit in a smoking area of the restaurant.
Once seated at a table for five squeezed into the space of a table for two, we were greeted by a pretty law student from the Czech Republic, who was trying to pay her way through university by waiting tables in Cardiff.
Roberts was immediately smitten while Rosey kept his own counsel, no doubt secretly plotting how he might get her phone number without any of us noticing.
Dismissing the a la carte menu, we chose the Tapas for a tenner option - and what a bargain that turned out to be. You each order three dishes off the tapas menu, but can keep re-ordering as often as you want. If we had not physically dragged Shutts, now a perfectly formed 19 stone after his brief romantic interlude in Rome last week, away from the table he would still be ordering now.
By the time we had gone through four rounds of Tapas, two bottles of red wine and a couple of San Miguels (for yours truly), Roberts was slavering and almost speaking Slavic. Shutts, by contrast, was showing more interest in the clientele at another table dressed as Rydell High schoolgirls from Grease.
When it came to the bill it was all left in the hands of Owenov, who had been charged with the scary task of protecting our windfall for the previous three months. Earlier that day he had given us all a bit of a fright, particularly the 6ft 10inch Hungry Hippo across the desk, by declaring: "Oh damn I can't find my credit card. My Mrs must have dropped it when she stole my wallet."
Fortunately it later turned up.
As he handed over said card to the Czech charmer, another problem ensued. The machine kept rejecting it. I wondered if they would have enough marigold gloves for the five of us.
"It's void," Rosey said. "What does that mean?"
Our waitress responded quick as a flash: "Deprive of legal validity; make legally void or invalid; avoid. Annul, cancel."
We all looked at her gobsmacked. Never try to catch a lawyer out when she can quote the exact dictionary description back to you. At that stage Roberts and Rosey both realised she was out of their league...
Back at the Yard the Fabulous Baker Boy and the Wonderful Withers of WoS were waiting for us to return. The Fab BB was in a right state. Having booked the next day off he was going for it in a big way. As he stumbled out of the pub he declared he was off to see "Debbie Dazzler". We doubted whether that was her real name. You've guessed it... Men Dressed as Ladies night had come round again.
Anyway, we enjoyed a very pleasant evening at La Tasca, a Spanish Tapas bar in the Brewery Quarter of Cardiff. Shutts, failing to appreciate that I was poised to do his appraisal, made the first faux pas of the night. "Smoking or non-smoking?" asked the waiter.
"Non-smoking," said the soon-to-be-presented-with-his-p45 youngest member of our sports desk.
The ensuing outcry - if you can describe the hollering of myself and Roberts as an outcry - quickly persuaded the waiter that we would rather sit in a smoking area of the restaurant.
Once seated at a table for five squeezed into the space of a table for two, we were greeted by a pretty law student from the Czech Republic, who was trying to pay her way through university by waiting tables in Cardiff.
Roberts was immediately smitten while Rosey kept his own counsel, no doubt secretly plotting how he might get her phone number without any of us noticing.
Dismissing the a la carte menu, we chose the Tapas for a tenner option - and what a bargain that turned out to be. You each order three dishes off the tapas menu, but can keep re-ordering as often as you want. If we had not physically dragged Shutts, now a perfectly formed 19 stone after his brief romantic interlude in Rome last week, away from the table he would still be ordering now.
By the time we had gone through four rounds of Tapas, two bottles of red wine and a couple of San Miguels (for yours truly), Roberts was slavering and almost speaking Slavic. Shutts, by contrast, was showing more interest in the clientele at another table dressed as Rydell High schoolgirls from Grease.
When it came to the bill it was all left in the hands of Owenov, who had been charged with the scary task of protecting our windfall for the previous three months. Earlier that day he had given us all a bit of a fright, particularly the 6ft 10inch Hungry Hippo across the desk, by declaring: "Oh damn I can't find my credit card. My Mrs must have dropped it when she stole my wallet."
Fortunately it later turned up.
As he handed over said card to the Czech charmer, another problem ensued. The machine kept rejecting it. I wondered if they would have enough marigold gloves for the five of us.
"It's void," Rosey said. "What does that mean?"
Our waitress responded quick as a flash: "Deprive of legal validity; make legally void or invalid; avoid. Annul, cancel."
We all looked at her gobsmacked. Never try to catch a lawyer out when she can quote the exact dictionary description back to you. At that stage Roberts and Rosey both realised she was out of their league...
Back at the Yard the Fabulous Baker Boy and the Wonderful Withers of WoS were waiting for us to return. The Fab BB was in a right state. Having booked the next day off he was going for it in a big way. As he stumbled out of the pub he declared he was off to see "Debbie Dazzler". We doubted whether that was her real name. You've guessed it... Men Dressed as Ladies night had come round again.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Meatfeast pizza with extra chillis
THERE has been an increased interest in my private life recently, befitting a bloke who writes a must-read blog. So much so, in fact, that I seem to have acquired a press secretary.
Now, when I tell you it's Withers then I can imagine some would have a few misgivings. But to be fair, the wonderful one is pulling it off brilliantly. In The Yard on Boozeday the questions began flying thick and fast about how I had spent my weekend, who I was with and suchlike. Yet before I could answer, my new spin doctor stepped in to fight off the press pack with an aplomb usually associated with Alastair Campbell.
"In future I would ask you to address all questions to me," he responded with decorum.
And when they did exactly this he came up with: "Is that all you've got, honorable gentlemen of the press? When you have some facts come back to me."
As another hack waded in he didn't turn a hair, using the straightest of straight bats to make even the great Geoffrey Boycott proud. "You are on a fishing expedition, my friend," he smoothly replied.
Unfortunately, he told some of the pub lobby that he would be quite willing to conduct an "off-the-record briefing" when his client was "in the loo". I've had my legs crossed ever since. Not that I have anything to hide, you understand.
As for things you would rather keep secret, the Prince of Darkness let his guard slip. The Dark one apparently believes that every child should own a knife, cub scout style.
True to his beliefs he therefore bought a small, sharp implement for his 12-year-old son Felix. "Now go out and play," he ordered the youngster before opening the fridge and removing his third stella of the morning.
Sadly this story does not have a happy ending. A few minutes later the young lad was back, blood pouring from a finger wound.
"I just forgot to teach him to whittle away from his body," revealed the PoD.
I hear on the grapevine the Social Services are poised to act.
Last night my spin doctor and I went on to the Rummer Tavern, from where I went home to listen to my new Kaiser Chiefs CD while he stumbled in the other direction. My first port of call was City Pizza on City Road where I looked at the menu, then opted for the Meat Feast pizza before demanding extra chillis. Pretty hot stuff.
After eating the majority of the 12 inch inferno I lay on the bed listening to my CD, fully intending to watch the Liverpool v Barcelona Champions League second leg. I woke at 9.50pm, just as Steve Ryder was wrapping up the programme. Doh!
Now, when I tell you it's Withers then I can imagine some would have a few misgivings. But to be fair, the wonderful one is pulling it off brilliantly. In The Yard on Boozeday the questions began flying thick and fast about how I had spent my weekend, who I was with and suchlike. Yet before I could answer, my new spin doctor stepped in to fight off the press pack with an aplomb usually associated with Alastair Campbell.
"In future I would ask you to address all questions to me," he responded with decorum.
And when they did exactly this he came up with: "Is that all you've got, honorable gentlemen of the press? When you have some facts come back to me."
As another hack waded in he didn't turn a hair, using the straightest of straight bats to make even the great Geoffrey Boycott proud. "You are on a fishing expedition, my friend," he smoothly replied.
Unfortunately, he told some of the pub lobby that he would be quite willing to conduct an "off-the-record briefing" when his client was "in the loo". I've had my legs crossed ever since. Not that I have anything to hide, you understand.
As for things you would rather keep secret, the Prince of Darkness let his guard slip. The Dark one apparently believes that every child should own a knife, cub scout style.
True to his beliefs he therefore bought a small, sharp implement for his 12-year-old son Felix. "Now go out and play," he ordered the youngster before opening the fridge and removing his third stella of the morning.
Sadly this story does not have a happy ending. A few minutes later the young lad was back, blood pouring from a finger wound.
"I just forgot to teach him to whittle away from his body," revealed the PoD.
I hear on the grapevine the Social Services are poised to act.
Last night my spin doctor and I went on to the Rummer Tavern, from where I went home to listen to my new Kaiser Chiefs CD while he stumbled in the other direction. My first port of call was City Pizza on City Road where I looked at the menu, then opted for the Meat Feast pizza before demanding extra chillis. Pretty hot stuff.
After eating the majority of the 12 inch inferno I lay on the bed listening to my CD, fully intending to watch the Liverpool v Barcelona Champions League second leg. I woke at 9.50pm, just as Steve Ryder was wrapping up the programme. Doh!
Saturday, March 03, 2007
A marmite sarnie
WORD reaches me that my little friend Bram is trying his hardest to wind up the female population of south Wales. Forget political correctness and women's lib, Bram still believes there is a place in the world for the good old Male Chauvinist Pig.
I have heard from two reliable sources that, while out drinking with some of his Celtic newspaper 'harem', he revealed that he secretly marks them out of 10. I'm not quite sure what criteria he uses but I imagine brains, personality and conversation come well down the list. Of course, the ladies in question immediately demanded to know the marks he had given them. And like the brave soldier he is, Bram refused point blank to tell them.
What I really want to know is: How many marks do they give the roly poly Andy Capp lookalike?
With less than a month before the pub smoking ban hits Wales, I have been spending every minute of my spare time in the hostelries of Cardiff, puffing away like a steam train crawling its way to the top of a very tall mountain.
Bram and my mate Pete are now trying, rather too late it appears to me, to muster a protest. Bram's best idea seems to be a pub blockade where he gets all his mates to turn up at the Old Scroat or some such establishment, light up as one, then walk out when they are asked to leave. Yeh, that'll work.
To be honest, my late night forays around the pubs have curtailed my cooking of late. In fact, the most substantial evening meal I have had for about four days involved a marmite sandwich on some very chunky bread. Normal service will be resumed as soon as my liver tells me it's time to take a break from the booze.
I have heard from two reliable sources that, while out drinking with some of his Celtic newspaper 'harem', he revealed that he secretly marks them out of 10. I'm not quite sure what criteria he uses but I imagine brains, personality and conversation come well down the list. Of course, the ladies in question immediately demanded to know the marks he had given them. And like the brave soldier he is, Bram refused point blank to tell them.
What I really want to know is: How many marks do they give the roly poly Andy Capp lookalike?
With less than a month before the pub smoking ban hits Wales, I have been spending every minute of my spare time in the hostelries of Cardiff, puffing away like a steam train crawling its way to the top of a very tall mountain.
Bram and my mate Pete are now trying, rather too late it appears to me, to muster a protest. Bram's best idea seems to be a pub blockade where he gets all his mates to turn up at the Old Scroat or some such establishment, light up as one, then walk out when they are asked to leave. Yeh, that'll work.
To be honest, my late night forays around the pubs have curtailed my cooking of late. In fact, the most substantial evening meal I have had for about four days involved a marmite sandwich on some very chunky bread. Normal service will be resumed as soon as my liver tells me it's time to take a break from the booze.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Prince in a right old stew
THE Prince of Darkness is angry - very angry. He can't understand how the WAGs (footballers wives and girlfriends to the uninitiated) can be so thick. He was ranting about this last night to anyone who cared to listen.
"My youngster Felix knows more than these women," he stormed. "How can they be so stupid?"
Apparently what had evoked the Prince's ire was a recent television programme called WAGs boutique where these beautiful but mentally challenged individuals go to great lengths to prove how distanced they are from the real world.
"Who is the leader of the Tory party?" One was asked. "John Prescott," she ventured hopefully. In all, the Prince dictated about six of these questions in an irritable grumble. I could hear him filing his teeth in the background. There would be blood on the carpet before long.
And he wasn't reserving his anger just for the WAGs. Who on earth would want to date them? What were these footballers thinking of?
He put the argument succinctly. "Two months of sh***ing like a monkey, and what do you talk about when that's over?" And as his bitterness reached full flow he asked another rhetorical question, which would not have been out of place as an answer on Marje Proops' problem page. "It's alright when you're in bed, but you can't f*** her up the a*** in a restaurant can you?!"
By this time the Prince of Darkness reminded me of one of the self-righteous brothers out of those old Harry Enfield scripts. "If that Coleen walked in the room, dropped her kecks and offered it on a plate, I'd have to say 'COLEEN... NOOO!'
"My youngster Felix knows more than these women," he stormed. "How can they be so stupid?"
Apparently what had evoked the Prince's ire was a recent television programme called WAGs boutique where these beautiful but mentally challenged individuals go to great lengths to prove how distanced they are from the real world.
"Who is the leader of the Tory party?" One was asked. "John Prescott," she ventured hopefully. In all, the Prince dictated about six of these questions in an irritable grumble. I could hear him filing his teeth in the background. There would be blood on the carpet before long.
And he wasn't reserving his anger just for the WAGs. Who on earth would want to date them? What were these footballers thinking of?
He put the argument succinctly. "Two months of sh***ing like a monkey, and what do you talk about when that's over?" And as his bitterness reached full flow he asked another rhetorical question, which would not have been out of place as an answer on Marje Proops' problem page. "It's alright when you're in bed, but you can't f*** her up the a*** in a restaurant can you?!"
