Thai red pork curry with pickled garlic

MY friend's spouse Sian has just won the Rippers Wife of the Year award for her outstanding devotion to duty. I know I am taking my life in my hands here, and inviting a fatwah from women's lib organisations throughout the UK, but I feel it would be remiss of me not to recount her astonishing feat of self-sacrifice in order to keep her hubby happy.
On the gilt-edged scroll she will now receive from yours truly, I will emboss the message I received on e-mail from my old school pal Haydn this morning.

The commendation reads:
"I have a wonderful wife, she left the house at 7.00 this morning to queue for Rovers tickets for the West Brom game, and we’ve managed to get two for you. It looks like we probably got some of the last tickets available, Sian thinks there will be hundreds of very disappointed people."

Outstanding - and rest assured Wren has been fully kept in the loop about this selfless devotion to duty. In fact, the truth is Sian won't be going to the game herself. In a further e-mail she informed me that her son Liam would rather have his dad to himself at these big games, so she will be forced to stay at home (well, that's her excuse and she is sticking to it).

Meanwhile, I omitted to mention a little tale of the true nature of my profession and how we have to suffer for the cause and take our life in our hands to bring our loyal readers the service they expect.
Last week The Voice of God was dispatched to Milford Haven in search of a story. The person he was trying to track down was linked to a notorious murderer featured in every national newspaper.
After spending some time in deepest West Wales in search of his prey, he finally tracked his target down. Knocking on the door he was greeted by a rather large gentleman who, after The Voice had introduced himself, looked over his shoulder into the road.
"Is that your car, mate?" asked this gargantuan bloke.
"Yeh, that's right," replied The Voice.
"Then get back in it and f*** off," he was told, menacingly.
No doubt The Voice will have his revenge in the not-too-distant future. Expect a story in the papers of a plague of locusts descending on this west Wales outpost very soon.

Last night, after a few beers with the Prince of Darkness, I ventured home to cook a thai curry. I had bought one of those big rolls of cooked belly pork that you get in supermarkets and decided to adapt a recipe from my new stir fry book - the one Wren generously bought me for my birthday.
The recipe itself suggests you use uncooked meat, but my version speeds up the time immensely and is very tasty, too.
WHAT YOU NEED:
1 tablespoon of groundnut or peanut oil
Strips of cooked pork
a clove of garlic, crushed
a tablespoon of crushed ginger
two tablespoons of coconut cream (or the cream off the top of a tin of coconut milk)
two tablespoons of thai red curry paste
bok choi
a tsp of sugar
a tsp of turmeric
a splash or two of vegetable stock
some pickled garlic from one of those lazy garlic jars
half a lemon

WHAT TO DO:
Heat the oil in a wok
Add the crushed garlic and stirred, without burning
Then add the coconut cream and the thai red curry paste and continued to stir.
Add the strips of pork and mix into the sauce til covered
Add the ginger, turmeric, sugar and stock
simmer for a while, then add the bok choi, separated into separate storks
Continue cooking
Add a large squeeze of lemon and some shredded flat leaf parsley
Serve with boiled rice

I ate this watching one of the most boring FA Cup ties of the Year: Middlesbrough v Sheffield United. The BBC are making a habit of selecting the most soul-destroying cup ties - Even Gary Lineker suggesting as much afterwards. Hope the Gas are on Sky.

Garlic Bread?

MY girlfriend Wren decided she was really going to test our relationship at the weekend. Feeling she needed a "change of scene" she went to look at a new flat, then asked for my advice. On Tuesday we went along: And I was shocked to find out that it was a sparrow's fart's distance from Ashton Gate, home of the sporting team of my nightmares - Bristol City.
Well, I can tell you, it took me a whole five minutes to rant about my disapproval and come up with a miriad of reasons why it was not wise to move to Bedminster, the most appalling one being that she might find I no longer came over to visit! Even as I said it I was cursing myself for resorting to such underhand tactics.
Still, I suffered my punishment. We then set off for Bath, took a wrong turning and ended up in Stockwood on the outskirts of Brizl.

Now, I haven't had many good experiences in Stockwood. In fact, I have only been there twice in my life. The first time was a good 27 years ago in the company of my sadly departed friend Dexter.
A mate of his was having a party there so we rounded up a crew and travelled across Bristol to this forbidding outpost, an estate in the middle of nowhere, on the understanding that we would be able to bunk down there for the night. Wrong!
At about 2am in the morning the hostess decided there wasn't room for the likes of us village folk and we had to leave. By then, unfortunately, we had spent all our money on beer and had nothing left for a taxi. So began the 12-14 mile trek back "home" to Winterbourne.
The start of the journey, even though it was fairly cold, was a bit of a laugh as we were still feeling the warming effects of the alcohol we had consumed. But after about a mile and a half it became a bit tedious.
By the time we reached Bristol Temple Meads Station we were freezing, dehydrated, bored and tired. For a time we ended up hunkering down in phone boxes at the station, trying to regain our strength for the final nine-mile haul. One of our team - I seem to recall it was a lad called Doug Poole, who famously always tucked his shirts into his underpants to prevent them from creasing - walked into the offices of the British Transport Police to demand we be given a cell for the night. For once in my life I failed desperately to get banged up. The walk continued.
Finally, by about 8am the following morning, we made it back to base camp, tired and emotional, falling into bed as soon as we got through the door. An adventure never to be forgotten.

As soon as I saw the sign for Stockwood I began to quiver but assured Wren: "Don't worry, if we keep driving we'll be out of here in no time."
Wrong again.
Stockwood appears to be just one huge estate and just as you think you are getting out of it, you turn a corner and find you're back at square one. It's a bit like the Truman Show, the Prisoner and the Blair Witch Project all rolled into one.
Wren, ignoring my pleas to keep driving (it is a rule of mine that you never admit you're wrong and turn back or, for that matter, check a map) stopped the car in the middle of said estate and dug out the A-Z. After what seemed an age we eventually came across what we were looking for - a route out of the maze - and continued on our journey to Bath.

THE weather was beautiful but cold, and it had been a long time since I'd been to this picturesque Spa town, but it was well worth the trip. We visited the Saracens Head for lunch, an enjoyable steak and chips with garlic bread and garlic mushrooms to share (and avoided breathing on anyone afterwards). We then went in search of the Hilton Hotel where Wren used to work as a chambermaid, and followed that with a nostalgic trip to the Island Club or, as it was affectionately called, Bog Island.
Now closed, this was a public toilet in the middle of a traffic island which had been converted into a nightclub. Once again the memories came flooding back, this time of Dexter's stag night and the episode in which 20 of us on this occasion had no trouble in getting banged up. We spent about five hours in a cell after the evening's celebrations after Dex's future best man smashed the window of a supermarket.
After that the sun went down and we headed back to Bristol, having enjoyed a brief shopping spree and cashed in on a few CD bargains at HMV. Wren also managed to buy me a belated birthday present from a quirky little shop called Plain Lazy which sells T shirts and hoodies bearing humorous slogans like "Reduce your carbon footprint... stay in bed". Well, it was amusing at the time.
Followed that with a visit to the parents, an enjoyable chinese and a trip home across the bridge. A lovely day, and by then Wren had decided that living in the middle of Bristol City territory was probably not the best thing for her love life. Sorry, babe!

Best-ever pork scratchings

I have no qualms in "outing" the Prince of Darkness to his fellow bloodsucking creatures of the night. With a moniker like that you would expect the nocturnal one to rise from his coffin of a morning, suck on the newly-opened arteries of a young virgin (or Yard Bird, whatever comes first to hand), run his skeletal claws through his long flowing locks, throw on a cape and leave the house.
Wrong.
Rang him this morning to wish him good luck on a certain venture he was obliged to take part in. "Hang on a minute," he protested. "I'm in the middle of blow-drying my hair." Lummy days, that's another myth shattered.
Last night was a classic Thirsty Thursday meeting. These things seem to have taken over from Wednesday club, mainly because my fellow hacks are all now getting on in years and need more than a day to recover from Boozeday Tuesday. It turned into a good old rant fest, I seem to recall, with the odd moan from the wonderful Withers and a great deal of swearing from me brought on, in the main part, by a swiftly digested four pints of Carling.
As usual work was the main topic, at least til the chips turned up with a vast array of sauces, which immediately sent Smashy into an abrupt silence. Very nice they were too.
The Fugitive, meanwhile, continues to grow his beard with gay abandon. It was suggested we all had a beard growing competition but with him now doing a passable impression of George Michael we would be playing some futile game of catch-up.
Bad Manners, while not part of our drinking cartel last night, got herself into a fine old mess this morning. Turning up breathless, she announced: "Sorry I'm late... locked myself out of the house."
That sounds bad enough in itself, but then the truth came out. Not only was she stranded outside her house with no keys, but she was in her nightie, with no slippers, and no chance of getting back inside until a helpful neighbour came to her aid.
And why was she outside? "I went to collect the milk and the door slammed shut behind me." A likely excuse.
Last night I was in no fit state to cook so instead opted for half a packet of pork scratchings which, in my opinion, are the best on the planet. I have found them on sale in my local corner shop and I must say I am absolutely addicted to them. Don't think they are that good for me mind but, hey, you only live once.

chorizo with potatoes

IN the great spirit of togetherness, WoS has been borrowing reporters from our sister paper the Echo without shame over the last few weeks - mainly because our own staff have been dropping like flies.
Somehow Nathan managed to contract a nasty case of pneumonia and we are all wishing him well while secretly hoping he will be back at work soon (Withers, for one, is anxious he makes a swift recovery because apparently he lent Nathan his Seinfeld box set).
You may also wonder what has happened to Monsieur de Le Boussier. Well, the yacht-owning, posh-talking, perpetually suntanned young bon viveur is currently enjoying the joys of Newcastle-Upon-Tyne, having landed one of the much sought-after MeejaWales training places. He assures me he is now up to 70 words-a-minute shorthand and loving every minute at his temporary home, though what the ladies of the Bigg Market make of the monocled mutineer with the posh, twit-of-the-year show accent I cannot guess. I imagine they will eat him for breakfast.
The Fab BB is now settling into his stride in the big smoke, having landed himself a glitzy pad in the re-born East End, well within the sound of Bow Bells. Next time I see him he will probably be speaking and dancing in the manner of 'Arry 'Awkins.
Mind you, it didn't all go to plan early on, I am told, particularly as he realised the boiler was situated next to his head in the airing cupboard of a bedroom that he is paying £700 a month to live in. Aah, London, how I miss it.
The first few weeks you couldn't get him off the phone. Methinks he was angling for a quick return to WoS but I am sure now the dust has settled he is enjoying himself a bit more. Last I heard from him he was at a Men Dressed As Ladies Night in Vauxhall. Didn't say whether he was in the front or the back.
So that is three members of staff out of the loop leaving Catherine Mary Evans, The Voice of God and the Wonderful Withers keeping the WoS flag flying. We are all working like dervishes, but thankfully in the new spirit of cooperation, Nicey has been extra nice and lent us some of his staff. First we had Gavin 'Des' O'Connor, then Katie "the body" Bodinger and this week it's Katie "stormin'" Norman. Hope they have enjoyed their spell on the newspaper equivalent of the Marie Celeste. We've enjoyed their company.

