Jacket spuds

THE power of observation is a vital tool for any journalist. That's why my flabber was completely gasted by a story that came out of Friday night's "quiet drink after work" involving two of our key reporters. Step forward Wathanovski and Withers.
Having departed the scene early feeling rather ropey after my first experience of Sushi the previous night, I did not join my colleagues as they moved on to join a stag night organised by a Real Radio journo. I understand the night went rather swimmingly, however.
In fact, it wasn't until 1.30 that Wathanovski, the new boy facing up to only his second busy Saturday since joining this esteemed organisation, teetered back to his home on the outskirts of Newport. On entering through the door he was greeted by his girlfriend, teacher Jen, who inquired: "Whose jacket have you got on?"
The rather tired and emotional soccer writer was perplexed by the question. So teacher Jen explained how she had arrived at her Sherlock Holmes-style piece of deduction.
"For a start that's navy blue and your jacket is black, it also contains a mobile phone and pen which don't belong to you and if that isn't enough it is so small the sleeves finish just below your elbows."
At that moment it occured to Wathanovski that he might, indeed, have walked off with the wrong jacket, meaning that his own garment was missing.
Next day he brought the jacket to work, keeping his fingers crossed that he would be able to do a swap with the person who had obtained his during the previous night of alcohol-fueled skullduggery.
Eventually it was the Wonderful Withers who responded to the typically Welsh question: "Whose coat is this jacket?"
"Mine!" he declared, giving it a hug as it is passed across to him.
"Can I have mine back now?" inquired Wathanovski, quite reasonably.
But the Wonderful One could not oblige. "When I left I forgot I even had a jacket so walked all the way home without one," he pointed out.
Fortunately one of the many hostelries Wathanovski had visited on Friday night was able to furnish him with the missing garment some time later.
Bozos both, I reckon.

I'm getting pretty fed up with Withers these days. Not only does he continually do impressions of Zippy (ie me) from the far end of the newsroom, but he also makes spurious comments about my love life at every opportunity.
The problem is jealousy, I gather, because he continues to insist: "With this face I will never EVER get a girlfriend again."
Anyway, he went too far in The Yard on Boozeday Tuesday. In fact, my normal laid-back demeanor finally snapped and I ended up hurling a small white vase in his direction and covering him in water. "Bloody hell, Rippers, what did you do that for? I will reap a terrible vengeance on you for this."
I'm not worried, though, for two reasons. One, Withers is a 22-carat wimp who runs a hundred yards at the mere sniff of confrontation and, two, he still relies on me to furnish him with roll-ups when he runs out of fags.

Withers is quite delighted that the number of "party-lovers" on Wales on Sunday is back on the increase. As well as Wathanovski, we have just recruited Smashy to the Sports team ranks, and he is quite partial to the odd beer. Danny Boy, too, is proving a mainstay of the Boozeday Tuesday crowd and an able apprentice to the Prince of Darkness. I assure you it's pure coincidence that I was part of the interview process in all three appointments.
Anyway, when I crept home after a particularly stiff boozing session on Tuesday, Danny Boy and the wonderful one were still going at it hammer and tongs.
I hear that they finished in the City Arms at gone 11pm and Danny Boy, then rather the worse for wear, was unable to track down his keys.
His solution was to beg to stay on Withers' sofa for the night, not braving the inevitable confrontation with the angry Missus, who just so happens to be a solicitor to boot. Creeping home after 7am this morning he thought he was on safe territory, knowing his better half would be on the way to work. Wrong.
Danny Boy breezed into the house only to be stopped in his tracks by the angered party sitting on the sofa and directing him with an icy glare. There followed a familiar courtroom drama:
"Where were you on the night of Tuesday, July 17, between the hours of 11.15 and 12.30?" she demanded in typical Old Bailey prosecutor fashion. Danny Boy could only hang his head in shame, admit his guilt and utter apologies.
As she stormed for the door she let out a final sigh, looked at the pitiful sight standing in front of her; then muttered between gritted teeth: "I hate your new work mates!"
Does she mean us?
He has a lot of making up to do.

Chilli mussels - from Chile!!

I'VE come up with a name for my old, new car. The little white Corsa has already provided me with endless hours of, ahem, amusement.
It all started on Sunday morning when I was going to take it for a nice long drive for the first time. The plan was to collect Wren in Bristol and then drive to the parents for lunch. My new vehicle had other ideas.
Thinking I had turned the alarm off I tried to enter, only for a piercing scream to attack my ears. I pressed the key fob a number of times and finally it pip, pipped and stopped, just before I received a severe beating from annoyed neighbours being woken from their Sunday morning slumbers.
Good to go, I climbed into the car, connected the stereo system Charlie, my friendly neighbourhood mechanic, had fitted for me, and turned the key. Splutter, gurgle, stop. And nothing but nothing was going to make it start. The battery was dead.
Brilliant. There followed a round of phonecalls to parents, Wren and the AA. Was I going to dinner or not? Didn't look like it at that point.
Fortunately the repair vehicle turned up a mere 10 minutes later. Fortunately I lived around the corner from him, he was just starting off on his shift and decided it was an easy first call to make.
He fitted wires to the battery, charged the car up then tested it. "You're going to need a new one pretty soon, but it should get you to Bristol," he told me. Happy days. Back on the phone to parents and Wren to alert them the plans were back on.
The journey was pretty uneventful, but at least my new car showed a bit of poke on the motorway. The only slight worry was that when I turned the engine off, my CD continued to play on regardless. Hmmm.

Next day I was woken at 7am. The car alarm was going again. Doh. I reached out of the window, pressed the key fob and thankfully it stopped. It did seem a bit flakey to me, though.
I took my purchase for a drive though and he seemed fine. I stopped off for a swim then went to the doctor's for an appointment to test my collesterol. Just as I was leaving the car I noticed that the passenger side door lock was up. I could have sworn I closed it the day before.
Walking around the car I found out the reason. Some little git had decided to shoehorn open my door at the top, in exactly the same way they did to Boo last year, forcing me to drive around without being able to open my windows. I've had the car for less than a week. So it's off back to Charlie's for more repairs. I haven't seen my new vehicle since.
Oh yes, the name?
Basil, of course. Because it has been nothing but Faulty since I bought it (boom, boom!). Also I can imagine whipping it with a branch a la that comedy creation of John Cleese pretty damn soon.

The Prince of Darkness is Lord of the Ales. No doubt about it. I think I enjoy the taste of more than the odd lager but the Prince is on a different plane.
A story comes to my attention that on a Sunday morning he likes nothing better than to lie in bed, watching the Andrew Marr political programme on the BBC.
Apparently his young son, eager to please the Master, pops his head around the door and asks if he can get him something. A cup of tea in bed, perhaps, or maybe a croissant?
Not a bit of it. "There's a can of Stella in the fridge, son, that will start the day off well," orders the Dark Lord. Salute him, you must.

I bought some Chilean Mussels from Sainsbury's the other day. They were cooked and you can store them in the freezer which is handy. So I got them out the other day and wondered what I might do with them.
I found a recipe in the Observer mag, but I didn't have all the ingredients (particularly shell-on uncooked mussels) so decided to adlib.
Ingredients:
Pack of cooked mussels
Peanut oil
three red chillis, chopped
two cloves garlic, chopped
Pepper and salt
A large dollop of Oyster sauce
A small number of parsley and basil leaves, ripped up.
A couple of cubes of stock which I had stored in the refrigerator, made from roasted carrots, roasted celery, shallots and some flour (see below)

What I did:
Heat the oil in a wok, then add chillis and garlic and stir and cook for about a minute
Add the mussels and stir around
Add pepper and a bit of salt
Then add a dollop of Oyster sauce and some stock and bring to the boil, cooking and stirring.
Stir in the leaves (you can use coriander) then serve.

The stock:
This takes a bit of time, but is pretty nice.
You roast up some carrots, celery and sliced shallots in the oven on gas mark 4 or equivalent for about 2o mins, sprinkling oil over the top.
Then put some oil in a large saucepan, put in the roasted veg and add the flour. Stir and mix in, then add a pint or more of vegetable or chicken stock or even water. Add also some peppercorns. Bring to boil and then simmer and reduce for three or four hours. This should be thick and coating back of the spoon at some stage. Drain out all the veg then fill up ice cube trays in the freezer to use on occasions like these.

Benecol and floor cleaner

OH, the irony of it! There I am sitting with the Prince of Darkness on a particularly rain-lashed evening outside The Yard when the evil one lets out an undignified yelp.
Now normally the only noises you hear from the Prince are gulps, gurgles and splutters as he sinks his Amstels and wheezes and sucks as he puffs gratefully on a ciggie... and a nearby virgin, should one become available.
Showing just the right degree of fake concern I inquire: "What's up with you, mate?"
"I don't really know," he says, "it happens now and again. I suppose I should see the doctor about it. I turn my neck and I get a shooting pain. Doesn't help with the driving either."
This he announces as he considers next week's daunting journey in a hire car to Bordeaux with the family. He doesn't want to hand over the driving reins because last year his Missus spent most of the time driving through the French countryside on the wrong side of the road.
Hopefully, the problem will be sorted out, but the Prince with a neck injury... is that a case of the biter bit?

The first signs of age, and too many prolonged excursions on the razz, are beginning to take their toll I fear. I am becoming a bit too forgetful for my own liking, and this can cause dire consequences on occasion.
Already I have woken in the morning to find the pepper in the fridge and the Milk in the cupboard, not to mention my keys in the bin. But the other morning it all went a bit too far.
Stretching my arms wide and yawning in the manner of Simon Pegg's character in Shaun of the Dead, I dragged myself, eyes half closed to the kitchen.
I put the kettle on, went into the fridge and removed one of those Benecol yoghurt drinks which are supposed to help lower your cholesterol - pretty important in my case, with a blood test due at the docs on Monday.
While the kettle boiled I paid a quick visit to the loo, then returned to pour hot water over the tea bag in my cup, adding milk to just the required amount.
Ah, now for the Benecol. I picked up the little bottle, shook it violently... and decorated both myself and the kitchen in a sticky, yoghurty mess. I'd forgotten that I had opened it when I first removed it from the fridge.
The men in the white coats aren't far away...