By this time the Prince of Darkness reminded me of one of the self-righteous brothers out of those old Harry Enfield scripts. "If that Coleen walked in the room, dropped her kecks and offered it on a plate, I'd have to say 'COLEEN... NOOO!'
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
A fabulous bakin' boys yoghurt bar
IT appears Becks, fretting over his next career move, may be ready to switch professions. We had an inkling of this daring move on Boozeday Tuesday in The Yard.
The young high-flyer gave us a pretty strong indication of his thought processes with an impromptu demonstration as he got up to leave the pub. Swivelling like a modern-day Nureyev, he proceded to throw himself against the pub's picture window with abandon before steadying himself and walking out as if nothing had happened. It left us with a lot to ponder about - are they already seeking stunt doubles for the next James Bond film, I wonder? On the other hand, were four pints of 45 a little bit too much to handle before 3pm on a school day?
Withers and I opted for a bit of adventure after tiring of the familiar surroundings of The Yard. We eyed our options carefully: O'Neills, City Arms, even the Goat Major. Then I came up with a masterstroke - the Rummer Tavern. Two pints later, and feeling even more daring again, I suggested a trip to the Park Vaults. All well and good until we discovered it was shut. So we marched across the road to a very posh boozer in Churchill Way to round off a splendid afternoon. Only drawback was the loss of my England v Australia Boxing Day Test match cap. If I can find the pub again, I shall return to reclaim it later.
I got home with every intention of buying a takeaway, but instead slumped on the bed and promptly fell asleep. It was 11 by the time I woke and dared to peak at Sky Sports News. Then came the moment I had dreamed of - in fact for a moment I thought I was still asleep: Bristol Rovers 1 Bristol City 0. The Gas are off to the Millennium! Promptly rang my mate Haydn, who was obviously fast asleep, and left him a ranting message about how this was best day of my life etc, etc. I was so excited I didn't sleep until about 3 am.
During all that time all I'd had to eat was a bakin' boy oats bar from the local garage.
The young high-flyer gave us a pretty strong indication of his thought processes with an impromptu demonstration as he got up to leave the pub. Swivelling like a modern-day Nureyev, he proceded to throw himself against the pub's picture window with abandon before steadying himself and walking out as if nothing had happened. It left us with a lot to ponder about - are they already seeking stunt doubles for the next James Bond film, I wonder? On the other hand, were four pints of 45 a little bit too much to handle before 3pm on a school day?
Withers and I opted for a bit of adventure after tiring of the familiar surroundings of The Yard. We eyed our options carefully: O'Neills, City Arms, even the Goat Major. Then I came up with a masterstroke - the Rummer Tavern. Two pints later, and feeling even more daring again, I suggested a trip to the Park Vaults. All well and good until we discovered it was shut. So we marched across the road to a very posh boozer in Churchill Way to round off a splendid afternoon. Only drawback was the loss of my England v Australia Boxing Day Test match cap. If I can find the pub again, I shall return to reclaim it later.
I got home with every intention of buying a takeaway, but instead slumped on the bed and promptly fell asleep. It was 11 by the time I woke and dared to peak at Sky Sports News. Then came the moment I had dreamed of - in fact for a moment I thought I was still asleep: Bristol Rovers 1 Bristol City 0. The Gas are off to the Millennium! Promptly rang my mate Haydn, who was obviously fast asleep, and left him a ranting message about how this was best day of my life etc, etc. I was so excited I didn't sleep until about 3 am.
During all that time all I'd had to eat was a bakin' boy oats bar from the local garage.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
A nice Thai banquet (eating out)
Now we've got a nickname for the Fab BB, I've come up with a little ditty for my pal Withers. It goes something like this:
"I'm off to drink with Withers,
The wonderful Withers of WOS,
We hear he is a political whizz,
If ever a wizard there was,
If ever a wizard there was, there was, it's Withers because, it's Withers because,
because, because, because, because, because....
Because of the wonderful column he does."
Then I decided that didn't give an impression of the true Withers, so I altered it slightly...
"I'm off to drink with Withers,
The wonderful Withers of WoS,
He really is a misery guts, if ever a misery there was,
If ever a misery there was, there was, it's Withers because, it's Withers because,
because, because, because because because...
Fill in your own finishing line here: ie He supports Crewe Alexandra, He's love lorn, it's his round, it's his fault, he watches too much Larry David, he spends all his time in the office..."
You decide... And if you have my e mail address, all contributions gratefully received. Free pint for the winner (but obviously not from Withers)
Last night I ate out at a nice Thai restaurant, so no recipe today, folks (to paraphrase Jimmy Young). Who he? asks everyone under 40.
"I'm off to drink with Withers,
The wonderful Withers of WOS,
We hear he is a political whizz,
If ever a wizard there was,
If ever a wizard there was, there was, it's Withers because, it's Withers because,
because, because, because, because, because....
Because of the wonderful column he does."
Then I decided that didn't give an impression of the true Withers, so I altered it slightly...
"I'm off to drink with Withers,
The wonderful Withers of WoS,
He really is a misery guts, if ever a misery there was,
If ever a misery there was, there was, it's Withers because, it's Withers because,
because, because, because because because...
Fill in your own finishing line here: ie He supports Crewe Alexandra, He's love lorn, it's his round, it's his fault, he watches too much Larry David, he spends all his time in the office..."
You decide... And if you have my e mail address, all contributions gratefully received. Free pint for the winner (but obviously not from Withers)
Last night I ate out at a nice Thai restaurant, so no recipe today, folks (to paraphrase Jimmy Young). Who he? asks everyone under 40.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Beef in a blanket (using all the wrong ingredients)
THE Prince of Darkness must have been turning in his coffin on Friday. The metrosexual revolution hit the sports desk in a big way, and a competition seemed to develop over who was most in touch with their feminine side. Shutts, the big-girls blouse, started it.
"I've started exfoliating," he pronounced excitedly. He was met with blank stares.
Eventually Roberts piped up: "What! First Rosey, now you."
Rosey took exception to this in his "I'm goin' 'ome" type of voice. "I've never ever exfoliated!" he declared huffily.
"Not what we've heard. You're the original metrosexual," argued Roberts.
"For God's sake, I only use MOISTURISER," exclaimed Rosey, feeling terribly affronted.
Then Shutts dropped a bombshell. "Well, that's what I'M using," he declared brashly.
Rosey's head flipped back and his eyes fluttered. If looks could kill. "That's not exfoliating! Don't you know what exfoliating is?"
At this point Roberts, Owenov and I all looked blank. This was becoming a more heated debate than any discussion on whether Rob Earnshaw or John Hartson should be used to partner Craig Bellamy up front in John Toshack's Wales soccer side.
Shutts, it has to be said, is getting the upper hand in the Metrosexual league table. In his spare time he buys flowers from Tesco and arranges them around the house, and he feels it necessary to SkyPlus Neighbours every night. He also doesn't drink alcohol and there's a rumour he has Coleen's work-out tape at home. I think Rosey may be fighting a losing battle.
Update on the fantastic Habitat soiree. For the Fabulous BB it appears a case of: "It's my party and I'll cry if I want to." Turns out he was the only guest to make an appearance - and I'm still not sure if he obtained the discount on the Mirror he was so desperate to purchase. At least he came away with a doggie bag though how the jelly and ice cream didn't melt before he got it home, I have no idea. Becks, meanwhile, had to dig deep into his coffers to purchase his own brown quilt at cost price. The nerve of it.
It wasn't a completely lost night for the Fab one. He consoled himself with a visit to the Men Dressed As Women night at his local - as most of us suspected he would. Apparently there is no truth in the rumour he bumped into Shutts dressed in a Sarong.
If I ever bump into the head chef at Les Halles in New York he's going to be very upset with me. I tried out another of his superb recipes on Sunday. Unfortunately I hardly had any of the ingredients. Instead of Veaux a la Banquette, or some such thing, I had to make do with a little adaptation I will call Beef in a Blanket. Surprising, then, given the circumstances, that it was absolutely delicious.
What you need:
1/2 lb tenderloin beef cut into large chunks
a cup of button mushrooms
1 leek sliced thick
1 shallot
2 carrots, split in two
1 stick of celery
1 onion, halved, with two cloves inserted into each half
water
A tub of creme freche
Margerine
1 egg yolk
4 tbsp flour
What I did:
First put the mushrooms and the leeks/shallot in two seperate pans, just cover with water and add a big dollop of margerine/butter to each. Bring to boil, then boil down so that the water has virtually disappeared, but DON'T BURN the mushrooms and leaks. Make sure you keep paying attention to them then remove from heat and set aside.
Put the meat, carrots, celery, onion in a big saucepan and cover with water. Bring to boil then simmer for hour and a half or until the meat is tender.
Remove the meat and set aside, strain the remaining juice through a sieve and discard the veg. Keep the juice warm on the hob.
Heat about 3 tablespoons of marg in a medium saucepan. Heat and when it has melted start adding the flour and stirring it in to mix. Then add the juice from the meat a bit at a time, stirring until you end up with a thick sauce. Now add the meat, leaks and mushrooms together with a sprinkle of salt and white pepper and about three tablespoons of the creme fraiche. Bring to the boil stirring regularly and then leave to simmer for six to eight minutes. At this time I put on some white rice.
Put the egg yolk in a cup and add some of the creamy sauce to it and whisk together. Add this to the meat mixture but DON'T BOIL. Add a dash of lemon juice and season with a bit more pepper.
Put the rice in the middle of the serving dish and present the creamy beef and veg sauce around the outside. It actually works!
"I've started exfoliating," he pronounced excitedly. He was met with blank stares.
Eventually Roberts piped up: "What! First Rosey, now you."
Rosey took exception to this in his "I'm goin' 'ome" type of voice. "I've never ever exfoliated!" he declared huffily.
"Not what we've heard. You're the original metrosexual," argued Roberts.
"For God's sake, I only use MOISTURISER," exclaimed Rosey, feeling terribly affronted.
Then Shutts dropped a bombshell. "Well, that's what I'M using," he declared brashly.
Rosey's head flipped back and his eyes fluttered. If looks could kill. "That's not exfoliating! Don't you know what exfoliating is?"
At this point Roberts, Owenov and I all looked blank. This was becoming a more heated debate than any discussion on whether Rob Earnshaw or John Hartson should be used to partner Craig Bellamy up front in John Toshack's Wales soccer side.
Shutts, it has to be said, is getting the upper hand in the Metrosexual league table. In his spare time he buys flowers from Tesco and arranges them around the house, and he feels it necessary to SkyPlus Neighbours every night. He also doesn't drink alcohol and there's a rumour he has Coleen's work-out tape at home. I think Rosey may be fighting a losing battle.
Update on the fantastic Habitat soiree. For the Fabulous BB it appears a case of: "It's my party and I'll cry if I want to." Turns out he was the only guest to make an appearance - and I'm still not sure if he obtained the discount on the Mirror he was so desperate to purchase. At least he came away with a doggie bag though how the jelly and ice cream didn't melt before he got it home, I have no idea. Becks, meanwhile, had to dig deep into his coffers to purchase his own brown quilt at cost price. The nerve of it.
It wasn't a completely lost night for the Fab one. He consoled himself with a visit to the Men Dressed As Women night at his local - as most of us suspected he would. Apparently there is no truth in the rumour he bumped into Shutts dressed in a Sarong.
If I ever bump into the head chef at Les Halles in New York he's going to be very upset with me. I tried out another of his superb recipes on Sunday. Unfortunately I hardly had any of the ingredients. Instead of Veaux a la Banquette, or some such thing, I had to make do with a little adaptation I will call Beef in a Blanket. Surprising, then, given the circumstances, that it was absolutely delicious.
What you need:
1/2 lb tenderloin beef cut into large chunks
a cup of button mushrooms
1 leek sliced thick
1 shallot
2 carrots, split in two
1 stick of celery
1 onion, halved, with two cloves inserted into each half
water
A tub of creme freche
Margerine
1 egg yolk
4 tbsp flour
What I did:
First put the mushrooms and the leeks/shallot in two seperate pans, just cover with water and add a big dollop of margerine/butter to each. Bring to boil, then boil down so that the water has virtually disappeared, but DON'T BURN the mushrooms and leaks. Make sure you keep paying attention to them then remove from heat and set aside.
Put the meat, carrots, celery, onion in a big saucepan and cover with water. Bring to boil then simmer for hour and a half or until the meat is tender.
Remove the meat and set aside, strain the remaining juice through a sieve and discard the veg. Keep the juice warm on the hob.
Heat about 3 tablespoons of marg in a medium saucepan. Heat and when it has melted start adding the flour and stirring it in to mix. Then add the juice from the meat a bit at a time, stirring until you end up with a thick sauce. Now add the meat, leaks and mushrooms together with a sprinkle of salt and white pepper and about three tablespoons of the creme fraiche. Bring to the boil stirring regularly and then leave to simmer for six to eight minutes. At this time I put on some white rice.
Put the egg yolk in a cup and add some of the creamy sauce to it and whisk together. Add this to the meat mixture but DON'T BOIL. Add a dash of lemon juice and season with a bit more pepper.
Put the rice in the middle of the serving dish and present the creamy beef and veg sauce around the outside. It actually works!
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Party food
SOME people have a knack of being invited to the big events. Take Marc, who is so fed up that he hasn't got a nickname on this blog that I shall now be referring to him as the Fabulous Baker Boy. Sitting in The Yard last night at the reconvened meeting of the Wednesday Club, the Fabulous one announced he was not partaking of alcohol on the basis he was off to a party.
