Toast with sardine butter

IT'S official. Woody is the biggest numpty to work on WoS. There was never really any question about it, but the man who actually invented the word "numpty" about other people should wear the badge with pride this week.
Woody is a casual designer who spends a fair amount of time designing and sub-editing for news and sport, in between "nipping out for a sandwich" (which normally involves coming back smelling suspiciously of alcohol) and surfing the internet for anything to do with the true passion of his life... rowing.
He is press officer of Monmouth Rowing Club (official or unofficial I'm not sure) and bores us all to death with his stories. He can often be overheard having coded conversations down the phone. They go something like this: "Can you cox on Saturday? I did have you in the bow of the eight, but then John became available, so he moved up from the four and, oh yeah, can Pete pick up the rollocks on Friday and deliver them to the club on Saturday because Sandy's got to row in the pairs and can't make it."
To say he is a wee bit disorganised is akin to suggesting that Homer Simpson is partial to pork chops. Every week the call comes in: "Am I working this week? I can't remember." Followed by: "Sorry guys, I'm going to be a bit late, a flying saucer has landed on the motorway between Monmouth and Newport."
This week, though, was classic Woody. On Thursday was the "am I working?" call, followed closely by the you-couldn't-make-it-up" excuse for his late arrival.
"Bit of a problem," announced Woody. "I came out of work last night, chucked my jacket in the back of the car with my contacts book etc and then shut the door, somehow managing to lock my keys inside the car in the process. It meant I had to ring the Mrs, who had to come all the way in from the wilds of Monmouth to pick me up, and we arrived at a dinner for 10 of us about 50 minutes late. The upshot is that I am going to have to come in by bus and train and I won't be there until about noon."
Classic Woody - what a numpty.

ON Sunday I visited the Fat Kid at her palatial new three-bedroom house in Shoeburyness. All very nice. It means the two boys are sharing one room, sister Lottie (who, with her close friend Wendy, I have taken to calling the Glimmer twins) has another and Jem has a massive room for herself. There is also a nice back garden suitable for a barbecue.
It was lovely to see them all again, and I must say Big Boy has grown remarkably. Plus the fact instead of rolling around he is now crawling everywhere and anywhere. He's a real star, with a big smiley face. I sense the Vin Monster is a little bit jealous of the attention his younger brother gets and this feeling intensified when the little b***er bit me on the shoulder after I lifted him out of the bath. We were getting on fine and I wrapped him in a towel and started to carry him down the stairs. Suddenly I felt this sharp pain by my neck and when my thoughts clicked into gear I realised what had happened. He got a severe rollicking, I can tell you.
Jem thinks he is being spiteful because he has spent too long with some of the neighbours. Looks like he could be grounded for a while.
Big Boy, meanwhile, has also taken to swimming like... well... a baby to water. He splashes about in a big yellow rubber ring, big smile firmly engraved on his face. He's a real sweetie.

ROSEY took Roberts and I for a farewell meal on Tuesday. Interesting choice of venue, I thought. A little Italian called Casanovas. It could hardly be more appropriate where our former chief soccer writer is concerned.
After that met up with TV and radios Matt Withers. He wants to be called TV and radios Matt Withers on the basis he was interviewed on the BBC Wales election bus earlier in the week and also has the scintillating job of providing "expert" analysis of the Welsh Assembly elections on national TV tonight. Can't wait to see him. Wonder if he will try some stand up?
Talking of TV, Roberts is appearing on the Scrum V rugby programme on Sunday. He was press-ganged into appearing with the Daily Mail's Peter Jackson, the two of them pretending to be court barristers debating one of the big (yawn) issues in Welsh rugby. It happened in front of a schoolroom full of 14 year olds. Gosh, they must have been fascinated!

LAST night watched Manchester United bow out 3-0 to Milan in the Champions League, following on from Liverpool's victory over Chelsea on penalties the previous night. Followed that by having some sardine butter on toast. Easy to do but surprisingly filling. Just open a tin of sardines, drain and put in a bowl. Add almost an equal amount of butter and some lemon juice and pepper, mash together then spread on toast. I added some cherry tomatoes, too. Very nice.

