WELL here I am on the new shiny hub in the new building, imaginatively called 6, Park Street, after a poll of employees obviously climbed over themselves to come up with a name for the Meeja Wales HQ.
First impressions are great, with the air conditioning a major bonus after the sweatshop next door at Thompson Towers. Not sure about the new phone system, though. Have already lost 10 "customers" trying to transfer them to different departments. The sounds eminating from my desk have been something like this:
"Hello, Meeja Wales. Echo Newsdesk? I'll try to put you through," followed by, "bugger, what does that light mean?" followed by "bugger, lost them." I imagine our loyal readers must be getting pretty p***ed off, let alone the PR girls called Jemima and Jezebella who make up 90 per cent of the calls, inquiring whether you have received a press release that hasn't a hope in hell of going into the paper and has already been sent to every other department in the building.
Still, I am sure we will master it.
And the new swipe card to get through the football-style turnstyle is fantastic. You just leave it in your wallet, then waive said wallet in the approximate vicinity of the little grey thingy on the side and... hey presto, the light turns green and you are granted admission. Wooh, little things please little minds, I know.
It's going to be a largely paperless office apparently, though I managed to sneak two metal trays containing half a rain forest past the anal police (well, Fazza anyway).
AP Fazza is looking pretty pleased with himself, as well he should. I haven't the heart to tell him that the giant screen everyone was raving about is miles away from the hub and you need one of those gimmicky plastic things containing mirrors to see it from where I sit. I used to have one when my dad took me on the football terraces as a wee six year old so that I could see over the crowds.
At least I can look straight at the big spelling mistake on the glass wall opposite me, designed to "inspire" us in our work. Someone even had the guts to tell AP Fazza that the quote from Gandhi was fine, it was just the fact that Gandhi was spelt wrong!
Anyway it has all been such a shock to the system I feel a resurrection of Boozeday Tuesday coming on.
I was bringing out WoS in the absence of the editor this weekend, so I decided to have an early night on Friday - and failed miserably. We ended up in the City Arms, all the usual suspects - Smashy, Withers, the Prince and yours truly.
And there was a magnificent surprise in store... my personal DJ Jase has managed to finally get hold of more than the two tracks by XTC that he previously owned. I was so excited when I heard the first bars of Sergeant Rock that I wrapped my tie around my head, forgetting completely that I was still wearing my baseball cap.
Next day, and I had a pretty bad hangover. But once I was in work, and fortified by a lunchtime trip to the House of Lard for Chicken Curry arf and arf, it all passed off ok (well, apart from the fact that the press knew nothing about the eight-page Jehovahs Witnesses supplement we were supposed to be doing, so we had to rip up half the paper and start again!)
After that it was essential to have a drink so I rang Wren at the flat and she kindly agreed to accompany me to the City Arms where we were meeting the Prince and Withers, who had been out and about since 3pm, together with Paps, who had been news editing the WoS and desperately needed a drink.
It has to be said the Wonderful One was not in good shape (in fact, you could say he looked in exactly the same shape he was when he lost his front teeth). Taking on the appearance of a Zombie, he staggered off down the road in the direction of home.
Not so, the Prince. After making some clandestine phone calls to his hareem he continued until well into the night... as the Prince is want to do, living up to his nickname in true style.
Next morning and I was once again feeling a bit ropey, but I could tell Wren was itching to go out for some fresh air. I walked to the paper shop and on the way back my heart skipped a beat. Where was the car? Had some local ragamuffin half-inched it again?
It took me about a minute to register the fact in my fuzzy brain that I had actually left the car at the office in order to go out on the pop.
So Wren and I walked into town to collect it. I decreed that on no account were we to go shopping with pay day still two days away. But I was obviously speaking Swahili because 10 minutes later she was trying on shoes in the sale at Clarks, emerging with two "bargains".
Once we collected the car it was off to Penarth to enjoy the sunshine, though my heart was still at Lord's and England's attempt to beat the South Africans in the first Test. I put on a brave face, though, and when we couldn't get a parking spot on Penarth sea front we ended up going to Barry Island.
Now the Island gets a bad press - though far better now Gavin and Stacey have hit the screens - yet I must say the beach was lovely, the ice cream splendid and the views enjoyable. Even the sounds of the toons emerging from the amusement arcades were oldie worldy sea-front fun.