We were all stunned at this news. Why hadn't he shared the wealth, looked after his mates and got us invited to the glitzy affair?
Becks chimed up: "Where is this soiree then?"
The Fabulous one was extremely coy before finally admitting: "It's in Habitat."
"What, Habitat the shop?"
"Yes, Habitat the shop."
"Habitat the shop are throwing a party?" Withers looked incredulous.
"Yes, and I am told that if I turn up I might be able to buy the mirror I want."
Of course, none of us believed a word of this, expecting said party to be another Men dressed as Ladies night at the boozer around the corner.
Then the Fabulous BB produced the invite. It was actually a children's party. Curiouser and curiouser.
So the Fab BB was going to stand around eating jelly and ice cream and lots of jammy donuts. What would they do afterwards, we pondered? Play a game of pass-the-Anglepoise-lamp or pin the tail on the Customer Services Manager? Intriguing.
Becks, though, didn't see the funny side. He wanted in on the action.
"I need a quilt. I've got one from Next and another from Habitat but I desperately need a new quilt cover. If I come along do you think I might be able to get in."
Now gatecrashing a party in Habitat does sound a bit risque, not to mention damn silly really.
Without an invite, though, Becks wasn't sure he could pull off the daring adventure.
"Well, if you see a quilt cover can you get me one - in brown - particularly if they are offering them at a special discount to partygoers?" he asked of the Fab BB.
Silence, was the stern reply. I've yet to hear the full story of the Habitat shindig. I'll keep you posted.
Withers, meanwhile, has taken to whistling the tune of the early 80s sitcom Shelley. It came about after Nathan explained that he was trying to obtain an interview with star-of-the-show Hywel Bennett. It prompted me to tell the story of the night myself and my former sidekick Lewis carried out our own version of the Spying Game by tracking the Welsh actor around the seedier pubs and clubs in Cardiff.
We ended up having a rather surreal evening chatting to the impressario in Kiwis, while he declared his desperate need for female company, though in far more crude terms.
At one stage I admitted to Mr Bennett that, while living in Stoke, I was given the nickname Shelley. Apparently, when I owned hair, I looked very much like the work-shy layabout.
Withers insisted on scanning the internet to find a picture of Shelley and agreed that the resemblance was uncanny. There followed an afternoon of inane theme-tune whistling from the Withered one until Rosey suggested he might find it difficult to whistle without teeth.
Glad to say, the Roger Whitaker impression have since ceased.
We were all stunned at this news. Why hadn't he shared the wealth, looked after his mates and got us invited to the glitzy affair?
Becks chimed up: "Where is this soiree then?"
The Fabulous one was extremely coy before finally admitting: "It's in Habitat."
"What, Habitat the shop?"
"Yes, Habitat the shop."
"Habitat the shop are throwing a party?" Withers looked incredulous.
"Yes, and I am told that if I turn up I might be able to buy the mirror I want."
Of course, none of us believed a word of this, expecting said party to be another Men dressed as Ladies night at the boozer around the corner.
Then the Fabulous BB produced the invite. It was actually a children's party. Curiouser and curiouser.
So the Fab BB was going to stand around eating jelly and ice cream and lots of jammy donuts. What would they do afterwards, we pondered? Play a game of pass-the-Anglepoise-lamp or pin the tail on the Customer Services Manager? Intriguing.
Becks, though, didn't see the funny side. He wanted in on the action.
"I need a quilt. I've got one from Next and another from Habitat but I desperately need a new quilt cover. If I come along do you think I might be able to get in."
Now gatecrashing a party in Habitat does sound a bit risque, not to mention damn silly really.
Without an invite, though, Becks wasn't sure he could pull off the daring adventure.
"Well, if you see a quilt cover can you get me one - in brown - particularly if they are offering them at a special discount to partygoers?" he asked of the Fab BB.
Silence, was the stern reply. I've yet to hear the full story of the Habitat shindig. I'll keep you posted.
Withers, meanwhile, has taken to whistling the tune of the early 80s sitcom Shelley. It came about after Nathan explained that he was trying to obtain an interview with star-of-the-show Hywel Bennett. It prompted me to tell the story of the night myself and my former sidekick Lewis carried out our own version of the Spying Game by tracking the Welsh actor around the seedier pubs and clubs in Cardiff.
We ended up having a rather surreal evening chatting to the impressario in Kiwis, while he declared his desperate need for female company, though in far more crude terms.
At one stage I admitted to Mr Bennett that, while living in Stoke, I was given the nickname Shelley. Apparently, when I owned hair, I looked very much like the work-shy layabout.
Withers insisted on scanning the internet to find a picture of Shelley and agreed that the resemblance was uncanny. There followed an afternoon of inane theme-tune whistling from the Withered one until Rosey suggested he might find it difficult to whistle without teeth.
Glad to say, the Roger Whitaker impression have since ceased.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
TV dinner
Woohoo! As Homer Simpson would say. I've finally got my TV back after five days. It's fab - it works. I spent the whole of Monday watching everything and anything from the brilliant Simpsons, to the mundane (Richard and Judy anyone?) and on to the stultifyingly boring (Brentford v Northampton on Sky Sports). And I enjoyed every bit of it.
Mind you, I did take a while to get the thing to work. And attaching it to the stand was a bit of a nightmare, particularly when I realised I'd put it on the wrong way around, meaning the DVD and Satellite box would be facing away from me. I would have to clamber over assorted boxes, leads and god knows what else to turn it on.
That wasn't the only hiccough, either. The TV repair man was scheduled to arrive "sometime after 2". He actually turned up sometime after six, complaining of a broken axle to the van.
By this time I had stupidly opened the door to a rather strange creature called Heidi, who asked me to complete a Mori poll survey. It was mainly political questions which all seemed to point towards: Do you want your actions monitored 24 hours a day by CCTV and to have to carry an identity card at all times?
It was all very political and when Heidi then proceeded to tell me that everything I believed in was wrong, that immigrants should be sent back where they came from, that single mums should not be given so much money and that everyone under the age of 20 should be locked up. I thought of pointing out to her that she herself was an "immigrant", opting instead to bluntly advise her that I had absolutely no interest in a party political broadcast on behalf of Britain's young Nazis. She got the message, I think. The survey finished very soon after that. Aren't I nasty?
Yesterday met up with Paul, a mate from those lovely old Barmy Army days in Brisbane and Adelaide. He lives in Cardiff and brought along some photos of our glorious times in Oz. We met in Dempsey and what I didn't realise was that Celtic were playing in Europe that night. In the blink of an eye we were surrounded by 400 bosses, bouncing up and down singing something like "The Celts are here". Decided the best way to put up with this was to neck about eight pints. If you can't beat em, join em. Didn't help me get up for work this morning, though.
Mind you, I did take a while to get the thing to work. And attaching it to the stand was a bit of a nightmare, particularly when I realised I'd put it on the wrong way around, meaning the DVD and Satellite box would be facing away from me. I would have to clamber over assorted boxes, leads and god knows what else to turn it on.
That wasn't the only hiccough, either. The TV repair man was scheduled to arrive "sometime after 2". He actually turned up sometime after six, complaining of a broken axle to the van.
By this time I had stupidly opened the door to a rather strange creature called Heidi, who asked me to complete a Mori poll survey. It was mainly political questions which all seemed to point towards: Do you want your actions monitored 24 hours a day by CCTV and to have to carry an identity card at all times?
It was all very political and when Heidi then proceeded to tell me that everything I believed in was wrong, that immigrants should be sent back where they came from, that single mums should not be given so much money and that everyone under the age of 20 should be locked up. I thought of pointing out to her that she herself was an "immigrant", opting instead to bluntly advise her that I had absolutely no interest in a party political broadcast on behalf of Britain's young Nazis. She got the message, I think. The survey finished very soon after that. Aren't I nasty?
Yesterday met up with Paul, a mate from those lovely old Barmy Army days in Brisbane and Adelaide. He lives in Cardiff and brought along some photos of our glorious times in Oz. We met in Dempsey and what I didn't realise was that Celtic were playing in Europe that night. In the blink of an eye we were surrounded by 400 bosses, bouncing up and down singing something like "The Celts are here". Decided the best way to put up with this was to neck about eight pints. If you can't beat em, join em. Didn't help me get up for work this morning, though.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
A few Thai sweet chilli pretzels
THE Vin Man's had a haircut. More to the point he's had MY haircut. Poor dab, don't know what's got into him. The Fat Kid isn't impressed, she would rather he resisted the skinhead look until he is... oh... 47? I imagine, then, that it was his Dad who finally relented.
See the Vin Man, with the same powers of persuasion that enables his mother to acquire a new car, looks at The Fat Kid with those pleading eyes, brushes his hand over his head in a sweeping movement, and pleads: "All off like Grandad... all off like Grandad."
Never thought of myself as a trendsetter but I must admit I felt a little bit proud.
Mind you, I think this is the first step on Vinny's career path to becoming Southend-on-Sea nightclub bouncer.
It's been my first week back in work and I'm just writing this before going home to crash. It's not been too bad, but I had forgotten the lure of the pub after a hard day in the office. Normally the "new men" and attached members of staff are straight off home after a busy shift, which is why I was amazed that so many people insisted on accompanying me to The Yard on Thursday for a welcome back drinkie session. Then the moaning started...
"You've got to do something about this?"
"Do you know what happened when... It's a disgrace."
At the start of the week I saw my Doctor. She plugged me in and pumped up my arm, then screamed in shock when she read the result. "My God!"
Here I go, I thought, my life's hanging by a threat.
Not a bit of it. My blood pressure, which before the trip to Oz had been touching 200/98 - pretty damn high, apparently - has dropped to 116/72, a magnificent result and well below the danger threshold, so much so that I was taken off one of my meds. Excellent.
Then came the return to work, a first day grappling with the insane technology which regularly provokes you into acts of wonton violence on inanimate electrical objects, and the pub outpourings about the nightmare three months during my absence. It was like I hadn't been away.
I'm sure I could feel my blood pressure rising, my slender figure (now 3/4 stone lighter, believe it or not) bloating up and a scream rising in my throat.
Welcome back to the wacky world of newspapers.
Friday night ended up in the City Arms. No surprise there. The plan was to go home early as the 14-hour late shift was beckoning on WoS the next day.
Early? Yeah, right.
Hours later, sinking beers with Coggsy, Smashy, Nicey and Withers, and I have a tie wrapped around my head, trying desperately to remember how to count to five so that I can join in that wonderful XTC song "Senses working overtime?"
Senses working overtime? Senses not working at all from where I was standing or, rather, leaning.
To top it all, I only had the energy to open some Sweet Chilli pretzels and munched my way through about six of them before crashing to the bed. Thank God Scooby has banned me from cooking after sessions in the boozer.
See the Vin Man, with the same powers of persuasion that enables his mother to acquire a new car, looks at The Fat Kid with those pleading eyes, brushes his hand over his head in a sweeping movement, and pleads: "All off like Grandad... all off like Grandad."
Never thought of myself as a trendsetter but I must admit I felt a little bit proud.
Mind you, I think this is the first step on Vinny's career path to becoming Southend-on-Sea nightclub bouncer.
It's been my first week back in work and I'm just writing this before going home to crash. It's not been too bad, but I had forgotten the lure of the pub after a hard day in the office. Normally the "new men" and attached members of staff are straight off home after a busy shift, which is why I was amazed that so many people insisted on accompanying me to The Yard on Thursday for a welcome back drinkie session. Then the moaning started...
"You've got to do something about this?"
"Do you know what happened when... It's a disgrace."
At the start of the week I saw my Doctor. She plugged me in and pumped up my arm, then screamed in shock when she read the result. "My God!"
Here I go, I thought, my life's hanging by a threat.
Not a bit of it. My blood pressure, which before the trip to Oz had been touching 200/98 - pretty damn high, apparently - has dropped to 116/72, a magnificent result and well below the danger threshold, so much so that I was taken off one of my meds. Excellent.
Then came the return to work, a first day grappling with the insane technology which regularly provokes you into acts of wonton violence on inanimate electrical objects, and the pub outpourings about the nightmare three months during my absence. It was like I hadn't been away.
I'm sure I could feel my blood pressure rising, my slender figure (now 3/4 stone lighter, believe it or not) bloating up and a scream rising in my throat.
Welcome back to the wacky world of newspapers.
Friday night ended up in the City Arms. No surprise there. The plan was to go home early as the 14-hour late shift was beckoning on WoS the next day.
Early? Yeah, right.
Hours later, sinking beers with Coggsy, Smashy, Nicey and Withers, and I have a tie wrapped around my head, trying desperately to remember how to count to five so that I can join in that wonderful XTC song "Senses working overtime?"
Senses working overtime? Senses not working at all from where I was standing or, rather, leaning.
To top it all, I only had the energy to open some Sweet Chilli pretzels and munched my way through about six of them before crashing to the bed. Thank God Scooby has banned me from cooking after sessions in the boozer.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Haaah, Grasshopper
GRASSHOPPER Withers is turning Japanese, by all accounts. While most of us spend our Saturdays out on the razz, the inscrutable Crewe-asian has taken up Origami. Far from a martial art, this is better known by his phillistine colleagues as the ancient art of paper folding.
This revelation came to light, as all such moments of enlightenment do, during a particularly heavy session in the Yard on Tuesday.
Becks and myself seriously doubted that this was really the way he spent a large portion of his weekend until he produced his mobile phone and showed us a picture of something he convinced us was a paper penguin.