Last night I made my way straight home. Thankfully Wren's technical acumen has meant that I have a few new sounds on my portable music thingy (forgotten what you call them, was thinking it was an MVP player but then realised that suggested you walked around with an American Football Player hanging off your ears). Have added The Editors latest album (no not him! the band), plus the second album by the Kings of Leon and somewhere, I believe, I also have LCD Sound System, but I have yet to find the daft punks.

I got out the new Nigel Slater book that Wren bought me for my birthday and found a really good Nigella Lawson recipe inside for chorizo with potatoes. Just to make it a bit more substantial I added a tin of chick peas.
You need:
1 tbsp olive oil
1 onion chopped into small cubes
3 cloves garlic finely chopped
One large chorizo sausage, sliced
3/4 waxy potatoes, peeled and cut in half
Tin of chick peas
100 mms of dry sherry (but I used a good couple of sploshes of Madeira wine)
hot water to cover
salt and pepper
chopped coriander to garnish

TO DO
Heat oven to 180 degrees.
Put ovenproof saucepan on hob, add oil and heat up.
Then add the onions, cook on medium to low heat to sweat for five minutes.
Add garlic and cook for further two minutes.
Add sliced chorizo and continue to cook and stir.
Pour in madeira or sherry and stir. At this point I sprinkled over a small amount of flour to thicken the sauce.
Add potatoes, then hot water to cover. Add chick peas.
Cook for five minutes, taste for seasoning and add if required.
Cook for further five minutes then transfer to the oven.
Cook for half an hour then serve and garnish with the coriander.
It makes a really nice, tasty winter snack which can be eaten with crusty bread, though I found it was enough on its own.

After that watched Manchester United grab a late, late draw in Lyon in the Champions League. On the other side, Celtic put up a brave fight (so I'm told) before going down 3-2 to Barcelona at home. They won't be relishing the second leg because, according to most unbiased critics, it was a football masterclass.

smelly cheese

I TOOK a step back in time on Sunday when Wren and I drove up to Swansea in the glorious February sunshine - good old global warming, eh? Arriving at the Marina I was disappointed to find that a lot of the bars along the waterfront, like the Ribcage, were now closed down. Still, it was nice to sit outside the Tug and Turbot and enjoy a coke while listening to the boats rocking gently in the harbour.
For lunch we decided to take a stroll up Wind Street and, I'm glad to say, there was still one blast from the past which has survived the invasion of chain restaurants and bars. The No Sign wine bar was exactly where it used to be when I was a sports writer on the South Wales Evening Post. It still has its unique, down-at-heel ambience although how long it will survive will depend on attracting customers through the door.
This place used to be heaving when we made it a regular haunt back in the late 80s, advertising champagne breakfast with a particular Welsh touch, lavabread, cockles and bacon being served on the morning of big rugby internationals. I particularly remember it being busy during the first rugby World Cup way back in 1987.
In those days it was part-run by the former Wales international, the now departed Clem Thomas, who used to hold court in the restaurant area while tucking into his lunch.
One day in particular springs to mind. I had an interview with Wales on Sunday a few days before Christmas and was keen to head back west because of the Evening Post Christmas party. After playing catch-up with the other hard-boozing hacks, midway through the afternoon I remembered having to call the WoS sports editor Chris Baldock to establish whether I had got the job. He told me I had and gave me a start date.
Next morning, nursing the hangover from hell, I could barely recall the conversation. I knew I had the job but had no idea when I was to start. To discover the date I had to employ all my cunning. I knew that a fellow sports hack in Swansea, Gareth Roberts, had already got a job there so I persuaded him to ring the new boss and just ask during the conversation when I might be starting. After a great deal of groaning he came up trumps: January 24, 1989, the day after my birthday. Phew! And so started a long association with Wales on Sunday which, next year, will have spanned 20 years. I hope the old paper is still going then, taking into account all the changes going on within Meeja Wales. There must be an anniversary party sometime.
Back to Sunday and after a very enjoyable carvery we took a trip back past the new Liberty Stadium, an impressive building which now houses both Swansea City and the Ospreys. It makes the old St Helen's ground and weed-strewn Vetch look like carbuncles from a bygone era. After that we took the general direction of my old house in Morriston, the one that caused me so many problems because of a mortgage shortfall after the lodger somehow managed to burn it down. It has now been replaced by a dual carriageway.
Heading for home we took a pleasant trip down the Heads of the Valleys road, cutting back through Aberdare and Pontypridd to Cardiff. An enjoyable trip down memory lane.

I'm not known to lose my temper over much. Well, ok, I lose it at the drop of a hat. And it happened on Monday morning. Having rung up Maindy Swimming Pool to inquire about the schools rota I was told none would be in until 11. Wren and I hotfooted it down there ASAP (well, we took Basil actually, but that doesn't sound so dramatic) only to find that one lane was closed off for kids and grannies and that two other youngsters were being coached in another. One lane was left, therefore, for the general paying public. Ooh, I wasn't a happy bunny.
After subjecting Wren to a tirade, even though none of this was her fault, it suddenly struck me that the new international pool had just opened in Cardiff Bay, so we set off to have a look.
What a fantastic complex! There are around 12 lanes for serious swimmers, a huge fun pool for kids with water slides, tubes and fountains all over the place, and with it being completely housed in glass you can swim along while enjoying the sun streaking through the window (mind you, it might not be such a welcoming sight on a cold, wet Wales day).
It being a 50 metre pool it actually takes some effort to swim a few lengths. I kept having to convert them into old money (ie the distance I would have swum if I'd been in Maindy) and managed 26 in all. Good effort.
In the afternoon we went to see No Country For Old Men, the new Coen Brothers film with Tommy Lee Jones, which was pretty violent, thought provoking and enjoyable, though the ending left me a bit flummoxed. Home then via the Tut for a couple of drinks and then a lazy night in front of the TV.

On Sunday night I decided to open some new cheese I had bought called Port Salut. It was very smelly, a bit like old feet, but tastes fanstastic when it is mixed into a dish like the pasta one I cooked.
First I roasted vegetables in olive oil - red onion cut into wedges, half an aubergine diced, some big red pepper chunks, four peeled cloves of garlic, four rosemary sprigs and a sliced courgette.
Meanwhile I cooked Penne pasta according to the instructions. When done I rinsed it and returned it to the saucepan, added more olive oil and then the port salut chunks. Mixed that together with some salt and pepper, then added the roasted vegetables, tossed together and served up with some halves of on-the-vine cherry tomatoes and some chopped flat leaf parsley as garnish. It was a good discovery and I'll be eating it again.
Meanwhile congrats to Scooby, who has just past the big 5-0. He went out at the weekend with some mates and it sounds like a good night was had by all.

Meteor pizza (mmmm...) and Gas Mark 6

WOW, I've got a nose bleed. The Gas, my team, my glorious football team, have reached the quarter-finals of the FA Cup for the first time in 50 years. Amazing! Sadly I couldn't be there to see our momentous 1-0 victory over Southampton due to Ricky Lambert's deflected goal, but I was with the 12,000 crowd in spirit.
In reality, I was news editing on a busy Wales on Sunday press day, but managed to get enough glimpses at the TV to enjoy the success. And I had plenty of phone calls and texts to make me feel part of the occasion.
Now it's onwards and upwards for the glorious boys in Blue. Bring it on!

Had a quiet night with Wren at home on Friday, enjoying my new-look flat complete with a new front room and bean bags. It makes a hell of a difference after being confined to one room and a kitchen for the last five years. We celebrated with a pizza from Dominos, the magnificent meteor, plus garlic mushrooms and potato wedges.
Meanwhile, the Fat Kid's social life seems to have hit a wall. She texted me tonight. "What are you doing?"
"Working, what about you?"
"Oh, I'm at home with the kids. Sorry, I thought it was Sunday."
Does the partying never stop?

Valentines Day chocs

Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes) is an old romantic. The night before Valentine's Day he was seen sneaking off home with arms piled high with flowers, presents and all manner of goodies for the Solicitor. It warms the cockles of the heart.
Then we discovered the reason. Apparently Danny Boy went missing on Sunday in a tour of Cardiff hostelries that began at around lunchtime and finished in the early hours of Monday morning. At one stage the love of his life sent him a text message: "You're in the spare room tonight."
No wonder the Poipes feels he has a bit of making up to do in the love stakes.

Meanwhile, it's been a pretty quiet week. Fortunately Thirsty Thursday attracted a quorom of members with Smashy, the Prince of Darkness, the Fugitive, the Wonderful One, The Poipes and yours truly enjoying a good night in the Yard. The evenings festivities went on long after I was tucked up in bed. Sadly, I can recall very little to report from these events apart from the fact that Withers has a new set of teeth that fit much better, I am pleased to say.

The Voice of God has, apparently, been having nightmares. He woke in a cold sweat the other morning, dreaming that he had mistreated his pet snake. Terrible thing.

stag roasting

WATHANOVSKI is a victim of crime. He has had his mobile phone stolen. My heart bleeds.
Or rather, it would bleed if I didn't know the circumstances to this unfortunate incident.
Point One - Wathanovski was in Benidorm on his stag night.
Point Two - He had inevitably drank quite a few cold San Miguels.
Point Three - At the time he was dressed in a fancy dress costume which uncannily resembled that one-piece swimsuit worn by Sacha Baron Cohen in his ludicrous comedy film Borat.
Do you know the one I mean? It is an all-in-one lime green contraception which looks like a thong attached to a vest. Imagining what Wathanovski might look like in such gear is the stuff of nightmares.
He sent Smashy a text on Thursday night when we were having a quick beer after work. "Stag going fine, we are now all in our wrestling gear", he informed us.
Now, Smashy must have some kind of clairvoyant powers because he replied: "Where the hell do you keep your phone in that suit?"
Today we appear to have found the answer: You don't.
I'm sure the Spanish police had every sympathy for our soccer writer when he strolled up to the counter in his outlandish costume.