We spent an hour there before popping home for tea. An enjoyable day.
The other night Wren and I enjoyed a meal from her No Fat Cookbook: Country Pork with Parsley cobbler. Couldn't be bothered to make the pastry, though, so picked up some ready made from Morrisons.
INGREDIENTS:
1lb boneless pork shoulder, diced.
Diced butternut squash (the recipe called for a small swede but I didn't have one)
2 sliced carrots
2 sliced leeks
2 sliced celery sticks
1 1/2 pints of beef stock
2 tbsp tomato puree
1/2 cup pearl barley
2 tbsp chopped parsley
salt and black pepper
Topping: Rolled out ready-made pastry
WHAT I DID:
Pre-heat oven to 180C/gas mark 4
Fry pork in a little butter in non-stick pan until lightly browned
Add veggies to pan, stir over medium heat until veg starts to soften
Stir in stock, tomato puree, parsley and pearl barley.
Season.
Transfer to large casserole dish and place in oven for an hour to an hour and a half
Then remove and put up temperature to 220C/gas mark 7.
Cut pastry into triangles and place over the top of the pork and veg mixture.
Return to oven and bake for 15 to 20 minutes.
Serve. A bit of Dijon mustard is nice with this.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Pie in the Sky
IN the middle of his sixth pint of SA bitter the Wonderful One had a great idea for a wedding gift that he could bestow on myself and Wren. There we were, outside the Yard, bantering about this and that when the subject somehow came around to the legendary Blues player Buddy Guy.
For your information, during a trip to Chicago a few years back I infamously bumped into the Windy City's own Minister for Blues, who took us along to a nightclub called Legends. He gave out free t-shirts and on the back of mine was a picture of a Hendrix lookalike playing licks on the guitar.
His name, I was informed by said Minister for Blues, was Buddy Guy.
Well, two weeks ago I saw Buddy playing a fantastic set at Glastonbury and I have been waxing lyrical about the great man ever since.
Anyway, back to the present day and the Wonderful One announced: "I know. As a present I will get Buddy Guy to play a set at your wedding."
At this, Danny Boy (the Poipes, the Poipes), Roly Rowland and Myself spat out our booze in unison. "How the hell are you going to do that," we chorused.
"Oh, it shouldn't be that difficult. I'll just ring up his people and get him along."
Yeh, right, Withers.
I can just picture the scene. "Right, Buddy," his agent announces. "We have the itinerary for your next few gigs. You are playing Madison Square Gardens, followed by Carnegie Hall, then over to Britain for V2009 and then on to Bristol for Rippers wedding. Ok with that?"
Still, I decided it was an opportunity not to be missed - him being well on the way to inebriation.
"I bet you £50 you won't be able to get him."
At this, Withers railed. "Course I will, I will make it my prime task. In fact, I could write a book about my progress, a bit like that bloke who wrote 'Around Ireland with a fridge'."
Can't quite see the similarities, but why look a gift horse in the mouth? Having made sure the witnesses were watching, we shook hands on the deal.
A day on and Withers looked up from his googling activities. "The good news," he announced, "is that Buddy Guy does do private functions."
And the bad news?
"To book him for your do you have to pay $50,000."
Well, there goes that little plan then. Grease my hands with silver, young man.
"Oh, I'm not defeated yet," announced Withers, a bit like that bloke in Monty Python's Holy Grail who has just had his arms and legs cut off. "If you pretended you had some terminal disease..."
Now, I'm sorry, but I would rather forego the Buddy Guy experience than spend the whole of my wedding day wandering around with a jaundiced look on my face, like the youngster in Shameless who had to pretend he had cancer so that they could have a fundraiser.
Talking of jaundiced expressions, the Prince of Darkness looked like he had seen a ghost when I entered the office this morning. Not so the people around him. They were rolling around on the floor having a good laugh at his expense.
I had to find out what had happened from the Horse's Mouth. "I just had a call from Louis Walsh," he said. That's Louis Walsh, X-Factor judge and manager of that wimpish Oirish boy band Westloif.
"Oh yeah?"
"He had me on the phone for 20 minutes ranting on about a story that Monsieur Le Debussier did for us at the weekend."
"Really?"
"He was having a right rant, then he mentioned Shirley Bassey and started singing. I thought: What a nutter! I tried to calm him down and then he said, 'Wayne, why don't you sing me a song'?"