Apparently they have been giving Origami lessons in the Times and Withers, his social life obviously entering one of its famous "dips", decided he wanted to lift himself to a higher plane and forget all his troubles.
Didn't last long, mind. This morning I asked him whether he had moved on to Dinosaurs.
"No, I've given it up," he confessed.
Still, if you pass Chez Withers in the next few days, don't be surprised to see him outside painting the fence.
Last night I had a first go at Polenta, that maize-based substitute for potatoes or pasta. I didn't have to make it mind, it came ready mixed in a pack from Sainsbury's. I put it in the oven on gas mark 7 for 20 minutes and topped it with Parmigian Cheese. I mixed up an Italian concoction of fried bacon, onion, garlic, basil leaves, fresh tomato and dried chillies to go with it.
It was alright, but I'm not sure I will make a habit of it.
This revelation came to light, as all such moments of enlightenment do, during a particularly heavy session in the Yard on Tuesday.
Becks and myself seriously doubted that this was really the way he spent a large portion of his weekend until he produced his mobile phone and showed us a picture of something he convinced us was a paper penguin.
Apparently they have been giving Origami lessons in the Times and Withers, his social life obviously entering one of its famous "dips", decided he wanted to lift himself to a higher plane and forget all his troubles.
Didn't last long, mind. This morning I asked him whether he had moved on to Dinosaurs.
"No, I've given it up," he confessed.
Still, if you pass Chez Withers in the next few days, don't be surprised to see him outside painting the fence.
Last night I had a first go at Polenta, that maize-based substitute for potatoes or pasta. I didn't have to make it mind, it came ready mixed in a pack from Sainsbury's. I put it in the oven on gas mark 7 for 20 minutes and topped it with Parmigian Cheese. I mixed up an Italian concoction of fried bacon, onion, garlic, basil leaves, fresh tomato and dried chillies to go with it.
It was alright, but I'm not sure I will make a habit of it.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Roast chicken with mascarpone, lemon zest and pancetta
IF one day I were to discover an old lamp in an attic and conjure up a genie, then my first wish would be a couple more inches (in height, stop sniggering at the back, dammit). And there lies the problem, getting into the loft in the first place. To be more specific, getting into my parents loft.
You see, the old folks are moving to a new place. They have decided that at the combined age of 380 they need something a bit smaller, on the ground floor, with a warden on call to meet their every need.
The trouble is that going from a three-bedroom house with garden to a one-bedroom flat means that you must start offloading stuff that you have no room for. Apparently, some of my things dating back to the Jurassic era are still stored at their house so, when I offered, tentatively, to lend them a hand my dad, quick as a flash, said: "There are some things in the loft you could get down for us."
Right. Well that's all well and good until you realise the only ladder on offer has about three steps. When I clambered up onto it I already had an awful feeling.
Somehow I managed to get the door open but I could only just reach the opening with my fingertips. The humiliation. I offered to stand on the very top of the ladder, on a wafer-thin bit of metal on which even the best circus performer might find it difficult to maintain his balance, but by then my step-mother, worried look on her face, was shouting: "No, no get down! It's not worth it, not for a few old football programmes." Phew! Saved by the bell.
Then she rubbed salt in the wounds. "It's alright, my nephew Gerald is coming round on Saturday, he's about 6ft 4. It will be no trouble for him." Well, whoopee-do Gerald. What's worst, I bet he finds that Aladdin's lamp.
Well I stuck to my guns for all of about five days. The Fat kid is now a girl racer. That's a female driving a boy-racer car. I finally took the plunge and bought her a Black Renault Clio Dynamique. Very sporty. Alloy wheels, low-profile tyres, one of those strip braking lights across the back window. All-singing, all-dancing. Then came the teething problems.
When we arrived to pick it up I noticed that the driver's side tyre was almost flat. "No problem," said Joe second-hand car salesman. "I'll pump it up for you."
"But it looks like there's a big gash in the thing."
"Oh, I'm sure it's nothing."
"But my daughter has to drive it all the way back to Southend. And she has a baby with her."
"I'm sure it will be ok. But if it needs sorting when she gets back, we'll pay."
Great.
We got it back to my place. "How does the radio work?" the Fat Kid asks.
"How am I supposed to know?" I respond helpfully. "I know as much about this car as you do."
Eventually we get out the logbook, find a code to tap in and seemingly get it working. No reception, though. Don't know whether it's sorted yet.
Back in Southend, the Fat Kid calls me the next day. "Tyre's completely flat," she says.
"Well, get someone to put the spare on and take it to Kwikfit or something and get it done. Get a receipt as well."
Twenty minutes later. "It's me." What a surprise, Fat Kid. "Pete tried to take the tyre off but the spanner doesn't fit. It's the wrong spanner."
"Well, call the AA out then. You're a member. They've got lots of spanners."
"Oh, yeah." Doh, Fat Kid. If she started thinking she'd be dangerous, love her.
Later again. "The AA man has changed the tyre but says I need the other one changing too. It's illegal."
Long and short of it, Second-hand Joe agreed to pay for them both, I "lent" Fat Kid some MORE money and now she has two new low-profile tyres and is cruising the Southend Seafront looking proud as punch. Don't know if the radio is working, mind.
Withers, Rosey and I decided to have a small wager in the Halfway before Wales' first rugby international. Rosey asked: "When do we think Wales will cock up and blow all that early optimism?"
I went for 10 mins. Wrong.
In fact, it was 45 seconds.
Welcome to the ever-recurring story of Welsh rugby and bitter disappointment. Back at work this week, and I'm already thinking of how many different ways to say: "WE WERE STUFFED!"
By 8pm I was pretty pie-eyed, and said cheerio to Withers with all the intention of having a kip before watching the Superbowl live.
Next thing I wake to look at the alarm clock. "3.30".
Time the Superbowl ended? "About 3.20". B*ll*cks.
Last Sunday I had a crack at a little Italian recipe for Roast Chicken I saw on Sky before my TV completely packed it, was hauled off to the TV repair shop and left me unable to watch England finally win some cricket matches and actually lift a trophy in Australia. Am I a jinx? Looks like it.
I cooked it with roast potatoes, a variety of veg and did my own gravy for possibly the first-time ever (where Sunday lunch is concerned, anyway).
What you need:
Free-range chicken.
Tub of Mascarpone.
Zest of one lemon.
3/4 slices of pancetta. Or the little packet of cubes (though slices may be better)
Sprig of Thyme, Sprig of Rosemary and half the lemon.
2/3 onions, sliced.
Heat the oven to about 200, gas mark 4/5.
Wash the chicken, remove any giblets.
Mix half the tub of Mascarpone with the chopped pancetta and the zest of the lemon. Add black pepper as required.
Then at the opposite end to the cavity of the chicken, Make a "pocket" under the skin with your hand.
Push the Mascarpone mixture up into the pocket. Brush any left over the top of the chicken.
Place thyme, rosemary and half a lemon in the chicken cavity.
lay a bed of sliced onion in the baking tray and put the chicken on top.
Following the cooking instructions on the wrapper, cook the chicken for as long as it says, but DON'T use foil. When the juices run clear the chicken is ready.
Remove and rest on a serving platter, cover with foil.
Put roasting tin on the hob and scrape around the onions, which have been cooking in the chicken juices.
Add a decent amount of flour and mix up, then add a good splash of white wine and as much chicken stock as you will need, considering the amount of guests. Bring to the boil stirring all the time. Then simmer, but continue to stir now and again.
When gravy is thick and veggies are ready, strain the gravy to remove the onions then serve everything up and pour over the gravy.
Thanks go to the lovely Lydia for the Thai meal she bought me as a belated birthday offering. You've joined the friends, not just acquantainces, club. Unfortunately, I haven't got any badges made up yet.
You see, the old folks are moving to a new place. They have decided that at the combined age of 380 they need something a bit smaller, on the ground floor, with a warden on call to meet their every need.
The trouble is that going from a three-bedroom house with garden to a one-bedroom flat means that you must start offloading stuff that you have no room for. Apparently, some of my things dating back to the Jurassic era are still stored at their house so, when I offered, tentatively, to lend them a hand my dad, quick as a flash, said: "There are some things in the loft you could get down for us."
Right. Well that's all well and good until you realise the only ladder on offer has about three steps. When I clambered up onto it I already had an awful feeling.
Somehow I managed to get the door open but I could only just reach the opening with my fingertips. The humiliation. I offered to stand on the very top of the ladder, on a wafer-thin bit of metal on which even the best circus performer might find it difficult to maintain his balance, but by then my step-mother, worried look on her face, was shouting: "No, no get down! It's not worth it, not for a few old football programmes." Phew! Saved by the bell.
Then she rubbed salt in the wounds. "It's alright, my nephew Gerald is coming round on Saturday, he's about 6ft 4. It will be no trouble for him." Well, whoopee-do Gerald. What's worst, I bet he finds that Aladdin's lamp.
Well I stuck to my guns for all of about five days. The Fat kid is now a girl racer. That's a female driving a boy-racer car. I finally took the plunge and bought her a Black Renault Clio Dynamique. Very sporty. Alloy wheels, low-profile tyres, one of those strip braking lights across the back window. All-singing, all-dancing. Then came the teething problems.
When we arrived to pick it up I noticed that the driver's side tyre was almost flat. "No problem," said Joe second-hand car salesman. "I'll pump it up for you."
"But it looks like there's a big gash in the thing."
"Oh, I'm sure it's nothing."
"But my daughter has to drive it all the way back to Southend. And she has a baby with her."
"I'm sure it will be ok. But if it needs sorting when she gets back, we'll pay."
Great.
We got it back to my place. "How does the radio work?" the Fat Kid asks.
"How am I supposed to know?" I respond helpfully. "I know as much about this car as you do."
Eventually we get out the logbook, find a code to tap in and seemingly get it working. No reception, though. Don't know whether it's sorted yet.
Back in Southend, the Fat Kid calls me the next day. "Tyre's completely flat," she says.
"Well, get someone to put the spare on and take it to Kwikfit or something and get it done. Get a receipt as well."
Twenty minutes later. "It's me." What a surprise, Fat Kid. "Pete tried to take the tyre off but the spanner doesn't fit. It's the wrong spanner."
"Well, call the AA out then. You're a member. They've got lots of spanners."
"Oh, yeah." Doh, Fat Kid. If she started thinking she'd be dangerous, love her.
Later again. "The AA man has changed the tyre but says I need the other one changing too. It's illegal."
Long and short of it, Second-hand Joe agreed to pay for them both, I "lent" Fat Kid some MORE money and now she has two new low-profile tyres and is cruising the Southend Seafront looking proud as punch. Don't know if the radio is working, mind.
Withers, Rosey and I decided to have a small wager in the Halfway before Wales' first rugby international. Rosey asked: "When do we think Wales will cock up and blow all that early optimism?"
I went for 10 mins. Wrong.
In fact, it was 45 seconds.
Welcome to the ever-recurring story of Welsh rugby and bitter disappointment. Back at work this week, and I'm already thinking of how many different ways to say: "WE WERE STUFFED!"
By 8pm I was pretty pie-eyed, and said cheerio to Withers with all the intention of having a kip before watching the Superbowl live.
Next thing I wake to look at the alarm clock. "3.30".
Time the Superbowl ended? "About 3.20". B*ll*cks.
Last Sunday I had a crack at a little Italian recipe for Roast Chicken I saw on Sky before my TV completely packed it, was hauled off to the TV repair shop and left me unable to watch England finally win some cricket matches and actually lift a trophy in Australia. Am I a jinx? Looks like it.
I cooked it with roast potatoes, a variety of veg and did my own gravy for possibly the first-time ever (where Sunday lunch is concerned, anyway).
What you need:
Free-range chicken.
Tub of Mascarpone.
Zest of one lemon.
3/4 slices of pancetta. Or the little packet of cubes (though slices may be better)
Sprig of Thyme, Sprig of Rosemary and half the lemon.
2/3 onions, sliced.
Heat the oven to about 200, gas mark 4/5.
Wash the chicken, remove any giblets.
Mix half the tub of Mascarpone with the chopped pancetta and the zest of the lemon. Add black pepper as required.
Then at the opposite end to the cavity of the chicken, Make a "pocket" under the skin with your hand.
Push the Mascarpone mixture up into the pocket. Brush any left over the top of the chicken.
Place thyme, rosemary and half a lemon in the chicken cavity.
lay a bed of sliced onion in the baking tray and put the chicken on top.
Following the cooking instructions on the wrapper, cook the chicken for as long as it says, but DON'T use foil. When the juices run clear the chicken is ready.
Remove and rest on a serving platter, cover with foil.
Put roasting tin on the hob and scrape around the onions, which have been cooking in the chicken juices.
Add a decent amount of flour and mix up, then add a good splash of white wine and as much chicken stock as you will need, considering the amount of guests. Bring to the boil stirring all the time. Then simmer, but continue to stir now and again.
When gravy is thick and veggies are ready, strain the gravy to remove the onions then serve everything up and pour over the gravy.
Thanks go to the lovely Lydia for the Thai meal she bought me as a belated birthday offering. You've joined the friends, not just acquantainces, club. Unfortunately, I haven't got any badges made up yet.
Friday, February 02, 2007
Tea at Kempy's
WORD reaches me that the Boss is with child. Well, not literally, because that would be a great story to boost circulation. Rather, Lady Boss is with child and her delighted other half has been coming up with a host of names for the unborn offspring.