Italian sausages with roasted vegetables

IT'S called "Doing A Withers" and it seems to have become the latest craze. All you have to do is embarrassingly slip over after a few drinks, bang your head and knock yourself out. And to do it properly you must, of course, lose a few teeth for the cause. Whatever, it seems to be more popular these days than that old dance craze The Bump... or even the Wonderful One's own favourite Agadoo (him being a former drummer with Black Lace).
This week we were supposed to be getting reinforcements from our sister paper the Sarf Wales Eggo, but on Tuesday the message came through: "You were going to get Laura Wright, but she fell over and concussed herself on Saturday night."
Further investigation revealed that the young hackette managed to "trip over a laptop" after a rather enthusiastic night celebrating a colleague's birthday - it just happening to co-incide with the day Wales proved themselves the greatest rugby nation on the planet (or so you would think: actually, they only beat England again, but let's not spoil the party for the poor dabs).

Danny Boy (The Poipes, The Poipes) has just returned from a stag night in Barcelona and was caught off guard on Tuesday. Having only landed a few hours earlier on the plane he wasn't quite tuned in when The Voice began droning on in his ultra-deep style, as he is wont to do on occasion. All Danny Boy managed to register was a reference to "the brothel story".
"How the hell do you know about that?" screamed the Poipes, realising too late that The Voice was not referring to his own stag night shenanigans but, rather, the story the deep-voiced one had done last week on some of Cardiff's ladies of the night.
Bet he wished he hadn't Poiped up now. Questions will be asked in the house - hope he's got a good lawyer.

Good old Shuttsy was back on the manor this week, holding court in The Yard about his fab new job on the Beeb. Not being the most technical of animals, however, methinks the giant one is finding some of the gadgetry a bit hard to master. I'm sure he will get to grips with it soon.

On Tuesday night, after a Boozeday Tuesday with Smashy - who was fresh back from a skiing freebie in Finland - The Prince and The Wonderful One, I opted for Italian sausages with roasted vegetables.
What I did was this:
Chopped up potato and celeriac into chunks, together with a red and green pepper, three green chillis, a sliced onion and chopped carrots and celery. I drizzled olive oil over this and put it into an oven already heated at 180 degrees.
After half an hour I added four Italian sausages (bought specially from Whalley's Deli) gave the dish a stir and added salt and some pepper. I cooked that for another 40 minutes then sliced Halloumi cheese over the top and roasted that for another 20 mins.
Then I served it all up in one glorious, roasted mess. Lucious.

A tasty broth(el)

NICEY joined us from the Echo this week, all in the new caring and sharing spirit of Meeja Wales. And one of his first jobs was to send the Voice of God into the midst of heathens.
More to the point he was asked to go and doorstep some rather dubious Massage establishments. I can just picture the scene...
The Voice rings the doorbell of this ne'er-do-well establishment and a lady of the night - clad only in her negligee - answers the door.
She takes one look at The Voice, then exclaims: "Oh my word, is that a snake in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?"
The Voice's response? "It's a corn snake. I call it Ursula Blake my f***ing snake".

That's the kind of quip that has been doing the rounds since The Voice returned, having been offered a threesome ("we're doing a special offer this week, dear, three-for-two" - it sounds like the vice equivalent of Tesco's) and a bargain deal on Oral. Imagine The Voice of God's deep baritone chuckle booming out before he responds: "I'm quite happy with my own voice, thank you very much."
Of course, the man of whom we speak more commonly goes by the name of Macca in the office, though it appears a new moniker might be catching on pretty quickly. His frequent trips to Vice dens over the past week have prompted a vowel change... Now he's called Mucca to his close friends.

Meanwhile, things just keep getting worse and worse in the gloomy world of the Wonderful Withers of WoS. He has now been four days without hot water, apparently, and is at a desperate stage.
While cold showers in the morning suit the image he has been honing of the most put-upon person on the planet, I think he might consider a more drastic form of action: like withholding his rent until the landlord gets off his arse and gets the boiler fixed.
Mind you, the wonderful one has found a temporary solution. Recently he has been seen sneaking upstairs to the MD's floor and making use of the deluxe showering facilities on offer there. "It's brilliant," he exclaimed earlier tonight. "Much better than my own shower."
Attaboy, Withers.

Had a few beers with Withers and Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes) last night and the subject came around to relationships. The Poipes is smarting a bit on the basis that he has failed to assert himself properly when it comes to the TV gadget. "Every time I want to watch the football, she has to watch every blinking soap that's going."
So why, I suggested, doesn't he just get Sky multi-room and go to watch the footie in the bedroom.
"Oh, she won't have that - says we might as well not be together. She likes us snuggling up on the sofa while she watches all those bloody soaps."
Ah, right. Intrigued, I inquired further of the mechanics in this battle of the Sexes.
"I take it, then, that she watches the football with you when you finally get your hands on the TV remote control once a week," I suggest.
"Oh no, she buggers off upstairs and leaves me to it," he replied.
All's unfair in love and war, it seems.

Crispy Sea Bass in a chilli thai sauce

YOU may have noticed that there has been little activity on this blog lately. That is because the entire inhabitants of Wales on Sunday appear to have turned into some kind of God-fearing, non-drinking, early kipping cult. It is a bit like the Stepford Wives. One night the Fugitive leaves the pub rocking from that last couple of G and T's, the next day he is totally adverse to any suggestions that it might be worth "popping over the road for a few" after work.
And it has been very much the same with everyone else. The wonderful Withers (the tooth, the whole tooth and anything but the tooth) sidles away in that morose way of his, grumbling more than he has ever done. I think he may, in fact, have turned into Larry David.
"My name is misery and I shall inflict myself upon you at every opportunity," seems to be his mantra. Is this the same man who used to jump around mentally to ELO? I'm not so sure. I might have to pay him a surprise visit sometime, just to make sure Dirty Tim hasn't hidden the body somewhere and replaced it for an even more gloomy model. Might explain the New Year's Eve bruises.
It all reached a head last Friday when, for the first time in my living memory, not one staff member of WoS ventured over to the pub. Well, that doesn't include the Little Bowling Ball but he doesn't socialise much with us anyway on the basis that he disappears up the Boar's Backside to drink on his own and chat up any underage barmaid he can find: "Hello, my dear (creep, creep) fancy a rollie?" Thank God he's so old he thinks grooming on the web is the way spiders wash each other.
I felt very sad, and a bit deprived to be honest, as I wandered home on my own to a quiet night in with the telly, for God's sake. No Wren, either, on the basis that our work rotas are totally out of sync at the moment. Drat.
And the Prince of Darkness? Of course he wasn't abstaining. Trouble was he was away in Amsterdam with the Boss and his mates Biff, Griff, Jiff, Tiff and Sniff (to name a few Iffy types) getting up to all manner of things that I couldn't possibly guess at. It's not that the Prince is reticent to tell us about the good times he had while the rest of us were slaving away in Fawlty Towers, it's just that he can't remember any of it - apart from the sign on the wall of a pub called Nellies, where the boss stopped off to watch his beloved Bhoys. "No sectarian chanting, no smoking, no eating, no shouting..." sounded a bundle of laughs.

This week the former chief executive of the Welsh Rugby Union, David Moffett, paid us a visit to give us a talk on "Change Management". And very enjoyable it was, too. Quite useful, as well, for those of us at the sharp end of moulding together Meeja Wales.
His main laws seem to be: 1. Don't be afraid to piss anyone off. 2. Get rid of numpties. 3. Create chaos and build from there. Sound advice - it could even be the mantra of how I lead my life.
Also got to draw up a floor plan of how our new operations might be incorporated into the old offices. Spoke to IT about the situation and they made one hard and fast rule. "If we are to move all these computers around we insist on a clean desk policy."
"Absolutely," I replied, hoping they hadn't seen my desk of late. Come to think of it I HAVEN'T SEEN MY DESK OF LATE. Oh well.
The Gas, by the way, have drawn Southampton at home in the FA Cup fifth round. Wembley here we come. Rosey and Woody will both be shaking in their boots at the prospect of "the Mighty Red and White Stripes" having to pay a visit to Fortress Mem.

Cooked a very nice crispy sea bass this week, though the recipe from my new Nigel Slater book was actually supposed to be for Haddock or Hake, I believe. Still, this is how I did it...
Two fillets of sea bass
two tablespoons of cornflour
three red chillis
three spring onions, shredded
three cloves of garlic, thinly sliced
a tablespoon of light soy sauce
a tablespoon of thai fish sauce
a handful of basil and flat leaf parsley.

What I did:
Dragged the sea bass through the cornflour so it was nicely covered
heated vegetable or sunflower oil in a wok or deep pan - Enough to deep fry the bass.
When smoking hot deep fry the bass for three to four minutes then remove and keep warm in the oven, covered with foil
Drain off most of the oil but leave a small puddle int he bottom of the wok.
Fry up the spring onions, red chillis and garlic. The garlic must brown but not burn.
Add the soy sauce and fish sauce and stir.
Then add the basil and parsley.
Drizzle the sauce over the fish.

As an accompaniment I brought some new potatoes, halved, to the boil and simmered them for 10-15 minutes, then transferred them to a frying pan where I fried them in butter and oil together with some sliced leek.
When the potatoes crisped up and browned a bit I served them up as a side dish.

A birthday cornish pastie

WHAT better way to celebrate your birthday (the grand old age of 48 today) than to watch The Gas win a thrilling FA Cup tie against Fulham. Well, the game was played on a quagmire of a pitch and actually finished 0-0, but our lot are becoming a dab hand at penalties, having beaten a nine-man Orient side by the same manner in the previous round. I also enjoyed one of the fantastic cornish pasties they sell at the Mem. Next stop Barnet!

I had some great birthday presents, like a retro Rovers shirt from my brother, a Fall CD, two cookbooks and Sixth Sense, the story of the Gas' promotion year from Wren. I have also got Duncan Fletcher's autobiography so I can now find out the true story of why we poor Barmy Army souls had to suffer the humiliation of a 5-0 Ashes whitewash in Australia last winter. It seems a long time ago.


On Sunday Wren and I travelled up to Birmingham to finally buy the engagement ring. On the advice of Wathanovski we stayed overnight in the city - enjoying a relaxing night at the City Inn around the beautiful canal area. We had a good stroll around in the rain, then enjoyed a tasty evening meal at the Homemade Burger Co on the tow path.