Veggie fried rice

I MISSED out on TWO parties last night, but it was no surprise when I heard that a couple of my colleagues had attended.
The Fab BB who, rather strangely, only seems to go to parties that are hosted in shops, went to some shindig arranged by Top Man.
I thought he might have been put off following his previous disastrous experience at Habitat but no... like a brave soldier he ploughed on, determined to suffer for his art.
And this time he was rewarded. Full of the joys of spring this morning he announced he had bought up plenty of bargains.
Roberts, ever the snob when it comes to clothes, expressed amazement that the original Gucci guy would lower himself to buy from a high street department store, but the Fab BB brushed aside his protests. "Work clothes, Mr Roberts, work clothes," he pointed out.
But even the Fab one is outdone by Party girl Lyds when it comes to the freebie do. Not only did the Penarth babe go to Top Shop, but she then wandered on to a new six-bar superclub called Oceana, which was hosting a Champagne reception.
Before leaving Top Shop, however, she politely asked the hosts if they wouldn't mind looking after her shopping - it would, apparently, cramp her style.
So off she toddled to have a good old rave around the new place.
Things turned sour, however, at the end of the night when she arrived at the cloakrooms and asked for her coat back, only to find the belt was missing.
"I don't suppose it's worth logging it as lost property," said the unhelpful cloakroom attendant who, no doubt, was eyeing a sharp exit at the end of the night.
Lyds was having none of it. "Course it is, my coat will be ruined without that belt!" she stormed, bringing the head honchos of the new club racing to see what the commotion was.
Our heroin then departed with her dignity, only to learn that some rather enthusiastic bouncers had turfed her boyfriend out for "loitering around" in the foyer. How very dare they!
Next morning and Lyds, as usual, looks bright as a button as she regales the story of the lost belt, adding the rider: "Actually, now I think about it I probably left it in Top Shop - but its the principle, isn't it?"
Quite right, girl.

As for me I had a boring night in front of Big Brother on TV as I was still feeling pretty shattered from the Boozeday Tuesday extravaganza.
So I opted to cook a favourite Chinese recipe of mine which contains Preserved Vegetables that you can buy in a jar from many continental shops.
INGREDIENTS:
4 oz preserved vegetable,
11/2 teaspoons groundnut oil
1lb minced beef or pork
2 tbsp dark soy sauce
1 tbsp rice wine or dry sherry
2 tbsp sesame oil
2 tsp sugar
TO DO:
Heat a wok until it is hot and smoking, add the oil and keep it hot.
Then cook the beef or pork until it is brow.
Add the chopped, preserved veg and stir in, then add the other ingredients.
Serve with vegetable fried rice
INGREDIENTS:
Rice (boiled then cooled)
2 tsp sesame oil
2 eggs
2 tsp sesame oil
chopped carrot
chopped mange tout
2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp black pepper
3 tsp spring onion, white parts only, chopped
Tin of bean sprouts.

TO DO
Mix the eggs with sesame oil and leave to stand.
Heat the oil in a frying pan till smoking
Add the chopped carrot and mange tout
Stir fry for a while then add the cooked rice.
Add salt and pepper, then pour in the egg.
Cook for a minute then add the spring onions and tin of bean sprouts
Cook and stir for 3-5 mins until egg sets.
Serve with the minced beef

chinese rice crackers and mucho beers

HERE on WoS we have a little thing we call the Initiation ceremony. And Wathanovski (the p*ss artist formerly known as Wathan) had to endure his welcome to the team yesterday. Of course, it just happened to co-incide with Boozeday Tuesday, but that can't be helped.
The reason Rosey's replacement is called Wathanovski isn't particularly clear, although my sources tell me he once managed to drink his way through a working trip to Moscow. He apparently stayed up until something approaching five in the morning, regaling a group of fellow west Walians with colourful tales of his Neath heritage, at the same time downing the odd vodka or 15.
For this reason he appeared to be the perfect candidate for a job on this rather modest newspaper, stickability being the name of the game.
Four hours into the job, it's one o'clock and Roberts can wait no longer. Twirling his umbrella ferociously with the zeal of a latter day Zorro he announces: "Come on Wathanovski - pub!"
I am delayed by a bit of blogging, but join a seriously large Boozeday contingent at The Yard just over an hour later. Not only are the Prince of Darkness, his new apprentice Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes are calling), Roberts, Wathanovski and the Wonderful Withers in attendance, but so too are some of the new boy's old cronies - the legendary JK, Son of Bono and the Dazzler (who unfortunately was once wrongly dubbed Wetcock in our sister paper the Echo and has never really lived it down).
Also, looking totally perplexed by the whole Tuesday afternoon drinking tradition, was Westgate's French temp Audrey, who was spending her last day in Wales before leaving for Toulouse and a welcome home party.
Quite a number of people to sit around a smoking table for four I think you'll agree, but at least the weather was dry for a change.
The beers began to flow along with the banter and the first sign that the initiation ceremony was working came when Wathanovski teetered on the way back to his seat and just managed to avoid falling through a plate glass window. "It was the sun in my eyes," he complains.
Withers, meantime, warns that he can only have a couple of pints because he leaves on holiday for Trieste in Italy at 3 the following morning. He then proceeds to order another Brains SA.
The next sign of Wathanovski's tired and emotional state comes when he returns to the table with some Japanese rice crackers - the munchies have started.
By now even Roberts has deserted us. He has been scared into going home by the fact that all he had to say to Funny Girl behind the bar was "a pint of..." and she finished the sentence with "Amstels, three Carlings, and an SA."
So now it is just myself, Danny Boy, Withers (I'm not staying long) and the new boy.
Finally Wathanovski himself admits defeat and wobbles off towards the bus stop. A poor show after the tale of his games of Russian Vodka Roulette, but he'll learn.
Danny, though, is proving to be a chip off the Prince's coffin. The Prince has taught him well. "Come on, let's just have another pint", he suggests, before trying to get away with a freebie plate of Japanese rice crackers only to be informed that they, in fact, cost £1.50. Withers, having forgotten totally about his 3am alarm call, readily agrees to continue the drinking.
Finally, pints empty, we decide to head for home. But passing the City Arms on the way we decide on one for the road. Hell, looking at my phone I realise it is 7.30. Some Boozeday sesh, it's like the old days. When we finally leave I think I can hear the Prince's prodigy singing. "Danny Boy, the poipes, the poipes..."

I wake at 1.45 in the morning. I'm fully dressed, I've missed two calls from Wren and my TV is blaring out. Sadly, I had put a Simpsons DVD on but hadn't had the energy to actually press play, so the opening bars of the theme tune have been playing repeatedly for the last six hours. Doh! The only thing that makes me feel better is the image of Withers (I'm not staying long) rolling out of bed, head spinning, and trying to pack his case for the trip.

Lots of E numbers

DURING my formative years as a confirmed punk rocker I must admit one band past me by. The Fall were the legendary John Peel's favourite group but for some reason they slipped under the radar while I was pogoing to the Clash, the Sex Pistols and the Ruts.
Wren, by contrast, is a mad Fall fan and if I didn't know better I would think she was actually in love with the shambolic-looking being that is Mark E Smith (perhaps the similarities have something to do with why she actually spends more time with me than is probably good for her).
Anyway back in the dim and distant past that was the early days of our relationship she extracted a promise from me which she spent little time in acting upon. It was to go and see a Fall gig, in whichever part of the country Mark E had managed to stumble into at that time.
Next thing I knew we were booked to see this legendary band, which has gone through more changes than David Beckham's hairstyle, at the Roxy Ballroom in downtown Manchester.
On Sunday, the great day came to pass. The Fall were appearing at the Roxy as part of the Manchester Music Festival, the gig promoting a book called Perverted by Language which is, very loosely, based on the works of the Fall and their off-the-wall frontman.
With Boo now sitting lonely in a street outside Charlie's garage trying to prostitute her dubious talents for as little as £200, and my new car (still to be christened) lacking tax, petrol and a stereo, it was Wren's Micra Millie that transported us oop north on the Sunday.
I was a bit apprehensive beforehand, on the basis that it was the first smoke-free day across the border in England. What a mare! But I rang the Castlefields Hotel where we were staying and they assured me that I was still able to puff away freely in the smoking room I had booked. Wouldn't get that in Rhodri's fascist Wales. I immediately treated this as a victory over the Thought Police and Nanny State.
The journey, what with various stopovers for things like a yummy double whopper in Burger King, took over five hours but we eventually pulled in at the hotel, the rain sheeting it down as you might expect for Manchester, a little after 5pm.
Lovely hotel, £40 per night with a huge swimming pool at your disposal etc, can't be bad.
After settling in and getting dressed up for the occasion we then wandered in the direction of the gig looking for somewhere to get some money. Haven't they heard of cashpoints in Manchester? We passed the venue and then walked on... and on... and on... finally coming across a NatWest.
About to put my card in the warning flashed out: "This machine is temporarily out of order".
Hot, bothered and getting the occasional soaking from the intermitent showers we finally found one near the bus station. I reckon we had walked about a mile, so the need for beer was getting critical.
Back at the venue we picked up our tickets only to be warned: "There's no smoking inside, and no passouts either". Nightmare. Wren smiled apologetically at me. I smiled back through gritted teeth. Whatever happened to rebellion and anarchy? No smoking at a rock gig? Next thing you know Ozzy Osborne will be chewing off jelly baby heads and swigging from bottles of ribena.
Upstairs we found a couple of stools right on the balcony edge and proceeded to swig back much needed Fosters. There then came some rather amusing, albeit art house mental, films on screen followed by poetry readings. The first guy, Stuart Lee, a Manc-based comedian, was particularly amusing, expecially when he railed against the changing face of his beloved hometown, so twee now that even the BBC had moved there. Brilliant.
As the night wore on and the beers went down, the need for cigarettes intensified. I was queueing at the bar for another Fosters when the music started pounding out, rhythm layered on rhythm. Sounds good, I thought, trying to attract the attention of the doziest barmaid in Britain (straight out of Corry, I wouldn't wonder).
Returning to my seat, on walked this stick insect of a man looking like a cross between the comic actor Martin Clunes and Kate Moss on a diet. And as soon as he started ranting into the mic I knew I was going to enjoy it.
Marc E Smith may come across as some reject from Alcoholics Annonymous but beneath that withered exterior you know there is a clever man. I might not be able to make out all the lyrics slurred one after the other into the mic but you can tell they mean something, if only to the loonies in the Mosh pit below. You can't survive for 30 years, produce 2o-odd different albums with an assortment of different musicians, and not have that X factor quality.
There were little side shows as well, besides the music. I'm sure the Fall's new roadie had been told that every time the man in the middle moved anything, it had to be returned to its original place as soon as possible.
Mark E drops a mic stand of the ground? Roadie runs on and retrieves it.
Mark E puts a microphone in the bass drum? Roadie has to bend down, pick it up and prop it back on the mic stand.
Mark E pumps up the bass to top volume? Roadie has to return it to its original position.
My God that Roadie was on stage so much he will probably be asked to play Glastonbury next year.
In the dying moments during the second encore Mark E, wise to the joke, managed to tangle the four mics on stage together, leaving the roadie with a complex rubic's cube of a puzzle to sort out - Fair play to the lad he managed it. I was almost clapping as much for him as for the band by the end of it all.
Meantime, the Moshpit fans were flinging cigarettes onto the stage in the vain hope that their anti-hero would light one up and give them all cause to rebel. No such luck.
Walking back to the hotel I realised that I had survived the entire gig without a cigarette. Mind you, if I had been watching something less animated and all round fun that might not have been the case.
Sadly Sunday night in the centre of Manchester is pretty quiet. No pubs open after 11 so it was back to the hotel for a nightcap.
As I fell asleep that night I could still hear the relentless beat of Fall tunes in my head. A good band, a good show. Long may they reign.