Sources tell me that it was a straight shootout between Kenny Dalglish Boss, Lou Macari Boss, Charlie Nicholas Boss and Jock Stein Boss. It's fair to say, though, that Lady Boss put her foot down when the suggestion came through that the babe should be named Simpson, Craig, Gemmell, Murdock, McNeill, Clark, Jinky, Wallace, Chalmers, Auld, Lennox Boss after the famous Lions of Lisbon European Cup-winning side. Oh well, can't win them all.
Then, at the latest scan, rumour has it the Boss's hopes of a future Celtic striker were further crushed by the news the baby was missing the bits required to compete in a man's game. Myself, I don't see a problem here. With the standard of defending in the Scottish Premier League I would have thought any female with an ounce of footballing nous could bang in 20 goals a season for Celtic. He may still yet name her Henryka, I understand. "Ga an, the wee (wo)man!"
Dinner at Kempy's on Wednesday was fab, but walking into the front room I felt like I was making a guest appearance in that 1970s Sci-Fi epic Land of the Giants. Surrounding me on the walls were pictures of giant animals which could knock you flat with one blow of their mighty paws.
A closer look revealed it was actually one animal in particular, mutated out of all proportion as if it had got too near the power station at Sellafield. Pillow's beady eye follows you around the front room. He has been photographed, then blown up and put on canvas. Kempy's Lasagne was gorgeous, and the garlic bread tasty, too, but I couldn't help feeling that if one morsel remained on the plate Giant Pillow would pounce. Scary.
Sources tell me that it was a straight shootout between Kenny Dalglish Boss, Lou Macari Boss, Charlie Nicholas Boss and Jock Stein Boss. It's fair to say, though, that Lady Boss put her foot down when the suggestion came through that the babe should be named Simpson, Craig, Gemmell, Murdock, McNeill, Clark, Jinky, Wallace, Chalmers, Auld, Lennox Boss after the famous Lions of Lisbon European Cup-winning side. Oh well, can't win them all.
Then, at the latest scan, rumour has it the Boss's hopes of a future Celtic striker were further crushed by the news the baby was missing the bits required to compete in a man's game. Myself, I don't see a problem here. With the standard of defending in the Scottish Premier League I would have thought any female with an ounce of footballing nous could bang in 20 goals a season for Celtic. He may still yet name her Henryka, I understand. "Ga an, the wee (wo)man!"
Dinner at Kempy's on Wednesday was fab, but walking into the front room I felt like I was making a guest appearance in that 1970s Sci-Fi epic Land of the Giants. Surrounding me on the walls were pictures of giant animals which could knock you flat with one blow of their mighty paws.
A closer look revealed it was actually one animal in particular, mutated out of all proportion as if it had got too near the power station at Sellafield. Pillow's beady eye follows you around the front room. He has been photographed, then blown up and put on canvas. Kempy's Lasagne was gorgeous, and the garlic bread tasty, too, but I couldn't help feeling that if one morsel remained on the plate Giant Pillow would pounce. Scary.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Hotpot like Corrie's Betty used to make (with chillies)
CARDIFF is planning to launch a Walk of Fame in the Bay area. It got us thinking in the Yard yesterday - who should be included in this Hollywoodesque venture?
I can hardly envisage Shirley Bassey, Tom Jones et al flocking back home to have their footprints immortalised in Butetown cement. Which means it will probably be confined to Wales' massive list of B list celebs.
Lisa Jeynes can expect to be there (you know that girl from Penarth who lasted two weeks in Big Brother), plus the Wales soccer manager John Toshack and the bloke who used to be the lead singer with 70s rockers Man (Deke Leonard, anyone?)
I've got a better idea. I think The Yard should have a pavement of fame to record our time there. You could have the hand and knee prints of the Prince of Darkness after he has crawled home following another Tuesday sesh on the Krony. Likewise I imagine the print of my face might emerge there, too, having fallen headlong over my shoes which have, somehow, becoming detached from my person. Also included as a wall exhibit could be Rosey's dating diary and an upturned Smiley face to remind us of the joyful presence of Withers.
Added to it all, of course, we have our own Posh and Becks, whose handprints would bring the crowds flocking. And an announcement to visitors could be recorded by The Voice.
I reckon it would be every bit as popular as the London Dungeon.
Withers and I experienced our first pub "smoking section" last night. After a brief visit to nearly every hostelry in Cardiff we ended up at the Old Scroat and asked for directions to the ciggy area. We had to go right through to the back of the pub where a few tables have been sited and a large gaping hole in the wall ensures that it's not enclosed. This morning I am still recovering from Frostbite.
Enjoyed a good weekend but am still recovering. Friday night I told myself I would have to be home early, but instead danced into the wee small hours with the MD's sec, Champy and their mate Pete (how many Pete's do I know?).
Next day I had to be at my old school pal Haydn's in Bristol by 9.30 so that we could drive up and see the Gas take on Derby County in the fourth round of the FA Cup.
After a good cooked breakfast from Haydn's lovely wife Sian, we set off with his 10-year-old boy Liam in tow. We made good progress to Derby, passing all the Rovers' coaches, minibuses and cars up the motorway, then found a convenient place to park and walked the rest of the way to Pride Park, a very impressive all-seater stadium.
Once inside we availed ourselves of the bar under the stand, where the Gashead masses were gathering. By the time the game started there were a good 6,000 of us cheering on our heroes.
To be fair they put up a great performance and with a bit more luck - and without the sending off of our full back 12 minutes from time - we could have won. As it was super sub Pesky-solido (you know that bloke married to Karren Brady) came off the bench to score the winner eight minutes from time.
Still, not too disappointed and a great day out.
That night Haydn showed me the delights of Chipping Sodbury. It's got some great boozers and I particularly liked The George. I met some of Haydn's mates, but more importantly bumped into Guy Howells, one of the old gang that used to go out on the lash every weekend.
Once he realised the bloke in front of him was me (sans hair, of course) he crushed me in a bearhug and ranted: "You're the sod who got us locked up in Sodbury nick all night".
All the wonderful things I have done in my life and this is what my legacy really means. I suppose smashing a saucer belonging to the Avon and Somerset Constabulary over my head (value 25p) wasn't one of my better ideas.
Monday night I had a go at a Jamie Oliver's Lancashire hotpot out of the Sainsbury's mag, and very nice it was, too. I didn't have any Celeriac, which probably would have made it even better, and I was a bit short of fresh herbs, but I improvised with use of Mooli (which looks like a giant white carrot but is actually White Radish used in a lot of Chinese Cooking) and four dried red chillies.
This is what you need:
3 large lamp steaks, chopped into 2cm pieces
One whole onion, chopped
Two sliced garlic cloves
One sliced carrot
Two sliced celery sticks
Six slices of Mooli or slices of Celeriac
3/4 potatoes, peeled and sliced
4 ozs melted butter or marg
cooking oil
Thyme, fresh if poss but I used dried mixed herbs
A sprig of Rosemary (but I used dried Rosemary)
4 dried red chillies
3/4 pint beef stock
Method:
Pre-heat oven to gas mark 5 or equivalent.
Put the sliced potatoes in a bowl and sprinkle Thyme over, then pour over melted butter and stir around with a spoon. Leave to stand.
Heat up some oil in a saucepan, then when it is hot cook the lamb, perhaps in two batches, until it is brown. Remove from pan and set aside. I added a small amount of flour during the cooking process to thicken the lamb juices.
Add the butter to the remaining oil and then add the onion, garlic and other veggies. Leave sweating on a low heat for 10 minutes. Season with salt and pepper.
Return lamb to the pot and stir around. Also add the dried chillies. Cook for a further 3/4 mins.
Layer some of the lamb and veggie mixture into a casserole dish. Then add a layer of potato and some of the Mooli slices, or Celeriac, if you have it.
Repeat this again, ending with a layer of Potatoes on top. Dot with butter, put on lid and then put into the oven.
Cook for an hour, Remove lid and cook for an extra 30 mins.
Serve with some nice, crusty bread. I'd advise you to remove the chillies at this stage or it might be hotter than you think.
I don't think Betty Turpin in the Rovers Return could have done a better job.
I can hardly envisage Shirley Bassey, Tom Jones et al flocking back home to have their footprints immortalised in Butetown cement. Which means it will probably be confined to Wales' massive list of B list celebs.
Lisa Jeynes can expect to be there (you know that girl from Penarth who lasted two weeks in Big Brother), plus the Wales soccer manager John Toshack and the bloke who used to be the lead singer with 70s rockers Man (Deke Leonard, anyone?)
I've got a better idea. I think The Yard should have a pavement of fame to record our time there. You could have the hand and knee prints of the Prince of Darkness after he has crawled home following another Tuesday sesh on the Krony. Likewise I imagine the print of my face might emerge there, too, having fallen headlong over my shoes which have, somehow, becoming detached from my person. Also included as a wall exhibit could be Rosey's dating diary and an upturned Smiley face to remind us of the joyful presence of Withers.
Added to it all, of course, we have our own Posh and Becks, whose handprints would bring the crowds flocking. And an announcement to visitors could be recorded by The Voice.
I reckon it would be every bit as popular as the London Dungeon.
Withers and I experienced our first pub "smoking section" last night. After a brief visit to nearly every hostelry in Cardiff we ended up at the Old Scroat and asked for directions to the ciggy area. We had to go right through to the back of the pub where a few tables have been sited and a large gaping hole in the wall ensures that it's not enclosed. This morning I am still recovering from Frostbite.
Enjoyed a good weekend but am still recovering. Friday night I told myself I would have to be home early, but instead danced into the wee small hours with the MD's sec, Champy and their mate Pete (how many Pete's do I know?).
Next day I had to be at my old school pal Haydn's in Bristol by 9.30 so that we could drive up and see the Gas take on Derby County in the fourth round of the FA Cup.
After a good cooked breakfast from Haydn's lovely wife Sian, we set off with his 10-year-old boy Liam in tow. We made good progress to Derby, passing all the Rovers' coaches, minibuses and cars up the motorway, then found a convenient place to park and walked the rest of the way to Pride Park, a very impressive all-seater stadium.
Once inside we availed ourselves of the bar under the stand, where the Gashead masses were gathering. By the time the game started there were a good 6,000 of us cheering on our heroes.
To be fair they put up a great performance and with a bit more luck - and without the sending off of our full back 12 minutes from time - we could have won. As it was super sub Pesky-solido (you know that bloke married to Karren Brady) came off the bench to score the winner eight minutes from time.
Still, not too disappointed and a great day out.
That night Haydn showed me the delights of Chipping Sodbury. It's got some great boozers and I particularly liked The George. I met some of Haydn's mates, but more importantly bumped into Guy Howells, one of the old gang that used to go out on the lash every weekend.
Once he realised the bloke in front of him was me (sans hair, of course) he crushed me in a bearhug and ranted: "You're the sod who got us locked up in Sodbury nick all night".
All the wonderful things I have done in my life and this is what my legacy really means. I suppose smashing a saucer belonging to the Avon and Somerset Constabulary over my head (value 25p) wasn't one of my better ideas.
Monday night I had a go at a Jamie Oliver's Lancashire hotpot out of the Sainsbury's mag, and very nice it was, too. I didn't have any Celeriac, which probably would have made it even better, and I was a bit short of fresh herbs, but I improvised with use of Mooli (which looks like a giant white carrot but is actually White Radish used in a lot of Chinese Cooking) and four dried red chillies.
This is what you need:
3 large lamp steaks, chopped into 2cm pieces
One whole onion, chopped
Two sliced garlic cloves
One sliced carrot
Two sliced celery sticks
Six slices of Mooli or slices of Celeriac
3/4 potatoes, peeled and sliced
4 ozs melted butter or marg
cooking oil
Thyme, fresh if poss but I used dried mixed herbs
A sprig of Rosemary (but I used dried Rosemary)
4 dried red chillies
3/4 pint beef stock
Method:
Pre-heat oven to gas mark 5 or equivalent.
Put the sliced potatoes in a bowl and sprinkle Thyme over, then pour over melted butter and stir around with a spoon. Leave to stand.
Heat up some oil in a saucepan, then when it is hot cook the lamb, perhaps in two batches, until it is brown. Remove from pan and set aside. I added a small amount of flour during the cooking process to thicken the lamb juices.
Add the butter to the remaining oil and then add the onion, garlic and other veggies. Leave sweating on a low heat for 10 minutes. Season with salt and pepper.
Return lamb to the pot and stir around. Also add the dried chillies. Cook for a further 3/4 mins.
Layer some of the lamb and veggie mixture into a casserole dish. Then add a layer of potato and some of the Mooli slices, or Celeriac, if you have it.
Repeat this again, ending with a layer of Potatoes on top. Dot with butter, put on lid and then put into the oven.
Cook for an hour, Remove lid and cook for an extra 30 mins.
Serve with some nice, crusty bread. I'd advise you to remove the chillies at this stage or it might be hotter than you think.
I don't think Betty Turpin in the Rovers Return could have done a better job.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Free coffee at the Kismet
ONE card. One bloody card. That's all I received as the mileometer clicked over to 47 on Tuesday. Thanks a lot, Dad and Jean.
Of course, the Fat Kid was full of apologies and excuses like: "I forgot your address" and "I couldn't find anything suitable" and "The big boy ate my child benefit", but I'm afraid that's not good enough. And she wants me to buy her a new car. It will take a darn sight more grovelling than normal (before I will inevitably give in, as she sees it).