Next morning we braved the bad weather to walk to the jewellery quarter where we got some helpful advice on how to search out the best quality diamonds, settling on a ring from Bond and Martin jewellers. I had spent the previous day trying to remember the pin number to my credit card. Eventually I got it right and handed over the hard-earned dosh, only to get a big shock the next day. Checking my bank statements I realised that instead of paying out of my credit card account, I had actually managed to stump up a rather substantial amount from my bills account, leaving me the best part of £500 overdrawn. Doh!
A quick call to the bank, though, and they generously agreed to extend my limit. Now I'll spend the rest of the year paying it off, I imagine. But it's all worth it - honest, Wren!

bacon and mushroom sauce with grilled polenta

AT last Wren has seen my true colours - and she is still sticking by me. That must be some miracle in itself and well worth a gem encrusted ring running into, well, the hundreds. I was unable to contain myself on Shutts' leaving do night, particularly on arriving at the City Arms to see my own personal DJ in full flow.
All I needed to hear was the first few bars of XTC's Senses Working Overtime to wind my tie around my head, remove my shirt and leap around like a demented 40-something punk rocker - which I guess is what I am. Hammered, is the official word for it.
Still, there was no lasting damage, apart from the banging sensation in my head this morning, so I think I got away with it.

THERE was a terrific turnout to say goodbye to the big man and I was charged with drawing up a WoS souvenir front page for him and giving his leaving speech. I think both went down pretty well, but I have got to praise Shutts for his quick-thinking riposte to my monologue.
"When I arrived at Wales on Sunday I thought I knew everything there was to know about journalism," said the Big Man. "Rippers, quickly told me I was wrong, because HE knew everything about journalism!"
Touche.
From there it was over to The Yard where the great and the good - former colleagues of the gentle giant - arrived en masse. There was also his little harem of party-girl Lyds, Sian off the Echo and others too many to mention.
Even good old Rosey and Becks got on the train from London to turn up and wish him bon voyage. Not that he is going very far, just around the corner to Llandaff Towers. He has landed a job on the Beeb website. Traitor.
Harry Hawkins, our former work experience lad who always enters to his own theme tune, turned up as well. When Harry makes an appearance the entire WoS crew sticks its thumbs behind its lapels, in the manner of Dick van Dyke in Mary Poppins, and bounces around from foot to foot, knees pumping high, to bellow in Mockney voices "Arry Awkins, Arry Awkins, Arry, Arry Arry Awkins". Poor bloke, must be getting a bit sick of it by now. Mind you, serves him right for working on the Newport Argos Catalogue, I mean newspaper.
There was also a brief appearance by the grey-bearded wizard of former sports desks across south Wales, one Ray Parker. Ray, now retired, didn't realise until I informed him last night that his name prompts a hundred impression on the People and Star news desks when mentioned. Thanks to my old mate Stu, who used to take off Ray for them on a Saturday night.
You see Ray used to do a bit of radio, and covered Merthyr Tydfil for his sins.
And Stu loved the way he used to sign off: "This is Ray Parkeeeer from Penydaaaaren Paaark". A legend, our Ray, more so than he realises.

At one stage I somehow managed to forget the smoking ban, lighting up in the upstairs bar of The Yard, to which Rosey gently reminded me: "Rippers, you can't smoke in here any more".
The amount I've moaned on about it, you would think I would remember its existence.
That was probably the last coherent thought I had that night.

On Thursday night I had some ready-cooked polenta, and decided it would be a good idea to grill it with some grated parmesan sprinkled on top.
It would be a bit plain on its own so I mixed up a quick bacon, mushroom and tomato sauce.
I chopped up onions and crushed some garlic, then fried it gently in olive oil and butter so that it softened, adding bacon and turning the heat up slightly to cook it.
I then added a mixture of button mushrooms, chestnut mushrooms and oyster mushrooms and cooked them for a while before adding four tomatoes, pureed in the new mixer Wren bought me for christmas, along with a handful of ripped basil and flat-leaf parsley leaves and some salt and black pepper.
Leaving that to simmer on the stove I then turned the grill up to full and chopped the polenta into thick slices. I gave them a quick dusting of olive oil then cooked them on the one side (it took a while to get them to crisp) before turning them over and grating the parmesan over the top. When that started to brown I removed them from the grill, put them on a plate then poured the bacon and mushroom mixture over the top.

A nice Italian (psychologist)

I feel like I've somehow wandered onto the set of the fugitive. Rather than sitting next to good old Roberts he appears to have been replaced by Dr Richard Kimble. Where once there was an Elvis Presley wannabe there now seems to be a haunted figure on the run from the law. I keep looking around to see if Tommy Lee Jones is lurking in the background.
Friends assure me that said mystery man is, in fact, Roberts. The difference is that he has decided to grow himself a thick black beard which entirely covers his chin and ages him about 15 years. This is a man who, only a couple of weeks ago, was talking about having a middle aged crisis, having reached the astoundingly old age of 41. Never mind.

Talking of youngsters, the big man is leaving. Shutts dragged his huge frame out of the building on Saturday and will never be seen lurking the corridors handing out pattacakes to his girlie groupies again. A sad thing.
He will leave a big hole in our lives, mainly down to the fact that he's so tall he makes the Eiffel Tower look like a traffic cone. Not only that, but he was the tea monitor, badgering you every minute of the day. "£1 for a cup of tea, Rippers?" he would say like some overgrown version of Cardiff's favourite tramp, Shaky Hands Man.
Still, I'll miss the big yun. He is off to work on the Beeb's website, poor chap, and no doubt he will come back kicking and screaming to join us all in the wonderful new world that is Meeja Wales.
For now, though, we are saying an extended goodbye to him.

On Wednesday we went out to a nice little Italian restaurant to bid farewell to the big man. I had offered to pay, having received our generous christmas donation from one of the correspondents who believes the best way to continue writing stuff for the paper is to send us enormous cheques in the post. And, by jove, it seems to work.
Anyway, enough of this bribery and corruption, on to more exciting matters. There was Wathanovski, Smashy, the Prince of Darkness, the Fugitive, Shutts and myself who visited Prezzo on St Mary's Street in Cardiff.
Kimble, being the swarthe bastard he claims to be, perused the wine list and ordered a special vintage for the table, without checking for anyone else's approval. When the Lithuanian waitress returned later with the wrong one he was not best pleased and sent her scurrying back to the kitchen - poor girl.
That was when the restaurant decided to send in the big guns in the form of another waitress who obviously had experience of dealing with the likes of the prickly one. After a brief conversation she looked into the Fugitive's eyes and declared: "I'm a student psychologist". We all waited for answers, but even she wasn't qualified enough to analyse the workings of our colleague's mind.
It was an enjoyable meal, it must be said. I had a very nice, and pretty spicy, Calzone.
And it was helped all the more by the fact our departing colleague Shutts didn't drink all night - him being t-total - and turned himself into designated driver to give us all a lift home. Another reason why he'll be greatly missed.

The wonderful Withers has two new front teeth. They cost £2,600. Ouch!
As he put it, instead of going to the City Arms on New Year's Eve it would have been cheaper to take a round trip to Sydney to see the fireworks on the harbour bridge.
Mind you, Withers probably would have fallen off.

Dexter John Perry - a tribute

THE packed crematorium was hushed, a tear in most eyes, as we said farewell to all-round good guy Dexter Perry, who died over Christmas after a long-running battle with illness. A sad day. But I couldn't help but break into a smile as the vicar bowed his head and the music began - not the soul-searching sound of the church organ but the opening bar chords of that great Clash anthem "Should I stay or should I go?". I must admit the man in charge of the service didn't quite know how to act as Joe Strummer bellowed: "Darling you've got to let me know... should I stay or should I go?"
If requesting this particular piece of music - rather than the more common choices of Frank Sinatra's My Way or Robbie Williams’ Angels - was Dexter's final act, then it was one that summed him up. A person full of mischief, good humour and, put simply, fun. And in answer to the question: You should have stayed, Dex, for much longer.

THE first time I heard the name Dexter Perry was when I was at junior school. My future friend didn't even go to the same one as me but as a kid I used to report on the school football team (being classed too small to play in it - some things never change!)
One day our sportsmaster gathered the team around for a pre-match briefing. He finished it off with "... and don't you worry about that Dexter Perry." Even at the age of 10 his impact was spreading far and wide.
By the time I got to the Ridings High School his name was already legendary, possibly because his dad had taken to naming him after that former England cricket captain Ted Dexter. It was a name that stood out. And Dexter - tall for his age, well built, and a dab hand at any sport he chose to follow, whether it be basketball, football or athletics - lived up to the name.
It was after school that we started to get to know each other - at the Rising Sun public house in Frampton Cotterell, if the truth were known. We used to sneak in there as 14 year olds, Dex tall enough to pass for a lot older while I hid behind him, wearing a cravat because I was convinced it made me appear more mature.
Evenings of knocking back cider and blackcurrant or lager and black, accompanied by a game of three-card brag, were followed by a slow, meandering wobble to Fromeside Youth Club for a night of mayhem. Underage drinking? Terrible thing.

There was also a famous trip to the Rheine Valley in Germany. A crowd of us went across and I recall a night spent drinking German Bier in the front room of a bar that resembled a little house. While we supped away at the strong lager we watched European football on the TV, cheering on West Ham and singing "I'm forever blowing bubbles". When we realised that you didn't have to pay for your beers immediately we kept getting the orders in, then worried what the final tab would be. Looking at each other, we did an immediate runner back to the hotel.
Dex had been wearing green that night but by the time the teacher knocked on our dorm door an hour later most of us were ready for bed. The only one who wasn't was Graham - and he hadn't been with us that night. When we opened the door the teacher announced: "A local bar has complained that a group of English schoolkids had run away without paying for drinks. He said one of them was wearing green trousers and a green shirt." His eyes scanned Graham whose clothes, purely co-incidentally, were a complete match. The legend of Shades of Green was born.

A bit older and Dex and I began to frequent the Western Coach House. The landlord there, Howard, told us he was thinking of launching a pool team and, naturally, we became the founder members. It shocked Howard a bit though when I suggested we put on a bit of a bash for Dex's birthday. "How old will he be?" asked the barkeep. "Um, 18 actually," was the reply. This was around a year after we first became regulars.

I recall, too, when Dex first began his job at Sun Life in Bristol. I used to meet him in the Full Moon in Stokes Croft for games of pool with his workmates, normally followed by a good old session. And I remember when he first met Karen, nee Paulton, his future wife, and the instant chemistry between the two.