Jambalaya

THE wonderful Withers may only have been to Corsica, but he appears to be suffering from jetlag - or perhaps that should be beerlag.
After an entertaining, and rather extensive, boozeday Tuesday WWW weaved his way home, arriving back at his door at around 6.30pm.
Feeling not so much emotional but exceptionally tired he made straight for his bed, stripped off and snuggled up under the duvet.
After a deep, untroubled sleep he woke to take a squint at the clock - and was shocked to see that it had clicked over to eight. With light streaming through the curtains, panic set in when he realised he had fallen asleep without setting the alarm.
Racing to the bathroom he quickly ran a hot shower, jumped in and vigorously started to scrub away the alcohol fumes of the previous afternoon.
Then he looked at the 24-hour digital clock in the bathroom. It read 20.05. Our wonderful one had been sleeping for the princely sum of one and a half hours.

Meanwhile, I have finely committed the ultimate betrayal. Yesterday I dropped Boo off outside our mechanic's garage, and she no doubt thought she was going to get the car equivalent of a makeover. Far from it.
Inside, her traitorous owner was writing a cheque for £500 and obtaining a new log book and MOT certificate for the little white hatchback Corsa parked just 50 feet down the road from my faithful old Tipo.
I left the garage, having asked Charlie if he could rip out Boo's CD player and install it in my new car which, incidentally, doesn't leak and has electric windows that work. But as I passed Boo to walk the rest of the way home I couldn't resist but kiss my hand and touch her bonnet.
Judas.

Last night I was in little state to cook, but on Monday I made my own version of Jambalaya, which is, in fact, my paella but with plenty of chorizo sausage, onions and cajun spice (plus a couple of hot chillis)
What you need:
Half a chopped red onion
2 cloves chopped garlic
2 chopped red chillis
A handful of mushrooms
A lump of chorizo, chopped into bite-sized pieces
A sliced red pepper
3/4 pint of veggie stock
Two cups of basmati rice
a handful of capers, black olives.
A seafood medley of cooked prawns, mussels and squid rings (you can obtain from Sainsbury's)
Frozen peas

Fry up the onion, garlic, red pepper in olive oil. Add the chorizo and cook until the paprika starts oozing out.
Add the mushrooms and cook, then add the red pepper and cook for another 5 mins.
Wash the rice then add it to the pan and stir for a minute until it soaks up the juices.
Add enough stock to cover the rice and bring to the boil.
Then stir and add the capers and olives.
When the rice soaks up the stock add some more and turn down to a simmer.
Five minutes before the rice is done, add the cooked seafood and the frozen peas.
Keep cooking for five or more minutes until all the juice is soaked up.
Serve with a dollop of sour cream on top.

Gammon joint with celeriac mash

THE Boar's Backside is open again and Bram is quite excited. Mind you, he does get quite excited these days and complains regularly of hot flushes.
Do men go through the menopause? They should do, it sounds like they are named after us.
Anyway Brammy who, at 52, must be the oldest man around to have a students discount card, is busy inviting everyone along to this wonderful occasion which he treats like the state opening of parliament. He's quite excited about the new selling point, too.
Since his favourite boozer got burnt down mysteriously just before the smoking ban came into being, it has undergone a complete facelift.
Well, not really.
Basically, the only change appears to be that the landlord has decided to employ Welsh-speaking bar staff to attract the locals -which doesn't help when the majority of Cardiffians don't understand a word of it. I reckon it's a last roll of the dice because it's always empty, apart from Bram and a couple of mysterious acquaintainces (I once found him being chatted up by a 6ft 4ins 'lady' who had a remarkably large adam's apple).
Even the fervently Welsh Brammy knows about three words of his native language and has twice given up after-work courses. He can mumble the national anthem with the best of them until of course he shouts out "Glwad, glwad!" with firm gusto when the noisy bit comes around.
On Wednesday Brammy was cajoling me to join him up the Boar's. I determinedly resisted but, as the rain pelted down outside the Yard and the air turned decidedly chilly, the Wonderful Withers, back from his Corsican crusade, persuaded me to "go for a quick look".
As far as I was concerned the Boar's hadn't changed a bit. Brammy and four work colleagues hunched around their beers in one corner, no other clientele anywhere to be seen. At least there wasn't a queue at the bar.
Fortunately it was Withers' round and he actually understands some of the mother tongue. He ordered a pint of some mysterious Scotch ale and asked me for my choice of tipple.
"A pint of Carling, please".
The barman switched from Welsh to advise me. "Sorry, the Carling's off."
How on earth could that be? A newly refurbed boozer, trying to attract more customers, and on its first night it has run out of the most commonly supped lager in Britain! I ordered a bottle of something, but by the time I reached the pub's most vigorous PR man I couldn't hide my anger.
"How the hell can a pub with only four people in it run out of lager, Bram?" I demanded.
Even PR man Bram had no answer for that one.
Perhaps it was just a ploy to get rid of the Englishman. They needn't worry, I won't be going back. Well, until next week perhaps.

I made a lovely tender gammon joint recently, courtesy of a Nigel Slater recipe in the Observer Food Magazine.
What you need:
A nice juicy gammon joint complete with a layer of fat around the outside
Two small onions
A bulb of fennel
Two small carrots
12 black peppercorns
A handful of parsley stalks

What you do:
Put the gammon in a large saucepan and cover with water. Then bring water to the boil and quickly drain.
Refill with water and submerge gammon again, this time halving the onions and slicing the fennel down the middle from bulb to stalk. Slice the carrots in half and add it all to the water, then put in the black peppercorns and parsley and bring to the boil again, syphoning off the foam that rises to the top.
Turn down to a simmer and leave for 30 to 40 minutes, then turn off and let stand for another 20 minutes.
I had this with celeriac and potato mash, chopping both celeriac and potatoes into cubes then adding them to boiling water in a saucepan and cooking for 10 minutes until easily penetrated with a fork. Drain, add salt, pepper and a couple of knobs of butter and a small amount of milk. Replace lid long enough for butter to melt then mash up.
Cut slices from the gammon and put on a plate then serve up the mash as well and mix up some English mustard from dry so that it has a bit of a kick.
Any gammon left can then be eaten with a fresh French baton, as chunky sandwiches. Gorgeous.

Feeding the Big Boy

MY mechanic Charlie is a resourceful bloke.
I was in big trouble on Monday. The Fat Kid and family were just 45 minutes away from Cardiff and we were due to head off for a holiday park at Porthcawl for a few days break.
Then Boo decided to throw my plans into chaos.
Boo, as readers of this blog are aware, is my black N-reg Fiat Tipo. Reliable engine, but beginning to look a bit old in the tooth.
It didn't help that a short while ago some little oikes decides to bend my driver's door double in a bid to nick the five 2p coins in the little compartment under the handbrake. Since when it has become possible to buy a wrap of crack cocaine for 10 pence I have no idea, but the whole thing caused me hours of inconvenience, not to mention the immediate rise in my blood pressure whenever I saw some little hoody-wearing scroat riding past me on a bike.
David Cameron, the tory leader, suggested at one stage we should hug a hoodie. I agree. By the neck, preferrably.
But enough of the ranting. Having driven into work to find out some details about Trecco Bay, the park we were heading for, I noticed that Charlie's window repair job wasn't quite working as it should. Having got him to do a quick fix on the cheap perhaps I only had myself to blame.
The cause of my consternation was that a gap had appeared in my window and, in the past, I have always been able to solve this problem by brute force, pushing the glass back into position and hoping to God it sticks. It's worked in the past.
On this occasion I opened the door, put my hands on both sides of the glass, and pushed it upwards into position. Then I let go. Mistake.
The next thing I know the glass is shooting down at a rate of knots, disappearing into the door panel. No window, and I'm damned if I'm going to leave it like that. The Welsh summer is temperamental to say the least, particularly on the coast of the Bristol Channel where our holiday home is situated.
What to do? The Fat Kid, Big Boy, the Vin Monster and new boyfriend Mikey have just sent me a text to say they have reached the Severn Bridge. Nothing else for it, I drive around to Charlie's.
Lovely bloke Charlie. Heart of Gold. Talks for Britain. And baffles with science, like most mechanics tend to do. I'd always wondered about the magic method he had used to fix my window, but didn't have the two hours available to listen to the explanation.
I turn up this time, however, and I can see the master at work. Well, not the master exactly, but his teenage apprentice. Far be it from me to suggest that the spotty youth is identical to how I imagined the oikes were who broke into Boo in the first place.
In this case my future is in his hands.
"Remove the door panel and sort this man's car out now," orders Charlie to the trainee whippersnapper.
Meanwhile the boss himself regales me of his recent trials and tribulations while also attempting to sell me an old Corsa for £500. "About time you got yourself a new car," he says.
I'm absurdly loyal to Boo, besides all her quirks, but he may just have a point there. I'm considering the offer as we speak. At least the electric windows work.
As we're looking around the car the whippersnapper interrupts us.
"Er, Charlie, I've taken off the panel and I've found this piece of wood in there. Did you leave it here for a purpose?"
Charlie looks at him as if he has just arrived off the planet Bozo.
"That's the piece of wood that's been holding the bloody window up," he explains, then proceeds to walk around the door and wedge said lump of wood back in place, forcing the window shut once more. Job done.
God, it can be technical this motorcar repair business.