To be fair, her card and a separate one from the Vin Man and the Big Boy, arrived a couple of days later - it's the thought that counts and she obviously thought she could get away with it. I also had a card the following day from my childhood mate Laurie up in Milton Keynes who, to be fair, only found out about my birthday on the actual day.
Withers and I had a practice booze run on Monday afternoon. Damn his eyes, he was right about Funny Girl. She now tells me she has a boyfriend. She's also doing an NVQ in food and drink, suggesting that she is probably a couple of years younger than my daughter - still, worth a try.
We ended up getting mashed and moving on to Bar Izit where we bumped into The Boss and The Prince of Darkness, who were off to wallow in the misery of some old alcoholic singer-guitarist (yeh, there are so many I can get away with that description without fear of a libel action).
A few Bloody Mary's left me feeling pretty messed up the next day, when I woke to open my card, which took all of five seconds. Spent the rest of the day trying to resist going into town to get drunk on Booze Day Tuesday on the basis many people weren't around and that I wanted to meet up with my mates Scooby, Gareth and Pete in the evening.
Good old Pete. He ALWAYS forgets my birthday. How do I know? Because he always decided that he will Fast in January, abstaining from drink and cigarettes for the whole month. That's before I remind him my big day is on the 23rd. "Oh b*ll**ks," he says, knowing his willpower will not survive.
Nevertheless, he was in a great mood when we met up. He came around the house about 4 and I offered him a cup of tea. "I had a beer in mind," he replied.
We ended up in the Wetherspoons at the bottom of City Road where Pete immediately proceeded in "lapping" me ie having two pints in the time it took me to drink one. And he never let his pace drop. He had obviously been greatly missing alcohol.
While there we bumped into my guru, who was immediately dragged into a conversation about alternative medicines with Scooby, who is really into that sort of thing. Pete was pretty dismissive of all that, as he slurped down another brew in record time.
Unfortunately it didn't help him on the pool table. I teamed up with Gareth to beat the other two 4-0. Poor Scooby, he hadn't realised Pete was so bladdered. During this period the man had fallen off the waggon so badly that he had also confessed to cheating at scrabble against his girlfriend, a heinous crime which I dobbed him in for when she rang later that evening.
The night finished in the Kismet curry house where a very enjoyable meal was rounded off when the owner kindly gave us all a free coffee on the basis that not only was it my birthday but that I had also endured the pain of the Ashes whitewash (he was a Bangladesh supporter - even THEY managed to beat Australia in a one-day game in Cardiff not that long ago. I envisage them leapfrogging us in the battle to be bottom of the ODI ratings before long).
MET up with Celtic Liz on Thursday. I call her Celtic Liz because her name is Liz and she used to work for Celtic Newspapers. I was trying to advise her on all things Bristol as she has landed a staff sub-editing job on the Bristol Evening Post and Western Daily Press and is considering moving lock, stock and barrel to God's own Land.
It was during our chat in the Copa that I suddenly realised how bad my eyes have got. Liz was showing me a list of house adverts. Not only could I not read the ad, I couldn't even read the headline to tell me which area it was in. Oh, the shame. Another eye check when I get back to work I reckon. At this age it seems everything is starting to fall apart.
Of course, the Fat Kid was full of apologies and excuses like: "I forgot your address" and "I couldn't find anything suitable" and "The big boy ate my child benefit", but I'm afraid that's not good enough. And she wants me to buy her a new car. It will take a darn sight more grovelling than normal (before I will inevitably give in, as she sees it).
To be fair, her card and a separate one from the Vin Man and the Big Boy, arrived a couple of days later - it's the thought that counts and she obviously thought she could get away with it. I also had a card the following day from my childhood mate Laurie up in Milton Keynes who, to be fair, only found out about my birthday on the actual day.
Withers and I had a practice booze run on Monday afternoon. Damn his eyes, he was right about Funny Girl. She now tells me she has a boyfriend. She's also doing an NVQ in food and drink, suggesting that she is probably a couple of years younger than my daughter - still, worth a try.
We ended up getting mashed and moving on to Bar Izit where we bumped into The Boss and The Prince of Darkness, who were off to wallow in the misery of some old alcoholic singer-guitarist (yeh, there are so many I can get away with that description without fear of a libel action).
A few Bloody Mary's left me feeling pretty messed up the next day, when I woke to open my card, which took all of five seconds. Spent the rest of the day trying to resist going into town to get drunk on Booze Day Tuesday on the basis many people weren't around and that I wanted to meet up with my mates Scooby, Gareth and Pete in the evening.
Good old Pete. He ALWAYS forgets my birthday. How do I know? Because he always decided that he will Fast in January, abstaining from drink and cigarettes for the whole month. That's before I remind him my big day is on the 23rd. "Oh b*ll**ks," he says, knowing his willpower will not survive.
Nevertheless, he was in a great mood when we met up. He came around the house about 4 and I offered him a cup of tea. "I had a beer in mind," he replied.
We ended up in the Wetherspoons at the bottom of City Road where Pete immediately proceeded in "lapping" me ie having two pints in the time it took me to drink one. And he never let his pace drop. He had obviously been greatly missing alcohol.
While there we bumped into my guru, who was immediately dragged into a conversation about alternative medicines with Scooby, who is really into that sort of thing. Pete was pretty dismissive of all that, as he slurped down another brew in record time.
Unfortunately it didn't help him on the pool table. I teamed up with Gareth to beat the other two 4-0. Poor Scooby, he hadn't realised Pete was so bladdered. During this period the man had fallen off the waggon so badly that he had also confessed to cheating at scrabble against his girlfriend, a heinous crime which I dobbed him in for when she rang later that evening.
The night finished in the Kismet curry house where a very enjoyable meal was rounded off when the owner kindly gave us all a free coffee on the basis that not only was it my birthday but that I had also endured the pain of the Ashes whitewash (he was a Bangladesh supporter - even THEY managed to beat Australia in a one-day game in Cardiff not that long ago. I envisage them leapfrogging us in the battle to be bottom of the ODI ratings before long).
MET up with Celtic Liz on Thursday. I call her Celtic Liz because her name is Liz and she used to work for Celtic Newspapers. I was trying to advise her on all things Bristol as she has landed a staff sub-editing job on the Bristol Evening Post and Western Daily Press and is considering moving lock, stock and barrel to God's own Land.
It was during our chat in the Copa that I suddenly realised how bad my eyes have got. Liz was showing me a list of house adverts. Not only could I not read the ad, I couldn't even read the headline to tell me which area it was in. Oh, the shame. Another eye check when I get back to work I reckon. At this age it seems everything is starting to fall apart.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Roast beef with thick red wine gravy
FUNNY girl is now No 1 on my long list of favourite members of the opposite sex. Sorry girls (Agatha, Evans, what's-her-name-I-met-in-the-doctor's-surgery...), but when I see Funny Girl in the Yard I go weak at the knees. Well, admittedly that may be because I have spent the previous four hours drinking and have just got onto the Bloody Mary's, but I assure you she has a big effect on me.
Meeting up with my work colleagues again after such a long time away, inevitably a p*ss up ensued. Withers, bless him, was in charge of the news desk for the week, but he was in no way going to let that interfere with his drinking. The Voice boomed his way back into my senses while Marc proudly displayed the absence of "the Wart" and Rosey spoke enthusiastically about his latest freebie skiing holiday.
There's also a new girl having to fight her corner in the testerone fuelled world of WoS - Catherine, who has been taken under the highly dubious charge of reprobates Withers and Marc. Apparently she was not particularly well after her first encounter with the Yard and copious amounts of white wine, much to the whole-hearted admiration of the boys.
As everyone disappeared it inevitably finished with Withers, Catherine and I - and this was when I rekindled my love for Funny Girl. So much so I asked her out and got a really positive reply (by my reckoning, anyway).
"Maybe".
Talking to Withers about this later he insisted that I was dreaming if that was considered an answer in the affirmative. He also offered this considerate response to why she had given me such positive signs.
"Rippers, you had her in a bear hug - she was scared to death. What else was she going to say?"
I like to think the hugging was mutual, but I have a nagging suspicion he may be right, a feeling enforced by something that happened as we left the pub.
Removing my copy of the Melbourne Herald Sun I waved it in Funny Girl's face and said: "You must see the picture of me as Yoda."
"I know: you've shown it to me already," she replied.
I think I'm going to have to start tatooing things on my body so I remember them, like the Guy Pearce character in that great film Memento. He had no short-term memory - I suffer from drunken amnesia, obviously.
SPENT the rest of the week recovering at home, though did have a good night out on Friday at Matt's pal Natalie's leaving do. She's so enjoyed her time on Celtic that she has decided to move to Carlisle after just six months or so in Cardiff. Who can blame her?
Ended up in the City Arms enjoying a brilliant set by my DJ, Withers and I burning up the dance floor to "Senses working overtime" by that great 70s and early 80s band XTC. Also met Abby, a 6ft 8ins student type with flowing locks who didn't stop dancing. She didn't appreciate the suggestion that she might have had some outside stimulants to keep up her energy levels.
Unsure what time I got home and settled for a bag of peanuts before bed.
VISITED the parents at the weekend and went to see the Gas fight out a dismal 0-0 draw with Chester. It's difficult to imagine the contrast between the crumbling Memorial Ground and the previous sports stadium I had attended, the SCG in Sydney. And the weather was pretty different, too. By the time I got home I was virtually welded to the steering wheel. Decided I had earned a House Special Curry for Yow's famous Chinese in Albany Road, next to the Claude public house. I guess that's the reason it's famous - at least, Yow has managed to buy a Mercedes from the proceeds so it can't be doing too badly. It's been there for years now, while other takeaways in chip shop mile (or Roath as it is better known) have come and gone. In fact, I remember my first spring roll at Yow's way back in 1978. Yes, I know, sad bastard. Maybe I do have short-term memory loss but there's nothing wrong with my distant recollections.
Which reminds me. My Dad and stepmum are moving into a more manageable smaller flat, so he ceremonially handed me over some photo albums. Pictures of me as a baby. There are some things you just don't remember.
Quiet day, Sunday. Spent most of it watching sport. Arsenal came from behind to beat Manchester United 2-1 in a totally Sky-overhyped Premiership clash, Thierry Henry scoring a last minute winner. I also cooked a nice Sunday lunch and decided to have a crack at my own red wine gravy. Try this:
Roughly chop 3 shallots, 3 carrots and 2 celery sticks. Put them in a baking tray, coat with some cooking oil and cook in oven until they start to brown. (about 20 mins on Gas Mark 5).
Transfer the shallots and a bit of the oil to a large stovetop pan.
Heat and add some plain flour. Stir around so that you have a thick, gooey, shallot and wine mess.
Add about a pint of beef vegetable stock and put in the carrots and celery sticks.
Bring to the boil, stirring continuously.
Then keep on a fairly high heat with lid on and cook for about two hours or however long the roast joint takes.
Just before serving, strain through a sieve and bring the gravy back to the boil.
Poor over roast beef, roast potatoes and your choice of veg, including the carrots and celery if you wish.
Yummy.
The new series of 24 began last night. Doesn't Jack Bauer ever take holidays (apart, that is, from the ones he spends in Chinese prisons).
Meeting up with my work colleagues again after such a long time away, inevitably a p*ss up ensued. Withers, bless him, was in charge of the news desk for the week, but he was in no way going to let that interfere with his drinking. The Voice boomed his way back into my senses while Marc proudly displayed the absence of "the Wart" and Rosey spoke enthusiastically about his latest freebie skiing holiday.
There's also a new girl having to fight her corner in the testerone fuelled world of WoS - Catherine, who has been taken under the highly dubious charge of reprobates Withers and Marc. Apparently she was not particularly well after her first encounter with the Yard and copious amounts of white wine, much to the whole-hearted admiration of the boys.
As everyone disappeared it inevitably finished with Withers, Catherine and I - and this was when I rekindled my love for Funny Girl. So much so I asked her out and got a really positive reply (by my reckoning, anyway).
"Maybe".
Talking to Withers about this later he insisted that I was dreaming if that was considered an answer in the affirmative. He also offered this considerate response to why she had given me such positive signs.
"Rippers, you had her in a bear hug - she was scared to death. What else was she going to say?"
I like to think the hugging was mutual, but I have a nagging suspicion he may be right, a feeling enforced by something that happened as we left the pub.
Removing my copy of the Melbourne Herald Sun I waved it in Funny Girl's face and said: "You must see the picture of me as Yoda."
"I know: you've shown it to me already," she replied.
I think I'm going to have to start tatooing things on my body so I remember them, like the Guy Pearce character in that great film Memento. He had no short-term memory - I suffer from drunken amnesia, obviously.
SPENT the rest of the week recovering at home, though did have a good night out on Friday at Matt's pal Natalie's leaving do. She's so enjoyed her time on Celtic that she has decided to move to Carlisle after just six months or so in Cardiff. Who can blame her?
Ended up in the City Arms enjoying a brilliant set by my DJ, Withers and I burning up the dance floor to "Senses working overtime" by that great 70s and early 80s band XTC. Also met Abby, a 6ft 8ins student type with flowing locks who didn't stop dancing. She didn't appreciate the suggestion that she might have had some outside stimulants to keep up her energy levels.
Unsure what time I got home and settled for a bag of peanuts before bed.