Chicken curry off the bone from chip alley

EVER had an embarrassing moment when you just want the ground to swallow you up and that everything you say seems to make the whole thing worse? I had just such a moment at Wales on Sunday's groundbreaking double leaving do yesterday.
We were saying goodbye to Becks and Rosey, who are both off to the smoke to find fame and fortune on the gold-paved streets of England's capital. The Prince of Darkness delivered a speech extolling the merits of young Becks, who replied in kind by thanking everyone in the building for their help... by name.
Unaccustomed to public speaking as he is, Becks began to sound a bit like the Vicky Pollard character out of Little Britain as time wore on. "Yeh but, no but, yeh but..."
Still, its quite a nerve-wracking thing, public speaking. As I found out when I delivered the eulogy for Rosey.
To be honest, I couldn't have done a better character assassination if I had been handed the best man role at his wedding. Then again, Rosey bought it all on himself - never could a tale of such misdemeanors be so easy to recall. But I won't go into them here... they have already been catalogued in previous blog entries.
From the office it was straight off to a little establishment called Zync on the corner of Mill Lane where, thankfully, they have a number of outside tables to cater for us bell-ringing, unclean-chanting smokers. There was a huge turnout, too, mainly because Rosey and Becks had managed to plaster so many posters of themselves over the walls of Thomson House that those working inside must have felt the redecoration work had begun early. Even the legendary Barry John turned up.
At some stage, many beers in, I encountered Posh and we had a chat. "Hey, I went to that lovely little hotel in Devon with the four-poster bed, very romantic... you know, the one where you and Becks went."
Silence.
Hmmm.
Then Posh came out with an answer that had me reaching vainly for my spade and wishing I could dig a hole deep into the Cardiff concrete. "But I've never been to a hotel in Devon with him," she said, the confusion spreading across her face.
"Oh dear, maybe I got it wrong, perhaps it wasn't you and Becks, perhaps it was another couple..." The crimson colour spreading across my cheeks told her all she needed to know about my deception. Oh, nuts.
Quickly seeking out Becks I told him of my silly indiscretion. Apparently the trip had happened a long time ago, when he was going out with another young lady. I'm sure he talked his way out of it. I can just imagine the confrontation when they got back to Beckingham Palace...
"So Chris want to tell me about this trip to Devon, do you?"
"Yeh but... No but... yeh but..."

Shutts had the mightiest of frights that night. Not only did he find himself surrounded by a bevvy of girls that he spends most of his time dreaming about (Rhian the Western Mail Ed's temporary secretary, Laura Wilby etc) but he was also confronted by someone even taller than him. The fact the bloke was walking around the streets of Cardiff on stilts is neither here nor there.
Having to actually look up at someone was quite disorientating for the big man, and the fact the Stilts bloke kept coming back to engage him in conversation every five minutes turned him into a quivering wreck. Not a pretty sight, all that flesh jiggling about like Wales has suddenly been struck by an earthquake measuring 6 on the richter scale.

Withers, meanwhile, was keen to show off his athletic prowess yesterday. Mid afternoon, and with the speeches imminent, he decided it would be the perfect time to break into full Zippy from Rainbow mode as he predicted how my speech would go. There I was beavering away at the computer, trying to get everything done before the nights frivolities, when from the far corner of the room I hear "... I remember back in 1953..." It's the Wonderful One in full Rippers impression mode.
I felt it was only right that I point out the error of his ways, disrupting a busy newsroom with only 30-odd hours to go to deadline. Rising from my seat I strode towards him, only for our political writer (who incidentally now wants to be referred to as the writer/broadcaster Matt Withers) to leap from his seat and then jump over the desk next to him, printer and all, in an attempt to avoid confrontation.
My God, I don't think Silver Birch, this year's winner of the Grand National, could have cleared Becher's so cleanly. Withers you're an athlete. And a bozo.

On the way home last night I treated myself to something I haven't had in over a year: A chicken curry off the bone with chips from Dirty Dot's in Caroline Street. Wonderful.

Indian paneer chicken curry

OUR posse and Brammy's brainwashed mob are now at loggerheads over the term Wednesday Club. The little rotund one seems to forget that the name was first coined when he worked for us and we all toddled off to The Yard on a Wednesday. Brammy, meanwhile, went up to the Boar's Backside on his lonesome, on account of the fact he had wangled a student discount on his beer. While there he ended up chatting to a number of nincompoops and ne'er-do-wells and was often found shooting the breeze with two old tossers (literally, by the look of them).
Regularly we Wales on Sunday groundbreakers had a quorum - it was THE place to be on a Wednesday. Sometimes things went on well into the evening and, admittedly, when we got a bit inebriated we tended to drop in at the Boar's for a bit of Brammy baiting before bedtime. Still, that was off the agenda... you couldn't class that as official Wednesday club business.
Imagine my shock when Keri the worst copytaker in the world sent a text message to the Fab BB the other day inviting him to "Wednesday Club" at the Old Scroat, Keri not even being a member of that fine establishment. Then only today Bram sent out a text announcing that "Wednesday Club" was in the Model at 5.30pm. Since when did he decide the venue for a club which has yet to accept him into its bosom?
I'm afraid the battle lines have been drawn.
This is war.