At this the Prince objected vehemently. "I'm not singing a song for you, Louis. No way."
Then came the punchline. The Louis Walsh character was actually some DJ from Radio Glasgow who had seen our X factor story on the web. The nerve!
Still, I think the Prince now fancies himself as an X factor judge. Think of all the new blood he could tap into...
This week has been pie week. Having fallen for the bargain offer of four steak and kidney pies in Morrison's on Saturday, I am now trying desperately to get through them all. Hard work, but someone has got to do it.
For your information, during a trip to Chicago a few years back I infamously bumped into the Windy City's own Minister for Blues, who took us along to a nightclub called Legends. He gave out free t-shirts and on the back of mine was a picture of a Hendrix lookalike playing licks on the guitar.
His name, I was informed by said Minister for Blues, was Buddy Guy.
Well, two weeks ago I saw Buddy playing a fantastic set at Glastonbury and I have been waxing lyrical about the great man ever since.
Anyway, back to the present day and the Wonderful One announced: "I know. As a present I will get Buddy Guy to play a set at your wedding."
At this, Danny Boy (the Poipes, the Poipes), Roly Rowland and Myself spat out our booze in unison. "How the hell are you going to do that," we chorused.
"Oh, it shouldn't be that difficult. I'll just ring up his people and get him along."
Yeh, right, Withers.
I can just picture the scene. "Right, Buddy," his agent announces. "We have the itinerary for your next few gigs. You are playing Madison Square Gardens, followed by Carnegie Hall, then over to Britain for V2009 and then on to Bristol for Rippers wedding. Ok with that?"
Still, I decided it was an opportunity not to be missed - him being well on the way to inebriation.
"I bet you £50 you won't be able to get him."
At this, Withers railed. "Course I will, I will make it my prime task. In fact, I could write a book about my progress, a bit like that bloke who wrote 'Around Ireland with a fridge'."
Can't quite see the similarities, but why look a gift horse in the mouth? Having made sure the witnesses were watching, we shook hands on the deal.
A day on and Withers looked up from his googling activities. "The good news," he announced, "is that Buddy Guy does do private functions."
And the bad news?
"To book him for your do you have to pay $50,000."
Well, there goes that little plan then. Grease my hands with silver, young man.
"Oh, I'm not defeated yet," announced Withers, a bit like that bloke in Monty Python's Holy Grail who has just had his arms and legs cut off. "If you pretended you had some terminal disease..."
Now, I'm sorry, but I would rather forego the Buddy Guy experience than spend the whole of my wedding day wandering around with a jaundiced look on my face, like the youngster in Shameless who had to pretend he had cancer so that they could have a fundraiser.
Talking of jaundiced expressions, the Prince of Darkness looked like he had seen a ghost when I entered the office this morning. Not so the people around him. They were rolling around on the floor having a good laugh at his expense.
I had to find out what had happened from the Horse's Mouth. "I just had a call from Louis Walsh," he said. That's Louis Walsh, X-Factor judge and manager of that wimpish Oirish boy band Westloif.
"Oh yeah?"
"He had me on the phone for 20 minutes ranting on about a story that Monsieur Le Debussier did for us at the weekend."
"Really?"
"He was having a right rant, then he mentioned Shirley Bassey and started singing. I thought: What a nutter! I tried to calm him down and then he said, 'Wayne, why don't you sing me a song'?"
At this the Prince objected vehemently. "I'm not singing a song for you, Louis. No way."
Then came the punchline. The Louis Walsh character was actually some DJ from Radio Glasgow who had seen our X factor story on the web. The nerve!
Still, I think the Prince now fancies himself as an X factor judge. Think of all the new blood he could tap into...
This week has been pie week. Having fallen for the bargain offer of four steak and kidney pies in Morrison's on Saturday, I am now trying desperately to get through them all. Hard work, but someone has got to do it.
Monday, July 07, 2008
The perfect dunking biscuit
I MUST admit I felt a bit out of my depth on Friday night, surrounded as I was by the great political minds of Meeja Wales. The self-proclaimed writer and broadcaster Withers was there, and we were joined by Dave "the suit" and "Marvellous" David. In fact, Smashy and I felt a bit out of place as the big discussion of our time began.