VISITED the parents at the weekend and went to see the Gas fight out a dismal 0-0 draw with Chester. It's difficult to imagine the contrast between the crumbling Memorial Ground and the previous sports stadium I had attended, the SCG in Sydney. And the weather was pretty different, too. By the time I got home I was virtually welded to the steering wheel. Decided I had earned a House Special Curry for Yow's famous Chinese in Albany Road, next to the Claude public house. I guess that's the reason it's famous - at least, Yow has managed to buy a Mercedes from the proceeds so it can't be doing too badly. It's been there for years now, while other takeaways in chip shop mile (or Roath as it is better known) have come and gone. In fact, I remember my first spring roll at Yow's way back in 1978. Yes, I know, sad bastard. Maybe I do have short-term memory loss but there's nothing wrong with my distant recollections.
Which reminds me. My Dad and stepmum are moving into a more manageable smaller flat, so he ceremonially handed me over some photo albums. Pictures of me as a baby. There are some things you just don't remember.
Quiet day, Sunday. Spent most of it watching sport. Arsenal came from behind to beat Manchester United 2-1 in a totally Sky-overhyped Premiership clash, Thierry Henry scoring a last minute winner. I also cooked a nice Sunday lunch and decided to have a crack at my own red wine gravy. Try this:
Roughly chop 3 shallots, 3 carrots and 2 celery sticks. Put them in a baking tray, coat with some cooking oil and cook in oven until they start to brown. (about 20 mins on Gas Mark 5).
Transfer the shallots and a bit of the oil to a large stovetop pan.
Heat and add some plain flour. Stir around so that you have a thick, gooey, shallot and wine mess.
Add about a pint of beef vegetable stock and put in the carrots and celery sticks.
Bring to the boil, stirring continuously.
Then keep on a fairly high heat with lid on and cook for about two hours or however long the roast joint takes.
Just before serving, strain through a sieve and bring the gravy back to the boil.
Poor over roast beef, roast potatoes and your choice of veg, including the carrots and celery if you wish.
Yummy.
The new series of 24 began last night. Doesn't Jack Bauer ever take holidays (apart, that is, from the ones he spends in Chinese prisons).
Monday, January 15, 2007
Homemade Chilli and rice (mmmm)
AS you may have guessed, I'm back! It took more than 27 hours and brief visits to the airports of Bangkok and Dubai and I am still feeling jetlagged five days later.
The plane journey back was torturous, and there was so little room in Emirates Economy Class that it was fairly uncomfortable. I did manage to see a few films that I wouldn't have otherwise, however, and the choice was quite amazing. The Designer will not be surprised to hear that I also watched seven consecutive episodes of The Simpsons.
Best of the films, for my money, was The Devil wears Prada which may sound like a chick flick but is actually very good. Meryl Streep as boss of a fashion newspaper magazine named Runway, makes my Management technique appear very touchy, feely. Also saw Little Miss Sunshine with Toni Collette and the bloke who plays the boss in The American Office, which was funny, and The Da Vinci code, which was pretty poor when compared to the book.
The Fat Kid and the Vin Man picked me up from the airport - though they nearly missed me - and were delighted to have me back. Cannot help thinking the Fat Kid knew I had bought her a Gucci bag from a shop in Perth for her Christmas present. The Vin Man kept asking about his presents - and was a little disappointed when he realised they amounted to a jar of sweets and two T-shirts (well I AM skint and no pay for another month - ouch!) Got something for the Big Boy, too - a giant Koala that sings a rather modern version of Waltzing Matilda - and NOT the one the Barmy Army sing which involves the said Matilda being wooed by a number of Englishmen and then receiving something "Up the Billabong".
When we got back to the Fat Kid's house in Southend it turns out her little sis, Lotty, has moved in with her and is in the process of starting at a new school. It means the house is now pretty full and I had to make do with the sofa, falling asleep by about 5.30 in the early evening.
Next day could be best termed Bad Car day. Having taken the Fat Kid's to the garage on the basis it cuts out every two minutes I then drove her around to do some chores. When she returned from paying her bills I turned the ignition key - nothing. It was pouring with rain and I didn't have my AA card with me - welcome back to Blighty. In the end managed to get through to them from a telephone kiosk in the street and, fair play, they turned up within 30 minutes, only to tell me that my alternator was b*ggered.
Back to the garage for it to be replaced, leaving the Fat Kid and I carless. We decided to catch a train home (one stop) and bought our tickets, only to find that no train had been sighted at Rochford station for two hours. Something had wrapped itself around the electric overhead cables, apparently. In the end it resulted in more expense, getting a taxi back to her house.
We picked the cars up the next day - another £500 on the new credit card, or near enough. God, I'll be pleading to return to work soon. That night I met up with the lovely Evans and her work colleague Matt in the posh part of Southend known as Leigh-on-Sea. We went to a pub called the Mariners which was absolutely chock-a-bloc, and the Fat Kid accompanied me, for no other reason than to show off the Gucci bag.
At the end of the night there was a bit of a dispute over taxis between us, a Yankee lad and his mate, and the compromise was we would share a cab and they would pay. Fair deal, as the Fat Kid would say.
Returned to Cardiff in the newly-fixed car, which handled beautifully, on Saturday, listening to the footie on the radio on the way back. The Gas, by the way, have somehow sneaked into the League Two play-off positions since I've been away. Perhaps I should leave the country more often.
Had a quiet night in but delighted to find out they are screening "An Aussie goes Barmy" on ITV4. In Sunday's episode myself and the Designer were clearly pictured standing on the Adelaide Hill. Oh, how I love fame.
Sunday afternoon I went for a quick drink with Scooby to catch up on things and there in my local, fresh from his starring performance for Liverpool at Watford, was Craig Bellamy, quietly enjoying a pint with some of his Cardiff mates. Wonder if Rafa knows.
It was great to get back to cooking last night. I made a quick trip to Sainsbury's and cooked up a standard chilli with rice, but it still tasted great.
The plane journey back was torturous, and there was so little room in Emirates Economy Class that it was fairly uncomfortable. I did manage to see a few films that I wouldn't have otherwise, however, and the choice was quite amazing. The Designer will not be surprised to hear that I also watched seven consecutive episodes of The Simpsons.
Best of the films, for my money, was The Devil wears Prada which may sound like a chick flick but is actually very good. Meryl Streep as boss of a fashion newspaper magazine named Runway, makes my Management technique appear very touchy, feely. Also saw Little Miss Sunshine with Toni Collette and the bloke who plays the boss in The American Office, which was funny, and The Da Vinci code, which was pretty poor when compared to the book.
The Fat Kid and the Vin Man picked me up from the airport - though they nearly missed me - and were delighted to have me back. Cannot help thinking the Fat Kid knew I had bought her a Gucci bag from a shop in Perth for her Christmas present. The Vin Man kept asking about his presents - and was a little disappointed when he realised they amounted to a jar of sweets and two T-shirts (well I AM skint and no pay for another month - ouch!) Got something for the Big Boy, too - a giant Koala that sings a rather modern version of Waltzing Matilda - and NOT the one the Barmy Army sing which involves the said Matilda being wooed by a number of Englishmen and then receiving something "Up the Billabong".
When we got back to the Fat Kid's house in Southend it turns out her little sis, Lotty, has moved in with her and is in the process of starting at a new school. It means the house is now pretty full and I had to make do with the sofa, falling asleep by about 5.30 in the early evening.
Next day could be best termed Bad Car day. Having taken the Fat Kid's to the garage on the basis it cuts out every two minutes I then drove her around to do some chores. When she returned from paying her bills I turned the ignition key - nothing. It was pouring with rain and I didn't have my AA card with me - welcome back to Blighty. In the end managed to get through to them from a telephone kiosk in the street and, fair play, they turned up within 30 minutes, only to tell me that my alternator was b*ggered.
Back to the garage for it to be replaced, leaving the Fat Kid and I carless. We decided to catch a train home (one stop) and bought our tickets, only to find that no train had been sighted at Rochford station for two hours. Something had wrapped itself around the electric overhead cables, apparently. In the end it resulted in more expense, getting a taxi back to her house.
We picked the cars up the next day - another £500 on the new credit card, or near enough. God, I'll be pleading to return to work soon. That night I met up with the lovely Evans and her work colleague Matt in the posh part of Southend known as Leigh-on-Sea. We went to a pub called the Mariners which was absolutely chock-a-bloc, and the Fat Kid accompanied me, for no other reason than to show off the Gucci bag.
At the end of the night there was a bit of a dispute over taxis between us, a Yankee lad and his mate, and the compromise was we would share a cab and they would pay. Fair deal, as the Fat Kid would say.
Returned to Cardiff in the newly-fixed car, which handled beautifully, on Saturday, listening to the footie on the radio on the way back. The Gas, by the way, have somehow sneaked into the League Two play-off positions since I've been away. Perhaps I should leave the country more often.
Had a quiet night in but delighted to find out they are screening "An Aussie goes Barmy" on ITV4. In Sunday's episode myself and the Designer were clearly pictured standing on the Adelaide Hill. Oh, how I love fame.
Sunday afternoon I went for a quick drink with Scooby to catch up on things and there in my local, fresh from his starring performance for Liverpool at Watford, was Craig Bellamy, quietly enjoying a pint with some of his Cardiff mates. Wonder if Rafa knows.
It was great to get back to cooking last night. I made a quick trip to Sainsbury's and cooked up a standard chilli with rice, but it still tasted great.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
A madras curry from curry junction
Did I mention I had become a bit of a media whore out here? The other day myself, the Designer and some of the other guys were playing beach cricket on Bondi when a camera crew miraculously appeared from nowhere. They were filming a new series called Bondi Rescue and were keen to film some of the Barmy Army taking a day off from the cricket. This was, basically, because England had lost in four days again and we had spare time on our hands.
The programme is a kind of reality TV about lifeguards (Baywatch without Pammy Anderson) and the Designer, Watford Pete and I were soon confronted by some bloke with a boom microphone. He was keen to know what we thought of the cricket and we managed to tell him with the minimum amount of swearwords), then he asked us to gather some of the lads around to give him a bit of a sing-song on the beach: "We are the army, the barmy army etc..." The fact I had virtually lost my voice made little difference as I conducted the orchestra with a yellow plastic cricket bat.
Later a girl came up and started talking to us. Lo and behold she was the first female lifeguard ever to be employed at Bondi. A lady then appeared with another mic asking us how we would feel to be rescued by her. They were all loaded questions, suggesting we fancied the pants off her, but with the Designer remaining true to his sweetheart and me confessing that I would like to be rescued by the first person who turned up, man or woman, I don't really think she got the answer she wanted. Nor did she explain why Bondi had been a male-only preserve until now. Ask me, it all smacks of tokenism.
Said goodbye to the designer and the Blackburn twins and Liane yesterday, still unsure whether I was going to have a room for the night. Even when I re-entered the hotel at 10pm they were suggesting I would have to pay for the room for the night and claim it back from the Army. I was having none of it.
Seems there has been some mix up between npower, who now seem to be bailing the army out, and the hotel reservations company, mainly because when npower are working it is night time in Aussie, and vice versa.
Luckily there was a guy on reception called Anthony who helped me out and here I am at Sydney airport waiting for my flight back to the UK. On the bus I met some guys who worked for the Beeb in Lincoln. I didn't tell them I was the Beeb's mortal enemy for obvious reasons, though I did inform them I was a journalist and threw Nick "Smashy" Machin's name into the mix on the basis he supports Lincoln City. Well, here's hoping the flight goes well. Signing off from the most Barmy experience of my life. Can't wait to get back to Blighty and show off my "sort of" tan.
The programme is a kind of reality TV about lifeguards (Baywatch without Pammy Anderson) and the Designer, Watford Pete and I were soon confronted by some bloke with a boom microphone. He was keen to know what we thought of the cricket and we managed to tell him with the minimum amount of swearwords), then he asked us to gather some of the lads around to give him a bit of a sing-song on the beach: "We are the army, the barmy army etc..." The fact I had virtually lost my voice made little difference as I conducted the orchestra with a yellow plastic cricket bat.
Later a girl came up and started talking to us. Lo and behold she was the first female lifeguard ever to be employed at Bondi. A lady then appeared with another mic asking us how we would feel to be rescued by her. They were all loaded questions, suggesting we fancied the pants off her, but with the Designer remaining true to his sweetheart and me confessing that I would like to be rescued by the first person who turned up, man or woman, I don't really think she got the answer she wanted. Nor did she explain why Bondi had been a male-only preserve until now. Ask me, it all smacks of tokenism.
Said goodbye to the designer and the Blackburn twins and Liane yesterday, still unsure whether I was going to have a room for the night. Even when I re-entered the hotel at 10pm they were suggesting I would have to pay for the room for the night and claim it back from the Army. I was having none of it.
Seems there has been some mix up between npower, who now seem to be bailing the army out, and the hotel reservations company, mainly because when npower are working it is night time in Aussie, and vice versa.
Luckily there was a guy on reception called Anthony who helped me out and here I am at Sydney airport waiting for my flight back to the UK. On the bus I met some guys who worked for the Beeb in Lincoln. I didn't tell them I was the Beeb's mortal enemy for obvious reasons, though I did inform them I was a journalist and threw Nick "Smashy" Machin's name into the mix on the basis he supports Lincoln City. Well, here's hoping the flight goes well. Signing off from the most Barmy experience of my life. Can't wait to get back to Blighty and show off my "sort of" tan.