Withers, always trying to play down such serious matters, has actually pointed out that there has been a Wednesday Club for the Performing Arts, apparently the oldest continuously operating music organization in the United States, since May 17, 1882. It was for charitable and educational purposes. Well, this aint the same. Our club is more involved in the business of getting extremely drunk and talking b*ll*cks.
As they say in that famous film The Highlander, "There can be only one".

Meanwhile, Becks took the opportunity on his last-ever boozeday Tuesday to come out with what must merit an A-plus in the talking b*ll*cks stakes. Discussing his music faves the Lightning Seeds he suggested that their "best of" selection was comparable to anyone's in the world ever. "The Beatles, Becks?"
"Yeh, even The Beatles".
Top b*ll*cks, mate.

The wonderful Withers, meanwhile, was so put out by some old biddy who sat on the table next to him in the Yard, called him "baldy" and pointed out that he looked a tight git, that he actually went and bought a round costing just under £20. I wish my insults had that same effect.

Last night got in and watched a superb Champions League semi-final between Man United and AC Milan which United won 3-2 after being 2-1 down at half time. Two top goals from Rooney sealed the game. While I watched I enjoyed a curry made with Paneer cheese and cooked chicken.
What you do:
TO MAKE THE SAUCE: put six red chillis and two green chillis in a blender and add 2 cloves garlic and a chunk of garlic. Mix, then fry up with a red onion, add six or seven chopped vine tomatoes. Simmer and continue to stir. Add fenugreek leaves (if you have them) or Fenugreek powder.

FOR THE STIR FRY: Fry onion, garlic, peppers and a couple of chillis. Add paneer cheese and then the sauce. When all mixed in add lumps of chicken and cook for 10 to 15 minutes, stirring only occasionally. Near end add a big bunch of ripped up coriander. Serve with rice.

Merguez roll with drippy mustard

INNOCENT little Catherine Mary has fallen into the decidedly sticky web of that serial philanderer Brammy (well, he wishes, anyway). The crafty old bowling-ball shaped one has a special way with the ladies that goes something like this... he spots a delicate young flower, sidles over in his friendly way - like a favourite uncle who spoils you rotten - and makes her an offer she can't refuse. As she is young, and new, and eager to make new acquaintances, of course she is going to accept.
The conversation generally goes something like this:
"Hello, my lovely. Me and some of the chaps are going out for a little drink tonight and thought you might like to come."
"Oh, that's very kind of you... thanks very much, I'd love to."
"Ok, then be in the Old Scroat (*delete for Model Inn/Boars Backside where appropriate) at 6pm."
Of course, when his prey walks into the trap, Brammy is ready to pounce.
On Friday Catherine Mary turned up expecting to see all her old Celtic newspaper mates sitting around, drinking beer. Bram had some bad news for her.
"Oh, I'm sorry lovely, they've all gone. You know, had to get away early for their buses etc. Never mind, have a pint of old scroat, I'm sure someone else will turn up soon. By the way, would you like a roll up, it's mixed shag you know."
And after half an hour of this banter he feels comfortable enough to pounce. "So what are we having for breakfast, my lovely?" is the normal chat up line.
By the time we turned up to visit him on Friday night Catherine Mary was nowhere to be seen... the problem with Brammy's plan is that, even after honing it over hundreds of years, it has yet to pay off. Never mind, old chum.