Here is an example of the kind of deep political insight we were forced to try to get our heads around - just in case we showed up our ignorance on all things Assembly and Parliamentary.
Withers began the big debate which, I must admit, wouldn't have looked out of place in the House of Commons, perhaps at PM's question time.
"Why on earth do people dunk biscuits in their tea?" he demanded of the honourable crew gathered around him.
"Because it tastes really good," intoned The Suit dismissively.
"I should say. Maaaaaarvellllous!" chimed in Marvellous David.
"But why would you put a biscuit, which is food, in your tea, which is drink?" said an uncomprehending Withers. "You don't mix food and drink like that. The biscuit will just fall apart!"
"Not if you use the right ones. Those digestives, they're maaaaarveelllous!" argued Marvellous David.
"I agree," said The Suit, carrying the air of a young Lloyd George as he looked at Withers as if there was a nasty whiff, probably of the wonderful one's sweaty armpits, under his nostrils. "You put sauce on your chips, don't you?"
"Well, yes, but that's different!" moaned Withers.
"How is it different?"
"Because it is. You wouldn't dream of drinking a bottle of sauce, would you?"
Now here was my chance to get involved in an intriguing discussion with men who, just by the power of thought, can bring countries to their knees, wars to an end and vanquish the threat of global warming.
"I once ate a whole spoonful of lime pickle," I revealed.
Silence.
I decided it was time to leave them to it.
At the weekend Wren visited and we went to see Wanted, the new film with James McAvoy and Angelina Jolie. I can't get used to these Saturdays off. You have to mix with that horrible breathing mass of slime known as the General Public.
The car park at the Red Dragon Centre down the Bay was packed. In the rain we had to leave Basil literally hundreds of yards away from the entrance then make a run for it. After that we had to queue at least 10 minutes to hand over 14 QUID! for two cinema tickets.
The film was ok if you like lots of blood and seeing in graphic detail a bullet pop out of a man's forehead in slow motion. Yuk! Plot was far fatched but I guess it was better than sitting in watching the rain come down. Mind you, for the sake of 14 quid...
On Sunday Wren had to work and I settled down for an afternoon of sport. First there was Lewis Hamilton's tremendous British Grand Prix victory in the rain at Silverstone, then the Wimbledon men's final that lasted six and a half hours off and on because of showers. Great match though as Rafael Nadal ended Roger Federer's run of five consecutive Wimbledon victories.
Here is an example of the kind of deep political insight we were forced to try to get our heads around - just in case we showed up our ignorance on all things Assembly and Parliamentary.
Withers began the big debate which, I must admit, wouldn't have looked out of place in the House of Commons, perhaps at PM's question time.
"Why on earth do people dunk biscuits in their tea?" he demanded of the honourable crew gathered around him.
"Because it tastes really good," intoned The Suit dismissively.
"I should say. Maaaaaarvellllous!" chimed in Marvellous David.
"But why would you put a biscuit, which is food, in your tea, which is drink?" said an uncomprehending Withers. "You don't mix food and drink like that. The biscuit will just fall apart!"
"Not if you use the right ones. Those digestives, they're maaaaarveelllous!" argued Marvellous David.
"I agree," said The Suit, carrying the air of a young Lloyd George as he looked at Withers as if there was a nasty whiff, probably of the wonderful one's sweaty armpits, under his nostrils. "You put sauce on your chips, don't you?"
"Well, yes, but that's different!" moaned Withers.
"How is it different?"
"Because it is. You wouldn't dream of drinking a bottle of sauce, would you?"
Now here was my chance to get involved in an intriguing discussion with men who, just by the power of thought, can bring countries to their knees, wars to an end and vanquish the threat of global warming.
"I once ate a whole spoonful of lime pickle," I revealed.
Silence.
I decided it was time to leave them to it.
At the weekend Wren visited and we went to see Wanted, the new film with James McAvoy and Angelina Jolie. I can't get used to these Saturdays off. You have to mix with that horrible breathing mass of slime known as the General Public.
The car park at the Red Dragon Centre down the Bay was packed. In the rain we had to leave Basil literally hundreds of yards away from the entrance then make a run for it. After that we had to queue at least 10 minutes to hand over 14 QUID! for two cinema tickets.
The film was ok if you like lots of blood and seeing in graphic detail a bullet pop out of a man's forehead in slow motion. Yuk! Plot was far fatched but I guess it was better than sitting in watching the rain come down. Mind you, for the sake of 14 quid...