So the Fat Kid and crew arrive at my house. The Vin Man has weed on the backseat of the Fat Kid's Clio and is in the doghouse. The Big Boy, meanwhile, is already on the hunt for food. Spying some week old grapes that Wren bought, he immediately lunges for them and precedes to eat as many as he can. There's no stopping him where food is concerned.
The Fat Kid introduces me to Mikey. I hate all her boyfriends, but this one seems alright. He's two years younger than her but seems infinitely more mature than the two sorry losers who managed to somehow father her kids.
After having a lovely cup of tea we set off for Trecco and arrive at around six. The chalet we have been allocated is wonderful and the site manager has provided us with an assortment of welcome gifts including the tea, coffee, sugar, milk and toilet rolls that I had taken the precaution of bringing with us. Oh well, more the merrier.
By 6.30 we are in the bar discussing what to buy the kids for tea. When I look at the menu, though, it doesn't seem great and it's pretty expensive.
Supping on a second pint and giving Mikey the third degree while watching the Vin Man enjoying himself in the nearby playground, we decide they can eat later. Fatal mistake. We end up in the club watching a typical holiday camp show, the Big Boy falls asleep and the Vin Man is happy just to blow into an exceptionally loud, rave-type whistle that the Fat Kid has bought him to "keep him quiet". Duh!
By 11 we are back in the caravan having enjoyed four or five pints and chips, jumbo sausage and curry sauce on the way home. The kids are too tired to move, yippee!

I spoke too soon. While I sleep soundly, the Big Boy decides that this is the night he will complain bitterly about the new teeth pushing their way through in his mouth. The Fat Kid and Mikey take shifts to be up with him all night and look like death warmed up when I finally surface. Poor things.
But it's no sleeping on tour so off we go for a walk around the beach, followed by a nice drive to Mumbles for a walk, dinner and a fabulous Joe's ice cream. While the Vin Man plays with his Jacket potato and tuna, big boy demolishes a plate of fish fingers, chips and beans and then proceeds to finish off Vin's meal too. After that he also has his fair share of ice cream.
Delighted to say he slept well last night, but I wasn't talking the risk. I departed on Tuesday evening in order to be ready for work again on Wednesday.

Before I left I cooked for the Fat Kid and Mikey. Without any of my normal ingredients - garlic etc - I had to be a bit inventive with only the local supermarket to provide for me.
I opted for a basic pasta sauce with spaghetti and this is what I did.

a. Heat olive oil in a frying pan or wok, then gently fry onions, stirring regularly.
b. Add some garlic powder and keep cooking.
c. Add pieces of bacon and sliced mushrooms.
d. Add a good sprinkling of mixed herbs.
e. Meanwhile, Boil water in a big saucepan and add spaghetti.
f. Add a good dollop or two of the tomato puree to the bacon mix and stir in well.
g. Add two tins of tomatoes and a good splash of milk, then bring to the boil.
h. Drain the spaghetti, then add the bacon mix to it, stir it around, dish it out and top with grated cheese. Eat with some nice crusty bread.

Ma childreen need Waaan

A tempting freebie landed on my desk this week. It was a night's stay in a plush hotel just about to open in Cheltenham and it was for any time in August. Perfect.
Perfect why? Because it just so happens that the Gas will be playing their home games in Cheltenham next year and their first home game is in August.
Without further ado I got in touch with the PR company responsible and booked a night at the Hotel du Vin, which I am reliably informed will specialise in good food and wine. Now, those who know me will be quite aware that I'm not a great fan of the fruits of the vine. But it seemed an opportunity not to be missed and will impress my girlfriend Wren without a doubt. The fact that she will have to endure an hour and a half at a footie match with a load of bonkers Bristolians is a small price to pay for staying in the lap of luxury.
My next thought was to obtain tickets for the match. After all, hadn't we filled Wembley for the play-off final just a few weeks ago? There could be a big demand.
Immediately I was on to the Gas website. And immediately I started to have a nasty little feeling nagging at the back of my brain.
For some reason there were few mentions of our opening game against Crewe taking place at Cheltenham. In fact, according to said website, we would be entertaining Crystal Palace in the cup the previous week at our old spiritual home the Memorial Ground. I read on.
Eventually I found a piece about the move. Bristol Rovers, it said, would be playing only their last 10 GAMES in Cheltenham! Basically, I had booked into the hotel for the first Saturday home match of the season, believing we would be taking on the team that Withers fervently supports (in his very understated way of demonstrating fervour - blood pressure never getting over 68) at our temporary home.
Oh well. Now it means I will have to pick Wren up in Bristol, go to see the Gas, then travel the best part of an hour up the motorway for our luxury night in Cheltenham.
The best laid plans...

Here's that recipe from yesterday which I hadn't time to post because I needed to join Roberts in the pub... urgently.
I don't know why it's called Jazz and Spice Shepherd's pie, although Wren is now well aware of the spice connection.
You need:
1lb floury potatoes, diced
2 tablespoons sunflower oil
1 small chopped onion
1 chopped garlic clove
1 large carrot
10oz minced beef (or Lamb preferrably, as it's Shepherds pie)
2 tablespoons mild curry paste or 1 tablespoon of madras (my choice)
8 oz lamb or beef stock
1 tablespoon tomato ketchup/tomato paste
2 teaspoons dark soy sauce
1 tsp cornflour
2 oz thawed frozen peas
2 chopped tomatoes
2 tablespoons milk
a knob of butter
grated mature cheddar cheese
salt and pepper

TO DO:
Cook the potatoes in boiling water until soft enough to mash
heat the oil in a saucepan or wok
cook the onion, garlic, carrot and mince for 3/4 minutes
Stir in the curry paste, stock, ketchup and soy
Bring to the boil and simmer for 10 minutes
Add the peas and carrots, season and thicken with the cornflour
transfer to an ovenproof dish
Meanwhile Mash the potatoes, then add the milk and butter and a bit of white pepper, mix in
Spread the mash over the meat mixture, make a crisscross pattern on the top with a fork, then sprinkle the grated cheese generously over the top.
Cook under the grill for 10 minutes to gently brown the top.
Serve with garlic bread or a "nice" salad (as Wren would say)
It's quite yummy with a nice little kick.

Apologies, by the way, to Kitchen Hand. She is in fact a he. Doh! Another cock up to add to the growing list.

Jazz and Spice Shepherds Pie

COLEY was 50 yesterday. Now this was somewhat of a momentous occasion. At one stage earlier in his journalism career I didn't think he'd reach 33. In fact, it nearly all ended on his 32nd birthday, such was the tale of drunken debauchery that took place on that famous day - June 14, 1989.
Coley was deputy sports editor when Wales on Sunday first opened its doors back in those dim and distant days 18 years ago. For my sins, I was what was termed the Chief Sports Sub-Editor. It meant I had to take his 3000 words of indecipherable garbage about some obscure athlete never to be seen again and turn it into something readable. A mammoth task, believe me.
Anyway, six months into the job Coley was desperately unhappy. Having been told that if he joined the newspaper he would be sent on the Lions rugby tour to Australia, instead he was sent out to Canada with the Welsh rugby dregs that had been left behind. This made him an angry man, so angry in fact that when our sports editor said he was going to be out of the office for the day, Coley's dedication to duty wore a mite thin.
He was supposed to take charge and his first rallying call to the troops went something like this. "Right you lot, it's my birthday and I'm meeting my bank manager over the pub. Any of you want to come along, you're welcome. Don't know when I'll be back."
It's the kind of invitation that Marlon Brando's Godfather might suggest you can't refuse. In Welsh journalism circles anyway. So off we all trotted to a boozer in the main street called The Cottage, there to spend six hours or more on the razz.
It got to the stage where members of the public began to trickle in for an after-work drink and the barman started getting edgy about the increasingly rowdie crew at the top of the room.
At this stage it was my round. "Pleesh can I have five pints of lager, two ginishes..." He cut me off. "I can't serve you mate."
"Why the hell not?"
"Cos one of your lot fell off his stool."
"Who wossh zat?"
"You mate!"
At this Coley appeared at my shoulder, demanding to see the manager. "D'you know hoo Iyam?" he inquired.
"I don't care who you are mate, you're both barred."
So off we toddled, swearing under our collective breaths.
Some might think that would be the end of the frivolities - not a chance.
Coley then insists on dragging us up the stairs into a casino of which he was a member. But before long that caused a problem, too.
Another of our motley crew, Gibbo, was chatting away to me when the manager appeared decked out in penguin suit and bow tie.
"Excuse me fellas, is that your mate over there?" he asked.
We peered across to see Coley lolling all over the roulette table.
"Yesh itish," we replied.
"Well, I don't want to upset him because he's a very good customer of ours, but is there any way you might be able to edge him out of the exit? He keeps falling over the table and sending the chips flying everywhere."
Ho, hum, easier said than done. But with one on each arm we finally got him out of the door and onto the street.
Where now? We decided on an old haunt, now sadly gone, called the Press Bar. Don't know why it was called the press bar as only two or three journos ever went there. We stumbled across the road, then for some reason began wrestling and falling through some bushes.
Finally we entered the press bar and immediately realised our mistake. The editor "Mad" John Humphreys was drinking there. Time for a sharp exit.
Unfortunately, Coley had other ideas. Charging towards the bar he managed to slip, go flying and landed on a round table, preceding to fly across the bar like a lunatic aboard a mini hovercraft.
Gibbo and I closed our eyes, but somehow Coley survived the wrath of the boss, who wasn't called "Mad" John for nothing.
Finally Gibbo and I decided enough was enough, and schemed on how to get Coley into a taxi and send him home to Penarth. We managed to get him out of the front of the hotel and even pushed him into the back of a cab. But as we gave the driver directions the opposite door open and Coley climbed out of the other side, running back into the safety of the bar.
We both shrugged, gave up and decided to go home.