Today was a particularly arduous day. Once again Welsh rugby's great bubble of anticipation was burst when the Scarlets failed at the Heineken Cup semi-final stage (beaten by those English chappies at Leicester, don't you know) and the Dragons came a cropper in France in Europe's minor competition.
Lunch was pasta carbonara half and half, and I also had a Merguez sausage roll with salad and English mustard. When Wren turned up to collect my keys so that she could drop some stuff around the house the mustard had managed to find itself onto my nice, clean white shirt. I am a mucky pup.

jalapeno jellybeans

THE wonderful Withers is looking wonderfully withered of late, thanks to some new shoes from George of Asda which fit him like a crumbly old vice. He bought them two weeks ago in the wilds of Crewe, afraid to tell the shop assistant they didn't fit because he used to work with her and she could recall some rather unmentionable details about his sordid past (which involve a small Chinese man, his p**is and... but, no, honestly, I can't tell).
Anyway, thrusting the £20 into her hand, bowing his head and mumbling "bye" to avoid further embarrassment, he quickly departed the store... and has been ruing his haste ever since.
Withers, though, is not one to own up to the error of his ways. And he's too tight a b*gger to throw away a pair of shoes which have set him back an exorbitant 20 quid. So instead he has been hobbling into the office like some inexperienced cowboy who has had a rather nasty time trying to ride a particularly feisty stallion over a treacherous mountain path.
It's become quite fun, though, to wait for the traffic lights to turn red on the way to the pub, then shout: "Quick! Come on!" and watch as he hobbles across, looking anxiously left and right like the Dustin Hoffman character 'Ratso' Rizzo in Midnight Cowboy. Hope he doesn't peg out on the flight to Corsica in a few weeks time.
It makes it worse that Withers is this week acting news editor. It means he has to move from one side of the desk to the other every five minutes to check Kempy's e-mails. Trying to look authoritative when your face is screwed up like one of those Chinese Shar-pei dogs with piles isn't easy, I can tell you.

We had a nice treat on the desk yesterday, a box of jellybeans of every flavour imaginable. There were toasted marshmallow flavour jellybeans, margarita flavour and even jalapeno chilli flavour, which were particularly nice and gave off quite a bit of heat. Thanks to the generous contributor who supplied them.

(No-such-thing-as-a) Free meal

WELL, that was an enormous shock to the system! At the weekend I went on what I was reliably informed was 'a freebie' to the picturesque South Devon coast. Definition of a freebie: a gift or service, offered free (according to the Penguin English dictionary I found on Rosey's desk, anyway). Definition of free: Without charge. Definition of charge? Oh, get on with it!
To be fair the weather was almost tropical for the time of year, the views from the courtesy hotel spectacular, the cliff walks invigorating, the company enjoyable and there were splendid days out in Paignton and Exeter.
Paignton, in particular, provided great fun. It's a real picture postcard town, the kind of rude picture postcards that you used to find on the English riviera in the good old 60's (or so I am reliably informed) - the ones embellished by fat, nearly-naked women making insinuations.
It was all candyfloss, cheapo shops and donkeys on the beach.
I spent a fair amount of time in the amusement arcade, trying and failing miserably to win a cuddly Garfield toy with one of those grasping hooks you just KNOW won't work. Amazing, also, how you can fall for that sliding 2p coin machine, where you see money and prizes galore just hanging off the edge. Just one coin applied to the machine at the appropriate time will bring a fortune crashing in your direction. Will it hell! About 40 years after I first attempted it I am still drawn in, though, spending a hard-earned 50p on the task before realising too late that it has done me again.
Did I say done? Well that's how I felt on Monday morning when, checking out of the glorious establishment at which I had stayed, having enjoyed their hospitality and eaten what I had been reliably informed was a free meal accompanied by a free bottle of wine (a pontneuf something or other retailing at the reasonable price of £39) imagine my shock and horror to be presented with a bill for £53! I asked the woman behind the desk whether, in fact, there had been some mistake. No, she said, that was the extras. The room and the scones and clotted cream afternoon tea were free but not the extras charged on the dinner specials or the wine from the exclusive list. B****cks! I don't even drink wine. I only had a glass to be sociable. I'd rather have wasted my £39 on, say, 14 pints of Carling Extra Cold in The Yard.
Did I say Yard? Not very happy with that place either. On Friday I was enjoying a drink in the freezing environment of the outdoor smoking "lounge" when the urge grabbed me to visit the little boy's room. On my return some hairy bozo of a bouncer looked me up and down, fixed his eyes on my blue Australia v England, New Year's Test, Sydney 2007, baseball cap and announced: "Next time you enter, can you take your hat off, sir?" How the hell I didn't reply with: "Do you know who I am?" I am not sure. Oh, actually, I did. Well something like that.
He suggested I was getting a bit mouthy, I suggested he was the one who started it and that I would take my custom elsewhere. I also informed him I drank in The Yard every day of the b***dy week and should be treated with a bit more respect.
To be honest, he didn't take a blind bit of notice so I rounded up Withers and Freeman and off we toddled to the good old City Arms. At least THEY value my custom.