The build-up to the wedding, though, didn't go without its hiccups. Quite alot, in fact, when you consider the stag night was a visit to Bath and an evening's supping of strong natch - natural dry cider. Having hired a coach for the trip it departed the following morning with only five of the original 20 strong party on board - the rest of us were in the cells at Bath police station trying to uncover who had smashed a window in the local supermarket. I pleaded complete innocence for this, having only turned up at the door of the cop shop to ask the way to the coach depot. After a number of interviews the culprit was finally uncovered: Dexter's best man.
When Karen found out he was promptly removed from the post...

The last time I saw Dex was on the night bus on the way back from Bristol at about 2 in the morning. We had a grand reunion before he went into hospital for another operation which amounted to a full blood transfusion. It was a great night, catching up after more than 25 years. He had lost a bit of hair and was the father of two lads, Jordan and Taylor, but apart from that he had changed very little. He still had the element of mischief, the cheeky grin and the love of fun. We ended up in some super club called Oceania which had a floor for 70s and 80s music. It was like old times. And I almost lost my shoes after kicking them off for a dance. I luckily caught a waiter as he walked off with them on a tray alongside all the glasses he had been collecting.

Thursday was a sad, wet day, but great to catch up with old school friends, some of whom I didn't recognise. There was a Labour MP, Dexter's life-long partner-in-crime, Danny Norris or Nogin as we knew him. There was also Martin Mogy Caine, Mike Salter, Haydn Vaulters, Rich Burden and Pete Brunt - to name just a few. Even Howard and Moira, who had run the coachhouse during those heady days in the late 70s and early 80s, were there. It reminded me of what great times those had been and of which Dex had been an integral part. He will be greatly missed.

Wedding cake

I can't hide the truth any longer. I have been having these terrible urges lately and I think I am going to have to come clean before I drive myself batty. And I apologise to those poor souls who know about it already but... I am going to marry Wren.
Not today, you understand. It is a bit late to arrange that now. Not even next week, I shouldn't think, because we are still financially struggling to get over that festival of ridiculous excess they call Christmas. In fact, I am not really sure when. The first job is to actually get an engagement ring.
But for me to take such a giant leap, particularly after my previous dire history of broken down relationships, is pretty monumental, earth-shattering, stuff. I guess, though, that the impact Wren has had on me is... well... the equivalent of the impact a concrete pavement might have on a set of the wonderful One's Gnashers. Anyway, that's enough soppiness...

Talking of the wonderful one, it was pointed out to me the other day by the mischievous Wathanovski that the wonderful Withers of WoS may have put his broadcasting career in jeopardy by his "fall from grace".
He is certainly struggling to speak at the moment and perhaps the best thing is that the docs have told him that due to the absurdly strong painkillers he is taking he won't be able to drink for THREE MONTHS - that should prevent any more serious pavement mishaps, at least.
Of course by then Boozeday Tuesday will officially be a thing of the past. The poor dab must have surgery and root canal work done, as well as a new set of crowns fitted to fill the gap he is currently lisping through.
It isn't funny so the heartless actions of my fellow colleagues have left me open mouthed (sorry about that).
There was the Voice of God the other day asking Withers, on his first day back at work, whether he could repeat that catchy phrase: "Red lorry, yellow lorry".
Picking up on this theme the Fab BB - who went above and beyond the call of duty to return to work and help out our desperately short-staffed crew even though he actually finished for good two weeks ago - inquired whether Withers might attempt: "Around the ragged rocks, the ragged rascal ran."
Cheap laughs all round. It does make me wonder, though, if we have a new Jonafon Woss in our midst. I have even found myself addressing him with the title he loves best: The whiter and bwordcathter Math Withhhus."

Talking of weddings Wren, Roberts, Shutts and I were honoured guests at the nuptials of our old friend Nickers last week. It was held at the lovely Miskin Manor just outside Cardiff.
We missed the actual ceremony because of work commitments and the party was in full swing by the time we arrived. But we still managed to catch up on the drinking, which is the joy of having a designated tee-total driver like Shutts around to ferry you back and forth.
Nickers looked radiant, and smashed to be fair, but had obviously had a wonderful time. A live band provided the music, the food was great and it was just a shame the bar shut early. By that time, though, and after a long Saturday in the office, it was probably just as well.
Best of luck Nickers and Gareth, I hope it all works out great. You're on my wedding list for 2012 (joking, Wren, honest!)

... And finally, for a recipe (shock, horror I hear you cry). I wanted something quick and easy and some Nigel Slater recipe cards free with the Observer mag provided the perfect answer.
The bean and bacon gratin I made certainly filled a hole.
YOU NEED:
1 large onion
2 tbsp olive oil
thyme sprigs
smoked bacon (six chopped rashers) or pancetta cubes
2 cans 400gms haricot beans
200g creme fraiche
3 tbsp parmesan cheese.

TO DO:
Set the oven to 200/gas mark 6
Peel onion, halve it then cut into thick slices.
pour olive oil into frying pan.
Cook onions till golden and soft then add leaves from the thyme sprigs and stir in.
Put the bacon or pancetta into the pan and stir occasionally until fragrant but NOT browned.
Drain beans, rinse in a sieve under cold tap.
Tip into onions and bacon, then add the creme and stir till it bubbles.
Check seasoning, and add salt and pepper if required. It will probably need some.
Put in a baking dish, grate cheese over the top, then bake for 30 minutes till top crisps and bubbles around the edges.
Serve with whatever you fancy. How about a nice French baton with butter or a stick of garlic bread? Yummy!

Hospital food (through a straw)

LIKE a persistent FBI investigator, this blog is trying to piece together the events of the early hours of New Year's Day in the hope of discovering the whereabouts of a set of missing front teeth.
Not mine, you understand. You may recall I broke one of mine on exactly the same day last year in Sydney when a particularly tough piece of pork crackling was to blame.
No, the latest incident happened after a fab New Year's Eve party in the City Arms, with music provided courtesy of my own personal DJ Jase. The great and the good of the Meeja Wales formation-boozing ensemble gathered at this favourite haunt in Cardiff to ring in 2008 in style.
The Prince of Darkness and the Wonderful Withers of WoS had got the jump on the rest of us, however, having begun to celebrate the end of another fondly forgettable 12 months with some early supping in the Romilly in Canton.
By the time I arrived at 7. 30 the Prince was already tucking into the vodkas with merry glee while WWW was complaining in typical fashion. This time his exact phrase was "It doesn't matter what I drink, I just can't get a buzz on".
Soon the gathered clan was joined by the Fab BB - making yet another great departing gesture before his move to the Smoke - Mad Liz, Smashy, Nicey and Tucker. There was talk at this stage of perhaps moving on, but then DJ Jase roared into action. First he played some Stones and Bowie songs which brought an excited response from the Fab BB, dressed in a jacket which had obviously been filched from an inattentive Royal Navy employee. Upon it was displayed an old war medal and what appeared to be a Metropolitan police badge. "I got it off the internet," he announced, proudly. What he got the war medal for is another matter - battling against the hordes to reach the front of the stage on Men dressed as Ladies night, perhaps.
As I prepared to retire for a ciggie outside my DJ played his mastercard, forcing Withers and I to move into the bar and dance floor area. XTC's "Senses working overtime", my signature tune and one of only two songs by the band our DJ actually possesses, blasted out through the speakers. "1, 2, 3, 4, 5!" we sang with hand gestures indicating that, at this stage of the evening at least, we could still count.
Soon the night was in full swing. There was Rock N Roll by Led Zepp, followed by an excellent set of Ska songs featuring Bad Manners and the Specials. The dancing became more and more frenzied as the beers passed effortlessly down our throats.
The Wonderful One then came up with a masterstroke, and soon Jilted John by Jilted John was blaring out of the speakers. Time for an impromptu pogo. Anyone of my age knows the words off by heart and can roar them at the top of their voices, which I proceeded to do.
As midnight approached the kind bar staff began to give out paper hats and party streamers to help us see in the new year in the appropriate manner. I was delighted to take possession of a paper pirate hat, which went nicely with the magic pirate fingerless gloves that Wren bought me for Christmas. To the uninitiated the Pirate is the symbol for my wonderfully ordinary football team Bristol Rovers - the Gas, as we like to call ourselves.
So 2007 passed out of sight and in came 2008. And with it an early mystery that would tax the combined brains of Poirot, Colombo, Ironside and Sherlock Holmes.
By 1.30 I was safely tucked up in bed with my "The Gas Are Going Up" DVD. And next day past pretty uneventfully as I lazed about, watched more DVDs and made myself a pretty enjoyable supper of Bacon and Beans gratin, a recipe for which I shall post on this site at a later date. There are far more interesting things to impart.
At around 6 I had a phone call from the Wonderful One. "How are you, mate?" I inquired of my colleague.
"Pretty bad, actually," he replied. Hmm. Not an unusual response from the most miserable man in the world. On this occasion, though, he had good reason.
"On the way home I tripped over somehow, landed on my face, knocked out my front teeth again and ended up in A and E," he explained matter-of-factly. Apparently Withers who, as usual, had been carrying the bare minimum amount of money, somehow came across a taxi driver infused with season goodwill who took him to the hospital.
The next day he looked like he had gone six rounds with Mike Tyson. Apparently, even the hospital staff found it hard to believe he had simply tripped and landed on his face. Anyway, the upshot was he was off work, having to visit another doctor the next day. The nerves in his face were damaged, among other things. Terrible.
Details of the fall are, however, very sketchy. And because of that the mystery has been growing. It was fuelled by the appearance of Mad Liz at work on Wednesday, having used strategically placed make up to hide a black eye. "I don't remember how it happened... I must have fallen over," came the excuse. Sound familiar?
Now certain things come back to me, like the way the wonderful One, resembling one of those zombie characters in Shaun of the Dead, was reaching out towards our scatterbrained photographer and pursuing her around the City Arms in the later stages of the evening. I also understand they were the last two of our gang to leave the pub in the early hours.
Could the two injuries be intrinsically linked? Or is it just an incredible coincidence? Who knows? All I can tell you is that ze leetle grey cells are trying to get to the bottom of it.

gammon to last a lifetime

Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes) has won the prize for the most unique Christmas present. Now I don't know what the young man has done to upset his in-laws (apart from rolling in pie-eyed most of the time) but they certainly know how to make a person feel loved.
There he was, delving into the parcels under the tree that were marked with his name, when he came across one that left little to the imagination. The shape of it suggested one thing, and one thing only. But The Poipes thought: "It just can't be."
But, stripping off the wrapping, his worst fears were confirmed. It was a coat hanger. A top-of-the-range coathanger, sure, and as he put it, "It will hold trousers as well as a shirt", but it's pretty difficult to paint it in any better light.
They did actually buy him another present to make up for it - three cans of deodorant. It went with the other four cans that he had received from various people. Are people trying to tell him something, I wonder?