Monday, January 08, 2007
Minted lamb dinner
THE Barmy Army farewell party took place at the Bristol Hotel on Sussex Street and was a pretty mad occasion. It began with Chippenham Ben leading us on a merry dance around half of Sydney thanks to a map that I am sure he was holding upside down. When we got there the fun really began. Many of the Five Testers were there, along with Harry, our former work experience lad, Watford mascot Harry the Hornet and girlfriend Vicky. It was an occasion for getting heavily drunk, saying farewells, exchanging phone numbers and e-mail addresses and taking lots of photos.
At last I managed to track down tour rep Katie, who made good on her promise by providing me with two free shirts, including a little Barmy Army top for the Vin Man, who will get that as a late Christmas present.
We also played a game dreamed up by the Designer where everyone gets a number and has to dance solo to whatever song is on when their number comes up. Quite a laugh.
There was a little bit of shenanighans involving an Aussie who decided to throw a punch at the Designer, but when it was all sorted out we decided it was time to call it a night.
Yesterday was a do-nothing day. The Designer and I spent most of the time lazing around our apartment watching The Simpsons and anything else that came on. I took the opportunity to visit our favourite eatery, Flamez, and returned with a Minted Lamb dinner, including honey roasted veggies and roast spuds. Lovely. Later in the evening the Blackburn twins Howard and Mark popped in with Liane, Scouse Grant and Watford Pete for a last farewell.
Many, including the Blackburn contingent and the Designer, leave today but I am here another night.
That's fine but as of now the Barmy Army has still to confirm that they have kept my room on for an extra night. This on-going saga is just about doing my head in.
Apparently Npower are now involved with the bookings. Let's hope there are no more cock-ups and delays, but I wouldn't like to bet on it.
At last I managed to track down tour rep Katie, who made good on her promise by providing me with two free shirts, including a little Barmy Army top for the Vin Man, who will get that as a late Christmas present.
We also played a game dreamed up by the Designer where everyone gets a number and has to dance solo to whatever song is on when their number comes up. Quite a laugh.
There was a little bit of shenanighans involving an Aussie who decided to throw a punch at the Designer, but when it was all sorted out we decided it was time to call it a night.
Yesterday was a do-nothing day. The Designer and I spent most of the time lazing around our apartment watching The Simpsons and anything else that came on. I took the opportunity to visit our favourite eatery, Flamez, and returned with a Minted Lamb dinner, including honey roasted veggies and roast spuds. Lovely. Later in the evening the Blackburn twins Howard and Mark popped in with Liane, Scouse Grant and Watford Pete for a last farewell.
Many, including the Blackburn contingent and the Designer, leave today but I am here another night.
That's fine but as of now the Barmy Army has still to confirm that they have kept my room on for an extra night. This on-going saga is just about doing my head in.
Apparently Npower are now involved with the bookings. Let's hope there are no more cock-ups and delays, but I wouldn't like to bet on it.
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Irish curry sauce (imported from tipperary!)
WELL it's all over, and I've witnessed the worst English Ashes performance of all time. At least I can say I saw the international cricket farewells of two of the greatest bowlers of all time, Shane Warne and Glen McGrath. And Justin Langer, that gritty little opener who has often been a pain in the backside, has finished too.
The Sydney Test was another game where England flattered to deceive, and the fact that their batting virtually finishes at six (and five when Freddie is not in the mood) has proved extremely costly.
The Barmy Army, however, have endeared themselves to many - even though there is the odd humbug letter of complaint in the paper (it's just not cricket, don't you know). And I find suggestions that the Barmies don't know anything about the game as totally offensive. None of us would have spent in excess of 6,000 pounds to come out here if we knew nothing about what happens on the field.
It's about time these people learnt that if it wasn't for support like that of the Barmies then Test cricket would inevitably die. If it is not what you grew up with then tough, because to me it is still the best form of the game and far better than the one-day thrills and spills which are forgotten the day after they happen.
Certainly some of the columnists have changed their tune over here. One of them, writing in the paper today, wishes that Australia had some kind of support ... at least, the kind that can come up with something a little more witty and inventive than "Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, oi, oi, oi".
On the final day of the Test, the Barmy Army went around the field imploring various people to "give us a wave". All the England players obliged, even though they were on the verge of a 5-0 whitewash, and so did Justin Langer. Then came the funniest moment when umpires Billy Bowden and Aleem Dar also acknowledged the banks of England support. The only miserable sod not to join in was Matthew Hayden.
We stood and saluted the Aussies, particularly the wonderful Warne, as they toured the ground with their prizes and they clapped us too, while Freddie Flintoff, Ricky Ponting and one of the top members of Cricket Australia saluted us in their speeches. We stayed to the end, standing on our chairs to clap the victors and commiserate with the vanquished. At the end of the day, we weren't in their league.
I am now proudly sporting an emergency crown that cost me $200 following the great tooth disaster of New Year's Day. The local medical centre at Bondi Junction sorted me out and hopefully I can reclaim the money on travel insurance.
At least it means I haven't had to hide away in the hotel. In fact, I've suddenly realised there are just a couple of days to go and have stepped up my nights-out quota.
Highlight for me happened on Thursday night when the Barmy Army headquarters at the Henry, Henry bar by the Central Station was heaving with England supporters. There were about eight Monty Panesars among them who remembered me from my Yoda performance in the pub after the Boxing Day Test. I also met some lads from Bristol, including one who lives in the same village, Winterborne, where I went to school. Small world.
Pretty soon there was a big sing song, including that pretty repetitive ditty "We're the right side, we're the right side, we're the right side over here" followed by "We're the middle..." "We're the left side"... "You're the convicts over there."
It got around to the stage where people were asking each "side" to give them a song. And when it got to the middle I led a packed pub in "The Finger Song". This is normally orchestrated by a guy called Beefy in the grounds, but I decided to give it a go... and only forgot the words once.
It begins with a kind of Billy Bowden tribute, where the "conductor" shouts "Today is Monday..." and the crowd repeat it.
From there it goes:
"Monday is a finger day" and everyone raises a crooked finger in the manner of Bowden giving a dismissal. Then the "conductor" implores "Are we happy?" (which the crowd repeats).
"You bet your life we are" And everyone spins around on the spot with their finger on the top of their bonce going "De do de do de do". Quite amusing when it's done by 200 odd people.
That goes through the whole week with things that have happened, mainly in cricket, although Saturday is reserved for England beating Australia in the World Cup final - just to annoy the Aussies.
So what you have at the end is:
"Today is Sunday... Sunday is for Harmison... 47 all out, 47 all out (repeated as many times as you feel, and referring to his staggering performance in Jamaica a few years ago)
"Saturday's for rugby... 20 points to 17 (millions of repeats plus a chorus of Championes, Championes".
"Friday Hayden's out three times (referring to the ludicrously bad umpiring of Rudi Koertzen in Melbourne)"
"Thursday is for Panesar (his five wickets at the WACA)"
"Wednesday Lee's in hospital (referring back to the last series in England)"
"Tuesday in Trafalgar Square" (The 2005 Ashes party)
"Monday is a finger day"
"Are we happy?"
"You Bet your life we are!"
And that is despite all the cock ups, the hotel clangers, the lack of money and the dreadful cricket results.
Still, it's been a blast and I've met so many good people. There are, for instance, the Three Brummies who start drinking at midday and don't let anything interrupt them until about 4 the next morning. Including the cricket. All of them are a cracking laugh and nicer, more down to earth blokes, you couldn't meet.
There's Jerry the Scouse and Watford Pete, Mal the anaestheologist, Chewie (who sold his house in Hull to come out here and is now staying on for another six weeks or so - I can see him living here permanently), Paul, the Macc lad with a heart of gold who insisted on me sharing his taxi even though my hotel was in the opposite direction, and loads of others along the way like Stormin' Norman, Paul from Cardiff and the like. Probably too many to mention but most get a mention in this blog elsewhere.
And last of all, of course, the Designer. We've shared some good times and some pretty crap times but we've struggled through, mostly with a smile on our faces.
We'll probably have a last meal on Sunday before he departs on Monday and we've found a great place (despite the pork crackling and the great tooth disaster). It's called Flamez in Bondi Junction and it sells a full roast dinner for a fiver and lots more besides. I got speaking to the owner the other day - just to inquire when the Irish invented curry. He had Irish Curry Sauce on the menu.
He explained that when his son was in Ireland he came back waxing lyrical about the stuff and since then they have been importing it from Tipperary.
I must say, it didn't disappoint.
The Sydney Test was another game where England flattered to deceive, and the fact that their batting virtually finishes at six (and five when Freddie is not in the mood) has proved extremely costly.
The Barmy Army, however, have endeared themselves to many - even though there is the odd humbug letter of complaint in the paper (it's just not cricket, don't you know). And I find suggestions that the Barmies don't know anything about the game as totally offensive. None of us would have spent in excess of 6,000 pounds to come out here if we knew nothing about what happens on the field.
It's about time these people learnt that if it wasn't for support like that of the Barmies then Test cricket would inevitably die. If it is not what you grew up with then tough, because to me it is still the best form of the game and far better than the one-day thrills and spills which are forgotten the day after they happen.
Certainly some of the columnists have changed their tune over here. One of them, writing in the paper today, wishes that Australia had some kind of support ... at least, the kind that can come up with something a little more witty and inventive than "Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, oi, oi, oi".
On the final day of the Test, the Barmy Army went around the field imploring various people to "give us a wave". All the England players obliged, even though they were on the verge of a 5-0 whitewash, and so did Justin Langer. Then came the funniest moment when umpires Billy Bowden and Aleem Dar also acknowledged the banks of England support. The only miserable sod not to join in was Matthew Hayden.
We stood and saluted the Aussies, particularly the wonderful Warne, as they toured the ground with their prizes and they clapped us too, while Freddie Flintoff, Ricky Ponting and one of the top members of Cricket Australia saluted us in their speeches. We stayed to the end, standing on our chairs to clap the victors and commiserate with the vanquished. At the end of the day, we weren't in their league.
I am now proudly sporting an emergency crown that cost me $200 following the great tooth disaster of New Year's Day. The local medical centre at Bondi Junction sorted me out and hopefully I can reclaim the money on travel insurance.
At least it means I haven't had to hide away in the hotel. In fact, I've suddenly realised there are just a couple of days to go and have stepped up my nights-out quota.
Highlight for me happened on Thursday night when the Barmy Army headquarters at the Henry, Henry bar by the Central Station was heaving with England supporters. There were about eight Monty Panesars among them who remembered me from my Yoda performance in the pub after the Boxing Day Test. I also met some lads from Bristol, including one who lives in the same village, Winterborne, where I went to school. Small world.
Pretty soon there was a big sing song, including that pretty repetitive ditty "We're the right side, we're the right side, we're the right side over here" followed by "We're the middle..." "We're the left side"... "You're the convicts over there."
It got around to the stage where people were asking each "side" to give them a song. And when it got to the middle I led a packed pub in "The Finger Song". This is normally orchestrated by a guy called Beefy in the grounds, but I decided to give it a go... and only forgot the words once.
It begins with a kind of Billy Bowden tribute, where the "conductor" shouts "Today is Monday..." and the crowd repeat it.
From there it goes:
"Monday is a finger day" and everyone raises a crooked finger in the manner of Bowden giving a dismissal. Then the "conductor" implores "Are we happy?" (which the crowd repeats).
"You bet your life we are" And everyone spins around on the spot with their finger on the top of their bonce going "De do de do de do". Quite amusing when it's done by 200 odd people.
That goes through the whole week with things that have happened, mainly in cricket, although Saturday is reserved for England beating Australia in the World Cup final - just to annoy the Aussies.
So what you have at the end is:
"Today is Sunday... Sunday is for Harmison... 47 all out, 47 all out (repeated as many times as you feel, and referring to his staggering performance in Jamaica a few years ago)
"Saturday's for rugby... 20 points to 17 (millions of repeats plus a chorus of Championes, Championes".
"Friday Hayden's out three times (referring to the ludicrously bad umpiring of Rudi Koertzen in Melbourne)"
"Thursday is for Panesar (his five wickets at the WACA)"
"Wednesday Lee's in hospital (referring back to the last series in England)"
"Tuesday in Trafalgar Square" (The 2005 Ashes party)
"Monday is a finger day"
"Are we happy?"
"You Bet your life we are!"
And that is despite all the cock ups, the hotel clangers, the lack of money and the dreadful cricket results.
Still, it's been a blast and I've met so many good people. There are, for instance, the Three Brummies who start drinking at midday and don't let anything interrupt them until about 4 the next morning. Including the cricket. All of them are a cracking laugh and nicer, more down to earth blokes, you couldn't meet.
There's Jerry the Scouse and Watford Pete, Mal the anaestheologist, Chewie (who sold his house in Hull to come out here and is now staying on for another six weeks or so - I can see him living here permanently), Paul, the Macc lad with a heart of gold who insisted on me sharing his taxi even though my hotel was in the opposite direction, and loads of others along the way like Stormin' Norman, Paul from Cardiff and the like. Probably too many to mention but most get a mention in this blog elsewhere.
And last of all, of course, the Designer. We've shared some good times and some pretty crap times but we've struggled through, mostly with a smile on our faces.
We'll probably have a last meal on Sunday before he departs on Monday and we've found a great place (despite the pork crackling and the great tooth disaster). It's called Flamez in Bondi Junction and it sells a full roast dinner for a fiver and lots more besides. I got speaking to the owner the other day - just to inquire when the Irish invented curry. He had Irish Curry Sauce on the menu.
He explained that when his son was in Ireland he came back waxing lyrical about the stuff and since then they have been importing it from Tipperary.
I must say, it didn't disappoint.
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