Kedgeree

TWO little words were enough to destroy any dreams Shutts might have harboured of leading the England cricket team's pace bowling attack in the future.
Having supped a few pints with Withers and Catherine Mary in the chilly environment of The Yard smoking area (two tables, no heating) I decided to end the suffering and return to the warmth of my own home. Who should I bump into on my wobbling way to the taxi rank but the Glamorgan fast bowler Simon Jones, now looking fully recovered from his injury problems and fit as a flea.
"Hi Simon," I said, knowing full well that he was very unlikely to recognise me having only met me once previously - that being about three years ago. Also, unlike him, I haven't done any centre spreads for Cosmo or Hello magazines (can't think why, every day I'm waiting for the phone to ring so that I can quote them something ridiculous for full frontal pics).
Simon's one of my England Ashes heroes and he disguised his confusion very well as he wondered who the bozo was offering to shake his hand.
"You spoke to my reporter colleague Shutts the other day," I told him, nudging his memory.
Enlightenment spread across his face and he looked to the skies. "Oh, yeh. He's a biiiiig bloke, isn't he?"
Glad to now be engaging the great man in conversation, I joined in the theme. "Yes, he is about 6ft 8ins. He's about as big as Curtley Ambrose (the great West Indian pace ace). Do you reckon with the right training he could bowl fast for England?"
Simon looked at me knowingly, smiled and gave a dismissive shake of the head. Then he patted his belly. "Too fat," he said. Sorry, Shutts, you can put those whites away now.

The stand-up comedians of Britain can sleep soundly in their beds tonight, safe in the knowledge that the wonderful Withers won't be stealing their thunder. Withers, not surprisingly, pulled out of the three-minute audition which could have seen him elevated to global status on the basis that "the trains aren't running" and "I would have to take the whole day off". Other unkind individuals are more likely to suggest, in the words of Roberts, "his a*** went". Sadly, we shall probably never know the truth. At least he bounced back with an appearance on Radio Wales this morning, waxing lyrical about the joys of political blogging. When his interviewer suggested that some blogs were inclined to just go on about "what people did in the pub the previous night" he had the perfect opportunity to talk about the most entertaining blog around. Once again, he failed miserably. Withers, you're a bozo supreme.

Last night I got home and cooked Kedgeree. It wasn't supposed to be Kedgeree, it's just I overcooked the rice and the cod broke up quickly so I mixed the two together. And it was very nice.
What I did was rinse the rice then cover it with plenty of water, bring to the boil and then leave on a high heat until must of the water evaporated leaving a gooey mess at the bottom of the pan. I then put olive oil into a frying pan and when it got hot I added a large spoonful of flour and stirred it into the oil.
This produced a paste and I then fried some chopped shallot in it before adding the fish, skin side down, allowing this to crisp. Turning the fish I added three fresh chopped tomatoes and a teaspoon of paprika. When the fish was done it broke up, so I just added it to the rice and stirred it in. It was actually surprisingly tasty.

Meateor Pizza (mmmm...)

IT'S amazing how different life can be when you have a girlfriend. Normally over a bank holiday weekend I would laze about, visit the pub, drink beer, treat myself to a Sunday lunch and then watch wall-to-wall sport. Basically I would do all those things a laddish singleton does. Obviously this all changes when someone else comes along to share your spare time.
This weekend Wren (I must think of a better name than that) popped over for a visit and we spent a very pleasant Easter Sunday. First we lazed about, then went for Sunday lunch at a wonderful carvery in Caldicot called the Tippling Philosopher. After that we headed back to the bright lights of Cardiff where we popped down to The Claude for a couple of pints then moved on to the Tut where we settled down to watch England play Australia at cricket.
On Monday I persuaded the lady that she would find no better place to spend a day on which the temperature touched 75 degrees than on the terraces of the Memorial Ground, where we watched the Gas batter Bury 2-0 and push their play-off claims. Wren says she enjoyed it, though I suspect she had an aching neck afterwards, peering skywards watching the ball sail through the air. It spent about 70 minutes as far away from the turf as it was possible to get without ending up in orbit. Never mind... the Gas are on the march.
This was followed by a visit to a couple of Bristol pubs (no smoking ban yet... luxury!) and a Meateor pizza.
Now I've been promising myself a Meateor pizza ever since Domino's unashamedly started advertising them between episodes of the Simpsons. Not very healthy, I grant you, but I don't see any problem in indulging yourself once in a while.
Apparently The Guardian recently devoted a whole page to this culinary extravaganza, and their take on it wasn't very good. Then again it wasn't made out of wholegrain and didn't include Tofu, so what would you expect? To be honest, the fact that some tree-hugging, Jesus-sandal wearing reporter didn't approve made me all the more determined to try it.
And I wasn't disappointed. It was lush, particularly the Barbecue Sauce inside which just added to the tingle on your tastebuds. I won't make a habit of it, but I will certainly be trying it again. With Garlic mushrooms. Fab.
So, all in all a completely different weekend. I was able to laze about, visit the pub, drink beer, treat myself to a Sunday lunch and then watch wall-to-wall ... hmm.