The first Thirsty Thursday after Christmas became a pretty revealing adventure in which we finally learned some of the dark secrets that Roberts has been hiding in his dim and murky past. The secretive one has always managed to keep things under his hat before now, but there was a chance meeting with a former mate of his, over from Japan on a week's holiday.
Shockingly I can reveal:
* He was the bass player in a band called The Trees.
* He used to drink with a bunch of desperados in the Square Club, a now defunct Cardiff boozer for ne'er-do-wells.
* He and Tucker, the Western Mail soccer writer who also doubles up as a stand-up comedian, used to be big boozing buddies.
Ok, it doesn't reveal a great deal - but it's a darn sight more than we ever get out of Wales' No 1 rugby writer normally.

Back to Christmas dinner. Shopping the day before in Waitrose I ventured, "Do we need half a gammon or a full joint."
There was no doubt in the Fat Kid's mind. "We need the big one."
Now, bearing in mind there were just the two of us, plus two tiny tots, it did seem rather excessive, particularly as we were having beef as well, but I went with the flow.
When I got the joint back home I decided to boil it in a pan with fennel, black peppercorns, two onion halves and two carrots. Trouble was it wouldn't fit in the Fat Kid's biggest pot, so I had to cut it in two and do it in two batches.
The secret is to put the gammon in first and cover it with water, then bring it to the boil. Once boiled you then empty the water and fill up the pot again. At this stage you add the veg and the peppercorns, bring back to the boil, skim off the surface and then simmer for the best part of an hour. Rest it then for 20 minutes, and wrap in foil. When it has cooled down put in the fridge to heat in the microwave before eating.
I also chopped potatoes and parsnips, peeled the sprouts, and cut the swede into cubes.
Next day I put the oven on 180 degrees, boiled up big potato chunks and simmered for five minutes before putting in a roasting tin and adding goose fat. With the beef I added liberal sprinklings of rock salt, basil leaves, slices of red and green pepper and three garlic cloves, wrapping all this in silver foil and putting in the oven.
On another baking tray I smothered the parsnips with honey, chopped up two shallots thinly, peeled a couple of carrots, smeared goose fat all over, and put on the bottom shelf of the oven 20 minutes after the beef and potatoes started cooking.
Next I boiled up the swede for a good while until it softened, then mashed it and added a knob of butter.
Meantime I made pigs in their blankets by wrapping streaky bacon around cocktail sausages, and also made up a packet of cranberry and chestnut stuffing, wrapping some of this in more bacon, before using the rest to make small round stuffing balls.
When the beef had been cooking for just over an hour and the potatoes had browned nicely I removed them and the parsnips and carrots from the oven. I put the bacon rolls on a thin baking sheet, put some ready made Aunt Bessie's Yorkshire puddings on another, wacked the heat up to about 225 in the electric oven and put them in.
At this stage I boiled sprouts on the hob and filled another pan with smaller chunks of potato for mash.
After 15 to 20 minutes I removed the Yorkshire puddings which had risen and browned, then returned the beef to the oven.
When the potatoes on the stove had done I mashed them with butter and milk.
When the bacon and beef appeared done I started to load the plates up. Slices of beef, slices of gammon, yorkshire pudding, bacon rolls, stuffing, sprouts, mashed potato, roast potato, parsnips and swede.
I put the carrots and shallots into another pan, added 3/4 pint of cold water, mixed up four heaped teaspoons of Bisto gravy with a small amount of water, added that and brought the gravy to the boil, stirring frequently. When it boiled and thickened I started to heat the food plates in the microwave, finishing off with the gravy. The Fat Kid opted for apple sauce with hers, I went for horse radish. We spent the night blobbed out on the sofa watching Eastenders.

Boxing Day and I suddenly realised the full pain of being a Gashead. I watched my football team draw 1-1 at home to Luton who, by the end of the match, had only eight players left on the field having had three sent off. Oh, the humiliation.

Dinner's in the dog

WHILE most of us were enjoying a luxurious, belly bursting dinner on Christmas Day there was a bit of a surprise in store for the Little Bowling Ball.
Brammy travelled up to enjoy the festivities with his brother's family in the wilds of Powys. The round one who, incidentally, does appear to have started to lose weight (damn his eyes, I don't really fancy thinking up a new nickname for him when I love the current one so much) is nothing if not a creature of habit. And every year he waddles down to the local pub with brother and sister-in-law at his side. On this occasion his nephew from Australia was in attendance, too, I understand.
As the christmas dinner roasts away quite nicely, they proceed to sink a fair few pints of old scroat to "build up the appetite".
Then they struggle back up the hill, rolling Bram along as they go, to settle down and gorge themselves silly.
Imagine their surprise and shock, then, that on entering the house it appears to have been turned over by some cowardly, opportunistic burglar who has, quite literally, ransacked the place.
But first impressions can be deceptive. And it was when they discovered the family dog chewing off the legs of the nephew's golf bag that they began to piece together the true nature of what had taken place.
Apparently the dog (best description from Bram "dunno what make it is but it comes up to about my knees - miniature poodle, perhaps?) has turned from meek, mild household pet to mad dog in the blink of an eye. As well as decapitating the golf bag it has also managed to knock the flower pots from the window sill. And the full horror is yet to come...
Walking into the kitchen, the gathering are horrified to find just a collection of bones where the Christmas turkey had been sitting on the table ready to be reheated. The woofer had scoffed the lot.
Fortunately there was still beef in the oven and the family had to make do with that.
I have a few little suspicions about the validity of the story, though. A. This was a mild mannered dog and b. If you see the amount of food the Bowling Ball consumes on a Saturday you soon realise the guy has a phenomenal appetitie for a person of his dap.
Could it possibly be that, using the excuse of a visit to the loo, he escaped out the back door, sneaked into the house, gorged himself on turkey, placed bones in strategic places near the dog, wound the dog up then escaped back to the sanctity of the pub?
I guess we shall never know.

As for myself, Christmas Day was a delight ... for about 10 minutes. That was before I had to assemble the first of many Taiwanese made kids' toys for the Vin Man and Big Boy. As soon as they opened a parcel to reveal another "do-it-yourself" item, I instantly felt the Christmas spirit drain out of me.
Not only does each particular "toy" require a skilled engineer, carpenter or such to put it together, but they must also have an A level in understanding intricate tech drawings with bits all over the place. And, of course, there is always a screw missing. And I don't just mean in my case.
The worst moment came when we had to put together a "Baby Quad Bike" for the Big Boy. Bloody hell, never had such things in my day I can tell you. You were content with action man, a subbuteo set or, in one extreme circumstance, a brilliant game called pro-shot golf, where a stick the size of a golf club held a little action figure on the end and by pulling a lever up and down you could make him play shots. You could even change the clubs in his hand, too. Provided me with at least 10 minutes of excitement, I can tell you.
Anyway, back to Baby Quad. Having fitted the wheels, and screwed and screwed and screwed until it all seemed relatively right, we found we had one cable still open to the elements. By this time I was really losing it. "Perhaps that is just how it is meant to be," said the Fat Kid.
"Don't be so b***dy stupid. It's got to go somewhere, hasn't it? These bloody kids things, whoever made them are a bunch of tw**s." You get the picture.
Anyway, having finally managed to put it together, with the kids driving me crazy asking for drinks of water, crisps and chocolate while we are doing it, we then realise the battery must charge. The Big Boy is dying to climb on board, but he can't. It only takes a mere 10 hours to charge, I then discover. B*££*+!s
My Christmas dinner, however, was somewhat of a triumph. I'll give the full recipe later cos at the moment I am dying for a pint and Roberts is hanging around making me nervous.

rabbit and gammon suet pudding

GREAT news! I now have the keys to the executive washroom, just like Jack Lemmon in that brilliant comedy the Apartment. What I will have to pay for this privilege I am still waiting to learn.
On Tuesday the long wait came to an end with a phone call from the Boss who, after alerting me to the fact we all had free invites to the opening of a new Vodka bar in Cardiff, slipped into the conversation that my application to become an Executive Editor in the new-fangled Meeja Wales operation had been successful. Wooppee!
Immediately I was informed by Roberts that my membership of Boozeday Tuesday would be torn up and I was no longer welcome at Wednesday Club. "You'll be hobnobbing with the gentry from now on," he inferred sniffily.
But like those entirely honest lottery winners who appear on the news every week I can declare here and now that my new lofty status "won't change me a bit" (Just put a bit more black dubbin on those shoes, so that I can see my face in it, please, Shutts).

Tuesday night in the Yard with Wren, the Prince, Roberts, Withers, Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes), Smashy and Nicey and the news is filtering through about who got which jobs. Nicey informed me that my recollections of Friday night's Echo party ommitted the fact that I had rolled my trouser legs up to my knees and performed a perfectly reasonable impression of Angus Young out of ACDC in Highway to Hell. Apparently there are pictures. No doubt they will turn up in the tabloids thanks to some kiss n tell merchant jealous of my new elevation to Godlike status. For the moment I am denying all knowledge while desperately trying to obtain the incriminating material.
Tuesday was a good night as the election results filtered through. Nicey is Head of Content, Martin Wells head of production and the Greek, as expected, will lead the way in sport with Blanchy as his deputy and Smashy as one of his assistants. Congrats all.
Long after I was tucked up in my bed I understand the Poipes came up with the worst chat up line of all time (bearing in mind, of course, that he had no intention of it being successful, or so he assures me). When introduced in the Buffalo Bar to a girl from Blackwood in Gwent, his alcohol confused brain somehow persuaded him to ask: "Do they have sandwiches there?" Strange is not the word.

Thursday night was about the third official goodbye to the Fab BB. I get the feeling the Wonderful Withers of WoS is already trying to give me the slip on the basis that he cannot be seen to be consorting with management. When I arrived at the Yard the place was packed but of the WoS crew there was no sign. In dire need of a drink I texted Withers. "Where are you guys?" I asked.
The answer came back. "Champneys."
I'd never heard of it but remembered someone had once mentioned a secluded bar at the top of St Mary's Street.
Having walked the entire length and found nothing vaguely resembling Champneys, I questioned the Wonderful One again.
"It's just before you get to Mill Lane on the left hand side," he told me.
Ah, Champers, he means. As opposed to Champneys, which I understand is some luxury retreat where people go to lie around in mudbaths and generally spoil themselves. Tw*t.
There is a good turn out and though the San Miguel comes in at £3.60 a pint at least there are quite a few spare seats. Eventually we all drift on to the new Vodka Bar, called Revolution and situated near Dempseys opposite Cardiff Castle.