Next day.
11am, no sign of Coley.
11.30, no sign of Coley.
12 noon, no sign of Coley.
Finally at 12.45 after numerous calls to his house and fears that he had met an untimely end, our deputy sports editor turns up, face white as a sheet, looking hopelessly dishevelled and having difficulty with his speech.
The boss asks him about the ordeal of the previous night.
"Funny you should say that," said Coley, "I was lying in the bath this morning, minding my own business, when the wife came in waving my white shirt above her head and ranting about grass stains. 'Where have you been and who've you been with?" she demanded.
"I looked up at her and said 'give me 24 hours and I'll piece it together'."

A few days later, with me having recently split from the psycho, he very kindly invited me to his house for tea. To meet the wife. Like the fool I am, I accepted.
Opening the door this frightening looking woman towered over me. "So you're the one that led him astray on his birthday?" she said.
Caught. Hook, line and sinker.

COLEY is a different animal now. Still enjoys the occasional shandy but has his own agency, a PR company/freelance journalism operation employing a number of people. It's called Westgate and he even employed me for a short time until I managed to escape.
He's also divorced and re-married, with a seventh child on the way (what must he be thinking?) and we had a very enjoyable night celebrating his birthday in Cardiff Athletics Club last night.
Despite the new relaxed Coley, don't be surprised to hear more about him on these pages in future. That's if his solicitor doesn't get to me first.

AT the weekend Wren came down and we had a lovely day enjoying the sun on the cliffs of Southerndown, overlooking the Bristol Channel. It was a real scorcher and later we quenched our thirsts with some lovely Heinekens in the Tut.
I also found time to cook on Monday and did Ainsley Harriot's Shepherd's pie. I'll put the recipe on tomorrow's entry.

A bit of a do

WHENEVER you see a comedian playing a drunk in a TV show they always act the same way, leaning over, eyes blurry, enfolding someone in their inebriated grip and slurring their undying love for the poor recipient. They must have seen Owenov in action.
It was Owenov's leaving do last night and there was a mighty fine turnout at our favourite watering hole The Yard. Not surprising, really, as it was a fantastic evening, the sun shining, the summer dresses flowing by - in fact everything my departing colleague could have dreamed for on the day he chose early retirement. Sorry, that should read a high-flying role on the sports desk of the Western Snail, Wales' own morning newspaper.
It's been a bit of a week trying to master a new computer system that makes the Krypton Factor seem like a game of Snakes and Ladders while also trying to organise the farewell presents, design a front page for the man on the move and try to sort out some kind of holiday accommodation for the fat kid, Vinny and big boy, who are threatening a visit in a week's time.
Thankfully it all got done on time, particularly the front page of which I was particularly proud. According to another former colleague, Mutt, our Owenov has a striking resemblance to the cartoon version of Howard from the Halifax Building Society. With one striking difference, of course. Owenov isn't black.
It was great, therefore, to find a picture of the real Howard with his arm around a waxworks dummy of himself. Then it was simply a question of performing that famous old WoS trick, putting someone's head on someone else's body. Voila... Owenov and Howard arm in arm.
After the boss's speech and Owenov's riposte which turned into a bit of a character assassination of his future employers - unfortunately one of them was there to witness it and Owenov could find himself in Coventry rather than Cardiff soon - it was then time to adjourn for drinks.
Now Owenov has a bit of a fancy for a Jameson's now and then. The boss, never one to encourage such vices, stumped up for one immediately while I bought the now remorseful young man a pint of lager.
As the night continued - a gaggle of marketing girls joining in the frivolities (I think a gaggle is the right term) - Owenov began to realise what he'd be missing. "Lishun mate," he slurred to Roberts. "You're a real prufeshnul, you are... I've never met any prufishnel as profishnal as you mate... no honeshtly... I'm not just shaying this cush I've had a little drink... you are (squeezes his victim like a starving python until he is puse in the face).
At that time I knew it was time to make my excuses and leave, just like a good newspaper man should. Not to say I hadn't supped a few myself and by the time I got home it was a toss up: Pasta which would take 10 minutes or the packet of pork scratchings winking at me from the cupboard. In such circumstances, there can be only one winner.

Advanced Australian Fayre

IT'S about time I said "hello cobbers" to all my Australian readers, and particularly a big thank you to Kitchen Hand, who has her own version of What I Cooked Last Night on the Blogosphere. I feel extremely proud that my drinking, cooking and generally debauched adventures have proved to be entertaining enough to bring me international fame. Most of my Down Under readership (well, there were five or six who took the time to look on these pages, it seems) complained the print was too small. Sorry about that, guys, but being a complete technophobe I will have to ask my resident IT expert (Withers, believe it or not) if he can sort something out.
Other than that, I don't know how far Kitchen Hand and Co have read back into my dim and distant blogging past but they will probably be interested to know about my two months touring Oz with that ragtag bunch of cricket fans known as the Barmy Army. As I understand it I also featured with my mate the Kitchen Designer on some programme called Bondai Rescue. I'm still waiting for it to appear over here. Anyway, thanks again for reading. If anyone wants to check out Kitchen Hand she's on www.verygoodcooking.blogspot.com.

Medley of Mushroom risotto

UNADULTERED violence, screaming supporters and not a policeman in sight... something scarey is taking place among the rose gardens, leafy streets and 4 x 4 landcruisers of London's stockbroker belt.
Luckily I survived as a witness to the wonton destruction that went on in front of my eyes on Sunday, though I was left with a sharp knot in my stomach and haven't been able to sleep since "the party".
What party? You may ask. Even though mentioning the words make me, a fearless journalist, decidedly queasy I think the public needs to know... I'm talking about Annabel's party.
Who's Annabel? you may ask. Well she's Wren's four-year-old niece and she was celebrating her birthday at a scout hut in Ewell, a small, picturesque village not far from Epsom and Surbiton.
In a moment of wreckless abandon I had agreed to accompany Wren on the six-hour round trip on Sunday after 17 busy hours and a double-header international weekend on WoS.
We travelled in Millie, Wren's Micra, and were three miles away from our destination when, metaphorically, the wheels came off.
"Where's the e mail with the directions?"
"I haven't seen an e mail."
"Yeh, it's in the map book with your directions."
No it wasn't. Among the hundreds of pages copied off the AA's "find a route" site there was definitely no e mail. Directions to John O'Groats, Land's End, Norwich and Blackpool? Yes. Directions to the Scout Hut in Ewell? No.
Eventually we rang Wren's brother to find out where we should be.
"Look out for balloons," he instructed.
Fine, what kind of balloons? I searched the sky for a goodyear blimp flying over the site with an arrow pointing downwards with the instruction "Annabel's party here"? Umm, no joy.
Actually these balloons were of the common-or-garden variety youcan buy from the local newsagent. I realised that when we finally tracked our destination down about 45 minutes later. I knew they were a last-minute consideration immediately. "50 TODAY" they announced. I had to say Annabel looked very young for her age.
Outside in the field the kids were all dressed in Peter Pan theme clothes, the girls mostly opting for the Tinkerbell option, with the boys choosing to be pirates or crocodiles. The adults were watching the games attentively while sipping on their Pims. What a peaceful sight. Idyllic. Weather wonderful, happy children laughing and playing, adults relaxed and enjoying the scene.

Then came Pinata. Ever heard of Pinata? It's a game I believe was developed in Spain or some other latin country which positively encourages Bullfighting and the like.
After the kids had enjoyed their tea they were invited to gather around as a colourful donkey was attached to the roof by a string. He swung there for a minute as the innocent eyes of the children fell on him and one of them asked: "What's that for?"
"Right," announced one eager mum. "Form a queue if you want to bash the Donkey."
What? Was I hearing right? Did the animal rights people know about this cruel and barbaric sport?
She then retrieved a large stick from behind her back and proceeded to give a "demonstration". Crack! She whipped the little donkey across it's back. "Now who wants a go?" she asked.
Little hands shot up and as I watched in horror one by one these little mites piled into the donkey, their eyes lighting up as they delivered the telling blows.
I tell you, if Frankie Dettori had whipped his Derby winner that hard the previous day down the road at Epsom he would have had the prize taken off him and been suspended for at least a week by the Jockey Club. There would have at least been a steward's inquiry. Outrageous!
Trouble was the little Pinata was strong. However hard they hit it - and bear in mind none of them wore blindfolds, which I thought was a vital component of the game - it wouldn't split and let them at the goodies inside. It ended up in a free-for-all. The adults were all jumping in like some mad "World's strongest parent" competition, bashing the hell out of the little, colourful thing. I could only stand there, cringe and rub my eyes.
Finally one little girl forced it to the floor and they fell on it, ripping it apart until the little curley wurleys and milky ways were pulled from its desicrated body. I was still shaking by the time we got back to Bristol.

Safe at home on Monday night I opted to make a mushroom risotto.
You need:
2 tsp olive oil
2 ozs butter
1 small onion or shallot (I used shallot as I was out of onions)
2 finely chopped cloves of garlic
8 oz rice (you should use risotto but I didn't have any so used basmati)
1 pint chicken stock
mixed fresh mushrooms (you can buy these from Sainsbury's: Oyster, Chestnut, field, etc)
Flat leaf parsley
grated parmesan
salt and pepper

To do:
Make stock and then keep heated on low flame in small saucepan
Heat half the oil in a large saucepan and soften garlic and onion in it.
Add rice and coat in oil, stirring for a minute.
Add a small amount of stock and then mix until it is soaked up, continue adding at intervals for the rice to soak it up.
Meanwhile heat half the butter and remaining oil in a frying pan and fry mushrooms for three to four minutes.
Stir them into the rice, then grate plenty of parmesan over it and add parsley and remaining butter, then season to taste.
I also made some veg to go on top from a Ken Hom recipe...

Reheat the saucepan with olive oil, fry some sliced garlic and add mange tout and sliced water chestnuts out of the tin. Add soy sauce and any remaining stock, together with salt, pepper and sugar. Remove from heat once cooked and mix in some seasame oil.
Heap the risotto out onto a plate and top with the vegetables, then sprinkle with chilli flakes if desired. Yum.