THERE has been a side effect to the pub smoking ban that is very worrying. It now appears that smoke-free pubs give parents the licence to wheel hundreds of kids through the doors and allow them to run riot while we serious drinkers are forced to mind our p's and q's, button our lips and sip our pints without being able to hear ourselves think. The trackie-clad parents, meanwhile, sit around oblivious to their offsprings antics, knocking back their bacardi breezers and pints of strong lager, partying like its 1999.
Now, there are plenty of pubs around that cater for kids anyway - like the Charlie Chalk's chain, for instance. So why a good old boozer like the Claude should change its whole raison d'etre and turn into Chav central for the lazy parent is beyond me.
One of the Claude regulars, who has probably been drinking there for the last 30 years or so, made a very pertinent point to the bar staff as he purchased his brew with a melancholy grimace on his face. "Since when did this place turn into a bloody kindergarten?" he asked quite reasonably. Silence came the stern reply.
If this carries on we dedicated drinkers will be huddled together in the beer garden, fighting against the cold, while the main bar resembles a scene from Buggsy Malone. I'm not impressed, I tell you.

THE smoking ban is proving a disaster for the Prince of Darkness. It now means that on sunny days he actually has to go through the torture of... sitting outside!
Even his family are feeling the force of his ire. In fact, his Missus had to go out and BUY him a packet of fags just to ensure he didn't create bloody carnage through the picturesque cobblestoned streets of Caerleon on Sunday. Sounds like he needs to smoke to keep his sanity, anyway. Every morning he clambers out of the coffin and traipses downstairs to find the Labradoodle has doodled all over the kitchen floor. Nightmare.

Today could be a momentous event in the history of British comedy. The day the world discovered Withers. For today is stand-up day though, judging by his pre-audition nerves in the Yard last night, we may yet to be deprived of his undeniable talent.

Pasta in sauce with mussels

IT'S a case of the last one to leave WoS turn the lights out. Becks has finally negotiated his transfer and is heading for the bright lights of London, having landed a job in the delightful surroundings of Bermondsey where every week the front page is dominated by one shooting after another. Meanwhile, Rosey has been seduced by the idea of working for the nationals and is moving to the smoke, too. Best of luck both.
Withers sees his career moving in a different direction, however. He fancies himself as a stand-up comedian and has a three-minute audition for a new TV programme. I've offered him the chance to steal material from the blog, but he has turned me down flat. I hope he isn't going to rely on his impressions, which all sound remarkably like Zippy from Rainbow.
He also has a good line on tailgating at the hand dryer in pub toilets. I'm not sure the world is ready for his talent quite yet, but best of luck to him.
The other night I made a lovely pasta sauce with Mussels. The recipe came out of a little pamphlet given to me by Wren, which appears to contain some very tasty meals. This one was meant to be Spaghetti ai frutti di Mare, but as I only had mussels I decided I would try it with them alone and some nice new dried pasta I have bought known as Bucatini.
Ingredients:
Olive oil
1 onion chopped
4 cloves sliced garlic
2 chopped tomatoes
packet of cooked mussels from Sainsbury's
Fresh parsley
glass of white wine
salt and pepper.

To do:
Wash the seafood (you can use a seafood mix if preferred)
Soak them in the white wine.
Meanwhile fry garlic in oil in a large pan
Quarter the fresh tomatoes and add them
Then add parsley and salt and pepper (I used some paprika too, which was nice!)
When this is cooking, add the white wine and seafood.
Cook the pasta, drain when half done and add lto pan.
Continue cooking until the pasta is done. Serve with some hot garlic bread.

Lava Lamb takeaway with the Kempster

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.

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...

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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!'

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.