What a brilliant night. I've now discovered the best bloody mary in Cardiff, made with pepper vodka, tomato juice, tabasco and Worcester Sauce. "Where's the celery? They give you celery in New Orleans?" I explained to the extremely patient barmaid.
"Just coming sir," she said and next minute there it was, a stick of leafy brilliance poking out from a magnificent cocktail. Curry in a glass. I had a couple more, too.
The place was rammed and there were a few famous faces around. Roberts introduced me to former Wales international rugby player Neil Jenkins. The last time we'd met I presented him with an award. It was many moons ago, back in the days when I had hair. No wonder he smiled faintly and pretended he knew who I was when he obviously hadn't a clue.
Meanwhile, Mad Liz turned up to brighten up the night. First she danced insanely to every sound that came on... then she took a liking to the stags heads adorning the wall. At one stage she was politely told to return one as she smooched lovingly with it around the room.
This led to the invention of a new dance. I don't suppose it has quite the Street Cred of Souljah Boy, but the running stag soon caught on with our lot. It involved putting a curled finger either side of your head and charging towards each other making strange mooing noises. I didn't know stags moo'd but you learn something moo every day. Boom, boom.
At the end it all got a bit emotional. Baker Boy and Catherine Mary, who have had a few disagreements in the past, made friends again while I paid tribute to the Fab One and all he has done for the great ship WoS. I'm sure he will be a great asset to the Peeps. We will miss him greatly.
By this stage I had stripped off my fave shirt, although to be fair I did have on a T shirt underneath. Sadly when I climbed into a taxi just after one in the morning, the shirt was still nestled comfily on a couch in Revolution. At least I went home with my baseball cap and have an excuse to return to the bar again some time.

Friday morning bought the hangover from hell, but I had plenty of things to do. Bas is now fixed, thank God, and I had some last minute shopping to do before setting off for the South East on Saturday.
Opting for an early night my sleep was pretty intermittent, not helped by a congratulatory text from Ballsy at four in the morning! Of course, you can't tell how much people have had to drink when they send a text but the clue was in the timing. I guess if she was saying it, the words would be something like: "M'out wiv Lau..uh Evns and sheesh told me yer've got the job. Sh'brillliant mate." Thanks for the kind words... no matter the time they arrived, Ballsy.

The drive up to Lavernham (a good 250-mile trip) went as well as could be expected though I was still feeling a bit dozy.
I arrived at Wren's mum's at around 3.30pm and after a bit of a chin wag and a lovely cup of t we then spent a romantic evening at the Black Lion in Long Melford, a lovely little hotel which also boasts the best restaurant in Suffolk (not my words but those of the East Anglian Daily Times).
There were a few teething probs, like the heating in our room didn't work, but the dinner was excellent. Wren enjoyed a terrine of Partridge and Hare in an apple cider jelly followed by a whole Sea Bass, while I experimented with Cod and Leek fishcakes followed up by a Suet Pudding containing rabbit and Gammon. These were all served with seasonal vegetables and were lush.
The following morning there was another hiccup. No hot water. But the very friendly staff explained there was a plumbing problem that they were having to sort out and that we could use another room if we needed to shower. Their customer service could certainly teach Cheltenham's stuck-up Hotel Du Vin a thing or to.
There was a lovely cooked breakfast, with Long Melford sausages to die for, and on top of it all a £20 discount for any trouble we had encountered. A lovely Christmas treat.
After writing this blog it's off to Southend, where the Vin Man is currently enjoying his fifth birthday party and the Big Boy has probably eaten all his cake. Merry Xmas to all my readers...

A bowl of mixed nuts

IT was one of those mornings. I woke and peered through bleary, screwed-up eyes at the clock on my bedside table - it had just clicked around to 8.59am. Oh, bugger. I had a minute to get showered, drive into work and then prepare for conference. I decided I wasn't going to make it.
I made pretty quick progress though and was out of the house in 10 minutes. Got into Bas, turned the key... and nothing happened. I had a flat battery on what must rank as the coldest day of the year.
In the end I ran for the bus, and finally got to work 40 minutes late. A pretty poor start to another nightmare Saturday. And all because of the Echo party...

On Friday night we left work determined to have a drink. But it was immediately obvious to Withers, Marc, Danny Boy (the Poipes, the poipes) and myself that this wasn't going to be easy. They were already queueing to get in The Yard and it wasn't even 6pm. Seems like Black Friday had been brought forward by a week.
Eventually we settled on the City Arms, knowing full well that it was rarely packed there any more. We even, wonder of wonders, found a table. And soon the Prince of Darkness, having inquired about our drinking habits via text, arrived to join the melee. The last pay day of the year and we were determined to have a good night.
The City Arms was ok, but the company wasn't up to much. There were three pie-eyed Cardiff City fans determined to sing loud songs while being genuinely disruptive and, horror of horrors, SMOKING in the pub.
So we opted to move on to the New Model Inn next door.
Danny Boy purloined a buxom young BBC wench who was determined to chat up the Fab BB and, when unsuccessful with that venture, moved on to the Prince. The Poipes, meanwhile, was content to admire her buxomness. She was a bit mad, though.
Then off we went upstairs to the Echo do where there was a good turnout. It didn't take long for us all to hit the dance floor - what with it being the Fab BB's unofficial leaving party.
A few more beers, a bit more Christmas cheer and I had managed to persuade the DJ to play Oops upside your head. Gathering a few like-minded idiots we scrambled on to the dirty floor to perform rowing motions to the Gap Band tune.
For some stupid reason I also decided to engage in a 'mock' fight with Nicey. Well, that was what I was supposed to be doing. Somehow at one stage my knee managed to make contact with his nose - a foolhardy action which no manner of apology could forgive. Poor bloke's eyes were streaming. Hope nothing's broken.
Swingler, meanwhile, the Echo photographer who seems to make a habit of being outrageous at the Echo Christmas do, had by now begun a food fight. Only thing was, no one else was playing.
As usual the wonderful one lost something. This time it was his suit jacket AND his phone. And as usual I found them by looking about three inches from where he was standing, crying out with apoplexy at the way the miserable world always picked on him. Numpty, as Woody might say.
Eventually decided to call it a day and wander home early so that I could get in at a reasonable time for the busy day ahead. Imagine my astonishment when I discovered on arrival that it was, in fact, 1.45 and I was totally bladdered. The only thing for it before bed was a little snack of mixed nuts. Thank God I am off work next week.

snakebite

I WAS all of a quiver this morning. There it lay, on my desk. A letter postmarked Buckingham Palace. At last! The OBE was here, the knighthood in the bag, fantastic. Either that or the Queen was cordially inviting herself to the final meeting of Boozeday Tuesday.
"One has a bit of a buzz on," she might have written. "Wowy, wowy." That's if she has a copy of the Prince of Darkness' guide to drinking.
As it was, this was nothing to do with our Prince. It was in fact the Prince of Wales inviting me to an exhibition of the Royal Collection Trust, which is taking place in the drawings gallery at Windsor Castle to celebrate his 60th birthday. Not really up my street, I must confess.

Meanwhile, it appears The Voice of God has decided to revisit the book of Genesis. The Voice is now the proud owner of a snake, would you Adam 'n' Eve it? So what does he call his snake? Sammy Slither? Ka, like the one from the Jungle Book film? Maybe Slippery or Scaley?
When you ask him he has a special patter in which to reveal the Information. In his deep, booming voice he says: "I call it Ursula Blake, my f***ing snake".
Weird is not the word for it.

WoS Xmas party (lamb shanks and many thanks)

WHEN the boss finally decides to move on I can see him fitting into the role of motivational speaker. His performances at our Xmas parties are, quite frankly, legendary. And this time was no exception.
With the impending arrival of One Team Meeja Wales I guess this goes down as the last of the Wales on Sunday parties, even though we are talking of having revival evenings every year.
The WoS xmas party, for anyone who has worked with us or been unfortunate enough to encounter us, tend to turn into mad contests to test every ounce of stamina. I remember the first one was at a rather sleazy Cardiff hotel which doubled up as a venue for prostitutes to peddle their wares and started off on a Tuesday evening at about 7.
After that they began earlier and earlier including one famous year when we had barely touched base in the office before we were off to the Queen's Dungeon for a quick snifter. This was the famous time when one of our number, a certain Smiffy, tried to molest a waiter at a local restaurant and got us banned for life.
On another occasion ex-Echo editor Richard Williams, joining us from the Liverpool Post and as yet to take up his role with the newspaper, was greeted by a gang of scousers wearing black curly wigs and false moustaches and shouting "eh, eh, eh!" at the top of their voices. The Greek, at that time deputy sports editor to myself, got very upset when we told him he could not have one of said wigs. "Why not?" he demanded.
"You don't need one. With that curly perm you already look like a dodgy scouser," we told him.

So on to the Boss.
One year he decided to have a quick word in the ear of our chief reporter. The conversation ended with the chap handing in his resignation there and then.
The Boss always uses the Xmas party to make a lasting impression on his journalists - to outline his in-depth plan to take WoS onwards and upwards. Bouncing to his feet on one occasion, he announced in his delicate Glaswegian drawl (pretty well perfected for an honest-to-goodness Irishman): "A' wan' Shcoops, shcoops, shcoops!"
As tends to be the practice on these occasions everyone looked at each other, mouthing: "What on earth is he saying? Is he asking for the restaurant to bring out the ice cream."
But in his persuasive way the Boss found a way to explain what he was getting at. "Shhhhhhhhcoooops!" he shouted so loud the window pains rattled.

Later he dragged aside our newest recruit Rosey - who had only joined the paper on that day and must have been wondering what on earth was going on. He had yet to even see the inside of our office.
"Hey, you, Jimmy," shouted the boss, probably getting Rosey mixed up with someone else.
He then stood an inch from the face of his quarry and engaged him with a steely eye.
"Ah, wasna' shure whether to take ye on, but Rippers wanted ye so here ye are. Yah better not let us doon, A'm expecting great things from yoos."
Quite a daunting challenge for a guy who had been on the payroll for just five hours.