Roasted new potatoes

ANYONE remember that fantastic band that rode the crest of the New Wave back in the 70s? The Struts they were called. No? Well, shame on you.
The Struts, you see, contained a brilliant songwriter-guitarist called... oh, alright, it was me. Anyway, though I sold my guitar long ago for the price of a couple of tinnies and some rolling tobacco for some reason my punk days continue to pogo back into my life at the oddest times. Like today, for instance.
There I was, sat at my desk minding my own business, when there on my e-mail appeared a message from an old school pal Derek. "Have you seen this? I seem to remember being there," he inquired, sending me the link to a website called www.joesmusicgarage.com/thestruts.cfm. There, lo and behold, was a little biography of the band, which lasted about six months, played four gigs and practised every Thursday upstairs in Chipping Sodbury Town Hall.
One day we recorded a couple of tracks on an old reel-to-reel tape recorder and it is these you can now hear and, worse, actually purchase on the web! Now I don't know how long these "CDs" have been for sale, containing two songs of mine called The Jester and Waiting in the Dole Queue, but I believe I must be owed quite a few loyalties by now. So, Geoff Fulton, former Struts bassist and now unashamed entrepeneur, I expect a cheque to be winging its way through the post before long. But I won't hold my breath.
It did help me to recall some great days, though. Playing a gig at Sodbury rugby club which a Yate band - The Numbers - tried to hijack, then driving back to Winterbourne in singer Adi Hulbert's car when he suddenly became paralysed on one side and I had to operate the gears. Christ, wouldn't fancy doing that now. There was also a talent contest in which we lost out to a band who continually played Wild Thing by the Troggs, and a gig at Filton High School which was a real blast.
Like all bands, however, we split up because of musical differences. Geoff, Kev the drummer and Adi the singer all fancied themselves as heavy metal maestros. I said they were making a mistake as they were only good enough to perform in punk bands. So they split and formed a heavy group that lasted about one gig.
Meanwhile my amplifier caught fire during practice due to a can of beer falling off the top of it and getting the wires and valves all wet and while it went to the repair shop I went to journalism college, hoping one day to be able to afford to retrieve it. I didn't, but my brother sneaked it out ahead of me. He went on to play in a number of bands and make quite a music career for himself with such wonderfully named outfits like the Beatnik Filmstars and the Forest Giants (his current mob). I sit here writing and thinking: It could have all been so different. Strummer and I, we would have had the meanest of bands.

I'VE been full of Man Cold this week. Now, this is a terrible disease which prevents you thinking, sleeping, talking and... nah, I was going to say drinking, but that would be a lie. Went out with our new recruit Wathan on Wednesday. He's replacing Rosey, though Rosey seems to turn up regular as clockwork. He thinks he still works here, I reckon. Either that or he's got the hots for one of the blond in the magazine production department.
Rosey's doing great actually. Had a few shifts on the Star already and even got his byline in the paper for a re-write job on David Beckham's comeback.
He was down again on Friday, though, covering the Wales v Czech Republic match at the Millennium Stadium which doubled up as Ryan Giggs' farewell to international football. To celebrate the return of the Prodigal we went to that little known establishment called The Yard. Glad to say Wren joined me, finally braving the chance to meet up with the likes of Rosey, Coggsy and, dare I say it, the Prince of Darkness.
The Prince, by the way, is not like the rest of us. He went out a got completely bladdered at a Celtic Manor golf dinner on Tuesday and felt the only way to cure his terrible, shambling demeanor was to head for the pub again the next day. Now, most of us call this Hair of the Dog... in the Prince's case it has become Hair of the Labradoodle.

Withers is acting very strangely ever since he purchased a new pair of running shoes. On two occasions this week he has feigned ignorance when we have been off to the Yard. The first time he claimed he thought it was a "top management discussion" and wasn't invited. On the second occasion he ignored all Rosey's texts then insisted he "didn't know" people were going to the pub. Didn't know? For God's sake it's a Friday, we ALWAYS go to the pub (well, ditto Boozeday Tuesday, Wednesday club, Thirsty Thursday).
The truth is something different, and really quite alarming. Apparently Withers is dragging his Size 11 Sideshow Bob feet around the local park at a rapid trot, covering seven miles a day (or 14 footsteps in his crazy, big-footed world) all in an effort to lose some weight before his holiday to Corsica in two week's time.
You wouldn't normally see Withers like this a. because he never takes holidays and b. Because he has never really been that fussy about his figure. Just so happens, though, that said holiday involves meeting up with friend Kirsty and around nine of her female acquaintances. Wonder if they are ready for our marathon man just yet?

Can't believe Coggsy and Wren know each other. Not only did they used to work for the same newspaper, but Wren used to live next door to an ex-girlfriend of Coggsy's dad. Would you Adam and Eve it? Went for a quick smoke the other day and they were rabbiting away like good old mates.
Later in the evening we bumped into Tucker - Wren knows him, too - and we watched Beckham's return for England in the City Arms, getting quietly sozzled in the process. Smashy and Tucks were quite keen for us to stay on, but having seen Tucks this morning I'm rather glad we made our excuses and left when we did.

Not done a lot of cooking but thought I would mention one of the new veggies I did with the Sunday roast the other day. Went out and bought some lovely new potatoes, then roasted them together with the Sunday lunch. They were yum.
What you do: Wash the potatoes, cut them into two then boil them for about 6-8 minutes. Heat an even mixture of butter and cooking oil in a frying pan, then fry the potatoes until they start to crisp up. Then put them in the oven with the roast, and sprinkle over some Thyme. Gorgeous.

Celebrations

WEMBERLEY, Wemberley... we're the famous Bristol Rovers and we won at Wemberley...
Well, it may have taken me 40 years of hurt and two previous visits to be able to appreciate the full enormity of this achievement but Saturday was one of the greatest sporting days of my life. Fantashtic! as Roberts would say.
Myself and 40,000 Gasheads travelled up to the gleaming new edifice buried away in the bowels of London and wallowed in a 3-1 victory over Shrewsbury. Wren came up with me the previous night and we stayed at a Premier Travel Inn just a few hundred yards from the ground. It was the perfect base, right next to Wembley Park tube station, from which to watch the crowds gather the next day.
Wren very kindly entered into the occasion by wearing my blue and white Gashead top while I wore our away kit of blue and black. Baseball caps on and a light drizzle in the air we had a walk around to soak up the atmosphere of the occasion, get some money and enjoy a hearty brekky (Wren normally has two, but was on rations for this one). We then returned to the tube to meet my school buddy Haydn, his wife Sian, son Liam and his mum's other half Ron. Having earlier spied a temporary bar being set up outside our hotel, we spent a pleasant hour and a half soaking up the atmosphere of the occasion as thousands of blue and white decorated fans from the west country joined those from Salop on winding their way down Wembley way.
We eventually made our way to the new stadium and were delighted to have seats just off the halfway line as the Rovers fans welcomed their players onto the pitch to the strains of their familiar (some may say too familiar) song Goodnight Irene.
The new ground is excellent, the views from nearly everywhere perfect and the legroom great. It's a shame the atmosphere fell dead when the Gas managed to repeat their Millennium Stadium feat of a couple of months earlier and fall behind within three minutes. Here we go again!
But Richard Walker, striker par excellence, pulled us back into the game with two first half strikes and though we were too nervous to sing in the second half I did manage to lose my voice chastising the referee. With two minutes of injury time remaining the Shrews threw their goalkeeper up for a corner. Rovers managed to scramble it away and we then screamed our backing for little Sammy Igoe as he legs carried him from his own half with about four Shrewsbury defenders in hot pursuit.
It was like something out of the Benny Hill show and we could almost hear that famous music "didladeedeedee, didladeedeedee, didla dee da da da da da dee" as his lead began to evaporate. But cunningly, when he looked like heading for the corner, he turned back and slotted the ball slowly but perfectly into the unguarded net. What a moment to savour!
Most of us looked around not knowing what to do... unfamiliar with the procedure associated with actually WINNING one of these damn things. It now means the Gas have another trophy to put in the cabinet that still probably guards the Watney Cup of 1972.

It was piddling down afterwards and took us over an hour to get out of London, despite waiting on and having a very enjoyable Nepalese curry. During our meal we were interrupted by a guy in a Gashead shirt who came over and starting lambasting us with "Wasn't that brilliant, fantastic. That will show those arrogant Sh**heads. I love the Gas, I do, I really do. Actually this is my team (shows us Villa badge under his lapel), but I do love the Gas."
Wren, cottoning on to the implication of his supporting Aston Villa, asked: "So you're from Birmingham, are you?"
"No, love, Weston-super-Mare."
Right.

That night we got home and watched the highlights on Sky Sports. Sadly they restricted them to just half an hour. Jolly bad show seeing they have sod all else to show in the summer. Ah, well.

A good kipper

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

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

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

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

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

sausage, bacon, mushroom and tomato butties

Brammy's got The Shining, boy! That's all I can surmise from his strange activities on a Saturday night in the office. The golden olden one keeps shivering, looking around at every slight sound, a haunted expression crossing his face. And as the light fades and he nips outside to puff on a roly he finally reveals the source of his concern.
"It's old Geoff," he says.
"Who?" Owenov and I inquire, looking at each other in confusion.
"Geoff Rich, the former editor of the South Wales Echo. He died not long ago. He stalks the corridors on a Saturday night, mark my words."
Seeing Bram spends most of his life in a metaphorical Sleepy Hollow you would think he would be used to things that go bump in the night by now. It's normally the lawnmower he keeps in his spare bedroom, falling to the floor with a thump.
Apparently this unhealthy superstition began one night when he was in the office and the phone rang. When Brammy picked it up... there was no one there. Wooooh! I wonder if he has ever heard of wrong numbers.
Still, can't say I am exactly looking forward to the day he pushes his head through the door, rather than around it, and announces: "Heeeeere's Brammy. Fancy a drink down the Old Scroat chum?"