This year the boss had prepared to give a rousing final send off to the good ship WoS. "S'pleasure to work with ye, your the best crood WoS ever had I reckon (It's something he says every year which just signifies the rapid improved of the product). It's been fantastic."
On this occasion I sneaked away feeling rather emotional about the whole proceedings. But I understand the Boss went around, geeing up the troops until the early hours of the morning.
To the Fab BB, who is leaving us for the Peeps, he declared: "Ah wan yer to goo oot wi' a bang - I'm expecting two Shcoops from yer in yer last two weeks."
Not too much of an ask for a guy of the Fab BB's talent, but he has certainly produced plenty of those since he's been with us and will be greatly missed.
To Danny Boy "the poipes, the poipes": "Who do ye like and who do ye think is a c**t?"
And to Wathanovski, who has only been with us a few weeks since becoming a soccer writer on WoS: "Ah'm shure ye'll be fine in the new regime as long as ye keep producing the stories. Now let me tell you all about Celtic..."
As I say, I wasn't there so there's no way of verifying this, but apparently the conversation continued for the next half hour. Nothing to read here though about Gordon Strachan's mighty green and white army... probably because Wathanovski couldn't understand another word.

Lovely to see Kempy at the do - our first contact since she went off to have baby Paddy - and likewise Captain Mainwaring, who gave birth to George.
The food at Mimosa's in Cardiff Bay was absolutely spectacular, it must be said, the Lamb Shanks, Duck Salad and Oatcake and Cream left me feeling bloated but satisfied. When it came to going on, though, I left it to the younger set who apparently finished up at Buffalo until 3.15 in the morning.
Poor old Robot, though. He turned to the Boss and the Prince of Darkness and slurred: "See yoush inthe morning."
"Nah, ye won't son, A've booked the day off!" revealed the Boss.
The Prince meanwhile is on a week's holiday (no truth in the rumour he is spending it at the Priory)
Warriors as we are on WoS the guys who did show up, despite the green-faced appearances, put in a full day's work.
Outstanding. The Boss will be so proud, as no doubt he'll tell us in the pub sometime...

corned beef sandwich

ANOTHER day, another Crimbo party, but I was still feeling pretty green by the time the Wales News shindig began at 6.30pm. A couple of beers and a few hellos and then it was off home on the bus - at least it would have been if the bus had turned up. Instead I had to wait in the freezing cold for 30 minutes until three No 8s came along at once. Of course, sod's law that I would get on the one that stopped at every point on the journey to pick up hordes of late night christmas shoppers.
Throughout the day more stories emerged of the high jinx at the Equinox do, including the time I earnestly tried to persuade a PR person to hand over an exclusive story while wearing a tie around my head. Apparently I wasn't the only one knocked for six by the cocktails. Friend of Withers managed to fall across a table sending drinks flying everywhere.
At least the PR girl who spoke to me at the bar is now fully aware of Wales on Sunday.
Having joined the company barely two months before, she introduced herself and asked where I was from.
When the reply came she nodded sagely. "I was in the office collating all the responses to our invite and they nearly all came from your newspaper. I asked one of the other girls why that would be. She simply replied 'oh yes, Wales on Sunday. They like a drink'.
Hope this doesn't get around. Meeja Wales newspapers have been doing stories for the last six months about the booze culture affecting Wales, in particularly in relation to their underperforming rugby team.
Fair play to WRU media manager John Williams then. He arrived at a leaving do for Rimmer, my erstwhile colleague at Westgate Sports Agency who has just taken the job of press officer for the new Wales coach Warren Gatland. As our colleague on the Snail, Simon Thomas, arrived and hot-footed his way to the bar gagging for a pint, John said caustically: "So this is the drinking culture you've been writing about, is it?"
Touche.

Sorry for the lack of recipes lately, but I just haven't found the time to cook. Last night involved a corned beef sandwich with tomato, pepper and brown sauce. It hit the spot a bit better than the breakfast curry I must say.
PS Any information on the Prince of Darkness' late-night activities on Thursday night would be gratefully received. All in the strictest confidence, of course.

Cold breakfast curry

"THE HORROR, the horror". I had an Apocalypse Now moment this morning when the Fab BB thrust his phone in my face and showed me a disturbing picture of a bloke looking remarkably like the bald-headed, topless, totally insane Marlon Brando from the aforementioned film. I was even more disgusted when I realised that said image was of me having apparently removed my shirt during the karaoke Christmas Party held by the PR firm Equinox. Free booze, free food, free entertainment - where could you go wrong?
By ordering giant jugs of some strange cocktail that bore a passing resemblance to Margueritas, that's where. Roberts (for I unreservedly blame him) decided it would be a good idea to order two of these jugs when, quite frankly, I was happy to continue merrily sipping away on the lager.
As I recall he sidled up to the bar, accosted the barman, and announced: "A jug of Mojitas, my good man." It was the start of the slippery slope as Myself, Roberts, Smashy, the Prince of Darkness, the Fab BB, Withers and Friend of Withers tucked in with relish (well, I'm not saying we added relish to the drink, but at this time anything seemed acceptable)
It was a short step from there to joining Mad Liz at the mic as she performed a highly original version of the Proclaimers "I'm gonna be (500 miles)" without apparently ever having heard the song before. She managed to make up the words, but did manage to sing them in a passable Glaswegian accent having spent the previous two weeks on holiday in Scotland.
Then settled back to watch the other brave efforts to entertain us, until finally getting a bit bored by the time Aled, a reporter from the Snail, stepped up to the plate. It just happened that at that moment there were plenty of empty cocktail glasses around containing redundant straws and pieces of lime.
For some strange reason, by this time sans shirt, I decided it was time to deliver my verdict on the unfortunate hack by means of throwing fruit and straws in his general direction.
Cannot remember much else, to be honest, but waking at 6am this morning, feeling like crap, I realised I was still half clothed and then recalled at some point buying a chicken curry off the bone at Dirty Dots in Cardiff's Chip Alley. Not recalling having eaten curry I made a quick trip to the kitchen where I discovered it, still neatly wrapped, on the draining board.
Well, waste not, want not...

waggon wheels (rollin' rollin' rollin')

REMEMBER that famous film of the veteran US soldier in the wheelchair entitled "Born On the Fourth of July". Well I reckon the Prince of Darkness will star in the sequel "Born Yesterday".
Tuesday's Boozeday events were interrupted by a scruffy looking individual in a wheelchair who, however hard I tried to imagine it, bore absolutely no resemblance to Tom Cruise. Having been helped out of Sh*tty O'Grim's by a very kindly Smashy so that he could have a cigarette, the man in the chair, having drunk a steady stream of pints of Stella throughout the afternoon, decided to follow our motley crew to The Yard.
While the Wonderful One, Roberts and I were standing outside puffing on a tab, he rolled up to within a few feet of the pub back door and demanded: "Help me boys I am in desperate need of the toilet."
Withers was his usual christian self. Keeping his eyes firmly fixed in the other direction, he insisted: "I'm not helping him, that's Smashy's job. Anyway you might have to get his thingy out!"
Smashy, however, was firmly ensconsed in his pint inside and had not seen the dilemma facing us at a time of Goodwill to All Men.
At that moment the Prince of Darkness decided to join us for a cigarette. And, lo and behold, it was the macabre one who came to the rescue. Roberts, belatedly, sprang into action and they wheeled the poor chap, now fast asleep in his chair, down a ramp, into The Yard, and helped him into the toilet.
I can't record what happened within those confines because a. I wasn't going anywhere near the scene and b. Because the Prince and Roberts remained completely tightlipped when rejoining us at our table.
All Roberts would offer was "he's hardly an invalid, he's only busted his foot and he's got a plaster on that". He then insisted that our "war hero" would have no trouble leaving the confines of the men's room.
Ten minutes later and he was revising that assumption. "Come on Prince of Darkness, we'd better go and find him."
Moments later the Prince and Roberts emerged, pushing our poor vet out into the street once more.
Only Roberts returned. The Prince, he told us, had gone to help the poor blighter cross the road to O'Neill's.
Ten minutes passed... 15... 20. Of the Prince, there was no sign. Had he decided to push the geezer all the way back to his home in Culverhouse Cross, the invalid ordering "just a bit further mate," like that guy who carried a woman's pushchair to the top of a mountain in a famous episode of The League of Gentlemen?
Withers went out as a one-man search party to find him. He returned a few minutes later. No sign. He picked up his phone and tried to ring the Prince. There was a ringing noise on the table. The Prince had left his phone behind.
Finally, the Prince arrived, looking flushed and out of breath. "It's just not right," he said, shaking his scraggy main and turning puce from the cold and effort. "I pushed him into O'Neill's but they couldn't find the key to the disabled toilets. The bloke was very apologetic but it's a disgrace really.
"I then had to push him on to the Queen's Vaults. Thankfully someone knew where he lived and offered to make sure he got home. I had visions of walking the entire length of St Mary's Street looking for a toilet."
His mood wasn't helped when one of the Yard Birds (our politically correct nickname for the female members of the Yard staff) told him: "Oh yeah, he was hear the other day. Sick all down his front, p*ss*d himself. It's a regular occurence."
The invalid, I think she meant, NOT the Prince of Darkness.
I get the feeling the Prince might be hiding in the shadows next time the drinkers' version of Ironside comes asking questions...

Saturday night and we had an early finish. We were printing WoS in Birmingham so that they could shut the Cardiff press down and do urgent repairs. So we all decided to go out on the town to celebrate the birthday of Withers' flatmate Grace.
We decided to call this outing Super Saturday. It was like lifers being on day release from a maximum security prison, and we drank accordingly.
Smashy, the Prince, Baker Boy, Withers and myself were joined by Wren, Posh and Becks. Eventually we adjourned upstairs for their excellent Indie night Twisted by Design. And the booze kept flowing.
At one stage I bumped into one of my Beeb fan club Steffan, and to show our new cameraderie we took over a piano in a backroom - even though I have never played the thing before in my life. As a result we produced a quite effortlessly tuneless duet. Girlfriend Wren, frightened we would be chucked out or, worse, accosted by giant bouncers, stuck by her man. Or rather, she scarpered pretty quickish. Eventually an old bloke turned up and said: "Please leave it alone boys we have only just had it tuned."
At the end of the night, after voddies and all manner of other alcoholic mixtures, there was suddenly a great catastrophe. It began with Withers: "I can't find my coat!" he shouted.
I wandered over before he lost the plot, pointed to a coat three yards away and inquired: "Is that it?"
He looked at me quizzically. "Only when I have put my hands in the coat pockets and found something that I own can you call me a tw*t," he ordered.
Two seconds later I called him a tw*t.
Meanwhile, there was more upheavals elsewhere.
"I can't find my jacket," said Wren.
"Nor can I," declared the Prince.
"Nor me," said Smashy, making his way out of the building and down the stairs.
Within seconds I had found all three jackets. Just call me Coatfinder General.