Thursday night was wonderful. After cooking up a quick supper of sausage, bacon, mushroom and tomato butties I settled down to watch the Gas beat Smashy's team Lincoln 5-3 in the second leg of the playoff semi-final in a thrilling match described by pundit Tony Gayle as possibly the most entertaining he has seen all season. Now it's off to Wembley for the final against Shrewsbury and I am desperately plotting how to get the day off. You see, those inconsiderate Welshies have organised two mammoth sports events on the same day - a meaningless rugby union tour match in Australia and an even more meaningless friendly soccer game against New Zealand in the wilds of Wrexham. How I suffer for my art...

Nicey (or is it Smashy) met up with some like-minded fellows from his home town of Glaaaster on Friday night. It was a rugby player's stag do and they invaded the Old Scroat, immediately engaging us shivering smokers in conversation. When a local woman and her mates turned up to celebrate her 40th birthday the combustible mix always threatened to be a lethal cocktail. And so it proved. By the time the clock struck 7.45 some jovial banter had turned into fullscale face slapping, shouting and squaring up. Don't you just love Cardiff at the weekend? We didn't even make our excuses, just left.

Our after-work boozing crew is dwindling to almost nothing and Withers and I are seriously considering a recruitment drive. Well, I can hardly spend every night staring at his miserable face and no doubt he feels the same about mine. There's no Rosey and no Becks, both gone on to pastures new, no Kempy (preggers), no Fab BB (just being a bit contrary I think, or probably fed up with sitting out in the cold perishing while us smokers get our fix), no Catherine Mary and even Macca has pulled out since I insisted he bought us both a pint the other week.
Roberts, too, is rarely seen outside of captivity, ie rugby circles, these days. The Prince of Darkness? Well, he's been on holiday. The day he stops turning up is the day the Apocalypse begins.

Shutts, meanwhile, is today unveiled as a complete and utter fraud - I'll be surprised if the police don't turn up and cart him away soon.
He has signed on to one of these new-fangled, schoolkid infatuation type web thingies called Facebook. It makes people believe they have lots of friends, rather than mere acquaintainces, and is a legal way to "poke" whoever you damn fancy.
In Shutts' case he can pretend he is a boozer. Note one of the photo albums attached to his site. It's entitled "Shuttsy's hard-drinking Nights on the Tiles" and contains numerous pictures of him leering alongside anything in a skirt.
The lie, though, is there for all to see. In every picture he is holding a glass of, wait for it... Diet Coke. You can take a horse to water, but you can't make him drink.
He gives a bad name to us hardened boozers - it's time he got some proper vices of his own.

Leek, celery and pancetta bake with a little kick

I'VE always fancied myself as a member of the Sweeney, or perhaps a SWAT recruit. And I got the chance this week, on boozeday Tuesday to be precise. Sitting outside the City Arms getting merrily sozzled with Withers and Nicey, who recently I called Smashy by mistake (the two are quite interchangeable really) I heard the sweet sounds of some ageing muso from the upstairs of the grotty old building opposite.
Honing in on this poor man's Ralph McTell one thought entered my head: Brammy. And another thought quickly followed - that must be the smoking room where he really isn't allowed to smoke but gets away with it because no one will go within a hundred yards of the infernal racket eminating from said room.
Withers was keen to explore further and, on the basis that I had drunk too much to raise any sort of a protest, we walked around the corner, found the door and entered a rather seedy old drinking den. This was when the idea hit me.
Climbing the stairs quietly it suddenly felt like we were about to burst in on some drug dealers swapping some of that expensive white powder for cash rather than a little old man in a cap sneaking a crafty fag out of the window. The music got louder as we reached the second floor and I put my hand out to Withers in silent warning: Stand back!
Then I raised my foot to about my waist and smashed it against the door, sending it flying open and catching Brammy in the middle of an illegal puff. He was like a rabbit in the headlights, jaw open, offending article perching from bottom lip in the manner of Andy Capp. "You're nicked!" I shouted.
As the truth dawned on him and the alarming look dropped from his face, I could see in his eyes that he was pleased to see me. "Daft bastard!" they seemed to say.

Last night had a quiet night in and cooked a leek and celery bake. It seemed a bit bland though so the addition of two chopped green chillis and some of that cubed pancetta certainly gave it a zing.
What you need:
75gms butter
tablespoon olive oil
1-2 leeks, sliced thin.
2 sticks of chopped celery, chopped
3 cloves of garlic, crushed
2/3 peeled and thinly sliced potatoes
1 pint of vegetable or chicken stock
2 small chopped green chillis
Some chilli powder for sprinkling

What you do:
Heat oven to gas mark 6 or equivalent.
Heat the oil and butter together in frying pan until butter melts
Add the leeks and celery and cook, stirring occasionally for 10 mins on medium heat
Then add the crushed garlic and cook for another two mins.
Add some flat leaf parsley, the chopped chillis and the pancetta cubes and cook for another five minutes.
Grease a casserole dish.
Put in a layer of the leek mixture followed by a layer of potatoes.
Repeat.
Sprinkle a small amount of chilli powder over the top.
Put in the oven with a lid on, removing the lid after half an hour.
It's ready to serve in an hour.
The addition of chillis might not be to everyone's taste, or the pancetta for that matter, so both can be left out for vegetarians and those of a weak disposition.
For anyone else: It's got a real kick. Just like Brammy's hidyhole door received.
Sprinkle some chilli powder

key-shhhh

THERE I was, standing outside my house at close to midnight, throwing my bag to the floor, emptying my pockets onto the pavement and aiming karate kicks at the wall while muttering to myself in an incandescent rage. Anyone watching behind the twitching curtains over the road was probably reaching for the phone at that moment, alerting the men with white coats to come and take me away ha, ha. But I can assure you it was no laughing matter, just the end to a day that had turned from sublime to ridiculous.
If Michael Crawford was ever to do a new series of Some Mothers Do 'Ave Em he could probably devise an entire episode simply from following my progress on a day that will from now on go under the name of Bloody stupid Sunday.
And it all started so well. After a relatively calm Saturday night in the office, in which I actually found time to watch the whole of the Gas's magnificent play-off victory over Lincoln on TV and still managed to beat the deadline without breaking sweat, I felt awake enough to travel over the bridge and see Wren.
On the way into Bristol I bought the Homer Simpson recommended Hot Stuff pizza from Domino's, arriving at my girlfriend's door at 11.30. Not bad.
Next morning, waking with the lark, we peered out of the window to see the rain coming down in buckets. The driest April on record was quickly turning into the wettest May. We had been told it was going to be a long, hot summer.
So what to do? After reading through the Sunday papers (they don't sell WoS in the biggest newsagents in Bristol's student-infested area of Redland, ridiculously) we thought it would be nice to get out of the house for a bit and go for a nice drive. Rejecting the easy option of taking Wren's shiny newish Micra for a spin, instead we opted for Boo.
Now Boo is the name of my ageing black Fiat Tipo. It's called Boo because that's exactly what the last three letters of my registration plate spell.
Boo has been very reliable under the bonnet but can be described as a bit flakey elsewhere. It's sunshield visor has fallen off regularly and the driver's side window won't open on account of the fact some little thugs bent the door sideways one day in a bid to nick the small number of 2p coins deposited in the little compartment next to my seat. Then there is the bonnet catch, strategically placed slightly out of reach under the steering column. This has fallen off so often that I now keep it in the glove compartment. To open the bonnet I have to contort myself like some Russian Olympic gymnast, attach the handle and then give a mighty heave.
We set off first for Cribbs Causeway shopping mall but, having been caught up in a long traffic tailback, we aborted those plans for a nice drive in the country. I had the brainwave of showing Wren all the old haunts I used to visit during my dual life as trainee journalist covering the wilds of South Gloucestershire during the day and pool captain of the Western Coach House, Frampton Cotterell, by night.
As the country roads quickly turned into rivers I began to ponder the sanity of this decision. It didn't help that my driver's side door had started leaking again, with a steady stream of water pouring in and soaking my legs and feet.
We travelled through Almondsbury, Tockington, Alveston and Thornbury, as I pointed out the landmark pubs along the route. Then, cutting back through a lane the size of a bicycle track, we eventually made our way through Yate and Chipping Sodbury, arriving at the lovely converted farmhouse known as the Cross Hands at Old Sodbury.
There we enjoyed a pleasant sunday lunch before deciding to call it a day and head back to Bristol. Now here comes the catalogue of catastrophe.
Starting up the car it shuddered a couple of times, then stopped. That should have been a warning. Eventually it started but for some reason opted to Kangeroo hop down the street rather than smoothly accelerating to warp factor speed. Wren, a devout follower of Top Gear, wasn't too impressed.
Soon, though, we were speeding along back through Iron Acton and, on arriving in my old village of Frampton I offered to show her the house where I lived during my misspent youth. Nice to see that 4, Prospect Close was still standing, and it brought the memories flooding back.
Boo, though, decided this was a diversion too far and decided to chug, jolt and gurgle her way out past Fromeside Youth Club and down Watley's End Road. When we were passing my old school, the Ridings High at Winterbourne, I finally decided enough was enough, with a string of cars nose-to-tail behind us wondering who the jerk was who couldn't find the right gear in front.
I wanted to shout out of the window "it's not my fault, the car's broken". But, of course, I can't open the window. So I opted to pull into a layby.
"Why don't we just go and get some WD40?" said Wren who, in her spare time, has taken car mechanic courses. Hmmm. I opted instead to look under the bonnet, juggle some leads, dry out anywhere that looked wet with a tissue, then try again. It still sounded ropey. Eventually I opted to call the AA.
After an hour's wait in which Wren, quite sympathetically, declared "I'm bored", the AA man arrived. He looked under the bonnet, dried out some leads, gave everything a good squirt of, you've guessed it, WD40. Then he kindly offered to follow us back to Wren's house in case anything went wrong again.
It all seemed ok when I was going at 40 mph but whenever we reached a junction the car began to bunny hop and goosestep along like Herbie going bananas. When I explained this to the AA man he declared that it might not be advisable to drive back to Cardiff in such a state and that he would get me relayed home. All I had to do was ring the AA 30 minutes before I wanted to leave. A bit embarrassing but somehow it seemed the only option.
At 7.30 I was on the phone to them. "Yes, we have a message from our man. We'll pick you up any time between now and 10." When I told her I had been advised it would take about half an hour she chuckled and didn't reply. Apparently the rain had brought Britain to a standstill again, causing a number of RTA's on west Country roads.
Wren and I bided our time and I must admit I failed miserably to hide my frustration, nipping out for a fag to prevent me cursing in her presence. On returning the call finally came through. "Has anyone turned up yet?" inquired the AA operator.
"Not yet."
"Ok we'll make a call."
Seconds later I was told a flatbed truck was waiting by the car.
Saying goodbye to Wren, from that moment on everything went as smoothly as was possible and I arrived at my door at 11.30.
"Just be careful when you drive the car off the flatbed," the guy said.
I reversed out slowly and then drove the car into a parking space opposite the house. Boo now sounded like a million dollars, on account of the fact it had stopped raining four hours earlier and had turned into a rather pleasant evening.
I put my hand in my pocket and pulled out some keys... Wren's keys. Oh my god, she only has one set. I must have pocketed them when I went out for a cigarette. Nightmare.
I asked the driver if he was heading back to Bristol. "No, mate, Weston-super-Mare," he informed me. B*ll*cks. I tried to ring Wren but she had gone to bed and switched her phone off because she was up at 5.15 the next morning to do the early shift on the Bristol Evening Post. She would be highly stressed in the morning once she discovered I had her keys. What to do?
Only one option for a true Brit in times of strife - I would go indoors, charge my phone and make a cup of tea. Then I would be in a calmer mood to tackle the problem of Wren's keys.
I waved off the guy with the truck and he hot-footed it back to the motorway and Weston. Then I started to search for my own keys. As usual, I had about eight pockets to search, each bursting with the normal array of chewing gums, loose change, wallet, bits of miscellaneous paper, umpteen packs of cigarette papers, a pouch of tobacco and the odd scrunched-up tissue.
No luck.
I tried again. In reverse order. Each time I thought I had found them. Each time it was Wren's keys or my car keys.
After a third aborted mission I decided to empty the entire contents of my pockets on the ground. Zilch, nada, no keys. F**k.
Then came the cursing - all aimed directly at myself. "You stupid b**tard why don't you ever learn? Why don't you ever put these things somewhere safe like normal people do? Now what are you gonna do, eh?"
For some reason my brain answered "Kick the wall" and in my confused state I tried it a couple of times until the pain brought me back to my senses. "Think, think, think," I told myself. "You're a problem solver, that's what you do, what are you going to do now?"
Eventually I called the AA. They called the company that had relayed me home. They called their driver. My phone, meanwhile, was in the red zone, about to cut out any minute. And I had no way of charging it. I needed my keys for that. Isn't it always the way?
Finally the woman from the relay company spoke. "It's ok, sir, we have found your keys on the flatbed. You must have dropped them. We are now going to take them back to Bristol."
On the flatbed? They could have blown away at any time!
"Well, that's no good unfortunately, because I am in Cardiff and need them here."
"There's nothing we can do about it."
"But where will you drop them in Bristol? I'm not there!" I began to rant.
Cool down, or she'll ring off, my brain reminded me.
Then a brainwave.
"My car seems to be working now. Could your driver stop somewhere on the motorway and I'll drive down there and pick them up?"
"Let me see..." On hold again, forever. I could almost hear my phone ticking off the seconds before death.
Finally... "The driver has stopped near junction 29 of the M4. He will wait for you on the hard shoulder." Yippee!
Boo, of course, now decides to handle like a dream, tearing down the motorway at, umm, 70mph with a screaming banshee behind the wheel. "Yes, yes, yes! There it is!"
I pull in behind the flatbed and the driver gives me a knowing smirk. "Sorry mate, it's not been a good day," is all I can think of to say.
I get home and let myself in, then make straight for the kettle. Now, what to do about Wren's keys? I ring the local taxi firm. "Sure, we can deliver them. We'll pop them through the letter box overnight. It'll cost your £70." By then I am passed caring. I wouldn't sleep anyway, knowing that Wren would wake up sans keys. "Oh, go on then," I agree.
The story isn't quite over. The driver arrives and it's good to see he has Sat Nav. The only problem is I can't quite remember the address. I know it's 66, and I think it is Hampton Road, Redland. We follow the route on the Sat Nav. It seems about right but just to make sure I ask him: "Can you ring me and describe the house when you get there?"
Forty minutes later comes the call. "I'm outside the house. It's right opposite a petrol station."
"No it isn't," I deflate his bubble of confidence. "There is no petrol station. Perhaps it's Hampton Park then. Is there one of those nearby?"
There is, thankfully. Just around the corner. His description fits perfectly.
"Job done," he says.
I bang my head against the wall with relief.
Wren rings next morning to confirm she has her keys. "You know, I could have driven over after work to pick them up," she says.
Oh, yeah, so you could.
"Doh!" as Homer Simpson would say.

Secret policeman's tea party

THE genius has added another string to her bow - a disappearing act. Apparently the Duchess of Dubai was back in good old Blighty this weekend and told various known associates that she would meet them for a drink on Friday... and nothing was heard of her again.
It all made Shutts rather apopletic and left party animal Lyds with nowhere to party. As for Withers, he was distraught... nay, angry. Having not heard from his former housemate for about a year, he received an e-mail recently requesting he help her out with a little project. This involved a fair bit of work but, being the wonderful one, he obliged. Then when the invites were handed out for the Genius' re-union party, somehow he was left off the guest list. As were most of us other mere mortals, so it happens. Mind you, the rest of us didn't spend the rest of the week crying into our beer.
For Withers, you see, it was more the embarrassment of it all. Lyds had bumped into him in town and said: "It's going to be great to see The Genius again, isn't it?"
Cue a totally perplexed expression on the wonderful ones fizzog.
"Oh," said Lyds, backing off slightly and looking sheepish... "You haven't been invited, have you?"

I'm sure we will hear from the Genius eventually, but meanwhile Friday night began with us freezing to death in the smoke-unfriendly environs of The Yard, where we bravely sat outside sucking on soggy dogends as the rain teemed down.
The Fab BB was not amused at all, him not being a smoker. "Pleeze can we go somewhere else," he whined, rubbing his wrists together as if this would set fire to the nearest kindling and provide us with a cosy camping scenario. Eventually even I had to give in to my Nesh side, and we toddled off to the Old Scroat, which was really quite pleasant.
Outside they had up a rather large brolly, and although one of the wall fires wasn't working there were still enough bodies outside (mainly rugby fans ready to attend what I was told was a crunch game for the Blues) to raise the heat levels. When Withers and the Fab BB had pushed off home, I was left drinking with the mission-seeking Smashy. When he ordered me another pint I protested, but was actually glad he did when a few minutes later a young lady emerged carrying plates of cheese sandwiches, sausages on sticks, mini pasties and Scotch eggs. "Tuck in!" she announced to everyone, and Smashy was immediately chin deep in egg and pasty.
"What's the big occasion?" I asked her.
"Oh, there was a leaving party, but we couldn't finish it all," she informed me.
"And who do we give thanks to for this marvellous feast?" I asked, but not quite in those terms.
"South Wales Police," came the shocking reply.
Blimey, whenever the cops have served me before it's come on a metal tray and been shoved under a locked steel door with bars for windows. This was much more pleasant.
"South Wales Police, you've proved that the famous song 'all coppers are b*st**ds" isn't strictly true. I thank you."

Benecol drink and cup of tea

IT'S nice to know that the BBC still have an abort button whereby they can cut someone off instantly when they think they have gone too far. I recall it originally came about when a cheeky young lady appeared on the Radio One Roadshow and was accosted by that most annoying of all DJs Dave Lee Travis. "So is there anyone you would like to send out a message to?" asked the absurdly nicknamed Hairy Cornflake.
"Yeh, I'd like to say hello to Mike Hunt," replied the girl. Say it quickly and you get the picture.

I reckon that same button is now being used to cut people off when they become too boring. People like TV and radio's Matt Withers, for instance.
The poor old Wonderful One was roped into giving his expert political opinion on the Beeb's Election special this week. "Not just in Wales," he boasted egotistically, "now I'm going national." Something not be missed, I thought.
Then I discovered the time of this monumental moment in British TV history - Five in the morning.
Yep, 5 bloody AM.
Still, when you know it is going to be such a never-to-be-forgotten piece of television you watch it, don't you? Just like many of us stayed up to see that famous night 10 years ago when Michael Portillo and Chris Patten were booted out of parliament unceremoniously. Or when England took on Brazil in the quarter-finals of the World Cup.
Withers assured me he was going to stay up all night to do his research, monitoring the goings-on as Wales elected its new Assembly (whoopee do!). I, on the other hand, chose to go to sleep early then rose just before the big event, knocked back a Benecol yoghurt drink and returned to the bedroom with a cup of tea.
In the safe hands of David Dimbleby the election was in full flow. Politicians from every party were sat around the table discussing the Conservative gains, Labour losses and Lib-Dems doing absolutely b*gger all.
First the Beeb toddled off to Scotland to get the news on the ins and outs at Holyrood, then the bloke in charge of the new fangled computer graphics had his go, explaining to us exactly what it meant. He even did a little dance to 50 cent's In-Da-Club as he described how Menzies Campbell's Libs had performed. Very entertaining.
Finally, the moment arrived. At around 5.25 Dimbleby handed over to Wales where a presenter eagerly welcomed the United Kingdom's massive audience from a scenic office overlooking the Assembly building in Cardiff Bay. Panning back, we got our first sight of the wonderful Withers, leaning casually against a rail, like a prima ballerina about to practice her pas de bourree at the barre.
His introduction done, Withers began to speak with great authority about how Doddery Rhodri, the Wales first minister, might now decide to call it a day in the wake of bleh, bleh, bleh... Building up a head of steam Withers continued in his learned, authoritative way ...
Then blam!
Nothing.
Diddly squat.
Just a big blank red screen and a high-pitched humming sound. National debut over, done, down the pan. Don't call us etc etc.
Back to Dimbleby in the studio and his hand seemed to be resting suspiciously under the rim of his desk. Is there a Dimbleby panic button, I pondered? You know, something he presses when the boredom factor reaches critical levels?
Or was Withers' arch nemesis, the mystery political blogger Arsembly, sneaking around in the background with a pair of garden shears? I guess we will never know.
Withers reaction? "Bah!"
I imagine we now have to revert to calling him "Writer and Broadcaster Matt Withers". Or Bozo for short.