On Sunday Wren had to work and I settled down for an afternoon of sport. First there was Lewis Hamilton's tremendous British Grand Prix victory in the rain at Silverstone, then the Wimbledon men's final that lasted six and a half hours off and on because of showers. Great match though as Rafael Nadal ended Roger Federer's run of five consecutive Wimbledon victories.
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Dodgy olives and Viva Espana
THE Prince of Darkness was laid up in his coffin on Monday, suffering from a bad case of stomach cramps and sickness.
It followed a rather hectic Sunday night in which we met up at the Irish bar Dempseys to watch Spain and Germany in the European Championship final.
Good Brits as we are, most of us were supporting Spain. Not the Wonderful Withers, though. He had on his Red, Yellow and Black wristband to show affinity to his Fuhrer, Michael Ballack.
Others making an appearance were the Prince, Paps and Smashy.
Well, Spain took the honours with the only goal of the game from Fernando Torres. It left everyone bar me biting their nails for the next 60 minutes, mainly because they feared losing the quid they had invested in the mini sweep. I'd managed to lose mine the moment Spain scored their goal, having taken the pessimistic option of backing the Krauts to win 1-0.
The Prince let out a howl moments after the only goal of the game - he had been outside puffing on a tab and missed it.
After the game we sauntered off to his favourite haunt for stalking young Virgins - 6ft Under - and he was greeted like a long-lost friend by the bouncers on the door, who hadn't seen him since, oh, Friday night?
At that stage the alcohol was having a warming, wowie wowie affect on the Dark Lord, a signal that it was immediately time for him to switch to vodka. Meanwhile, Paps decided it would be a good idea to invest £5 in two huge bowls of mixed olives, and we preceded to devour them while enjoying conversations about our favourite albums, songs, dance moves, drum solos, you name it... I think Withers was being a bit disingenuous when he said his favourite band were The Struts and his favourite song "Waiting in the Dole Queue", which he delivered with a typically bad impression of yours truly.
Later, while outside smoking a tab with the Prince, a group of celebrating Spanish supporters arrived, complete with shirts and capes. Fantastic. My memory of the Spanish at France 98 is still vivid, especially the time they took me out on the razz until five in the morning. I would not go as far as to say it was a heavenly night, but one of the guys was called Jesus.
Anyway, as these partying fans turned up to liven up the proceedings the fun was immediately killed stone dead. The bouncers refused to admit the Spanish on the basis that it was "company policy" not to allow anyone in wearing footie shirts.
What a crying shame! Surely these guys should have been allowed to celebrate in a city that claims to be the capital of Wales and on a par with London, but which spends more time than any other place I know acting like killjoys and failing to show any sort of sense or initiative. Apparently the party line is that people in football shirts are bound to cause trouble. Come off it! I've seen the best dressed people in town having a bundle at 2pm on a Saturday night. And this was a quiet Sunday in Cardiff in June, completely devoid of any rival gangs of football nutters.
The other thing that heartily annoys me, now I'm on a Rippers rant, is the fact that if this was at the height of the Six Nations Championship you can guarantee legless, rugby shirt wearing fans would be piling through the doors with the blessing of the management, who could see pound signs flashing before their eyes. The bouncer disputed this, claiming that rugby fans would be treated in exactly the same way. We'll see if they turn them away come next February.
Anyway, the only Spanish thing left to connect us with a party night were the olives, so we tucked in with gusto.
The Prince, obviously, paid the penalty. Should have stuck to blood.
I had a frightening dream the other night - one of those dreams that you panic when you wake up and come down slowly once the realisation that it is just a nightmare slowly dawns on you.
I can't recall all the dream, just the fact that I ended up sharing a flat with the Prince! Can you imagine? All those empty wine bottles lying around, it would be like living with Albert Steptoe (for those who remember him). Other things that happened in this rather scattered dream: I was lying in bed and opened a packet of crisps, only for loads of hundreds and thousands to pour out. Then there was a ring of the doorbell at 2 in the morning. A loved-up couple turned up saying they were mates of Glyn Gully (our circulation manager, how the hell he got involved in my dream I'll never know) and that the Prince had said it was ok for them to stay.
Yes, readers, in the words of Malcolm McDowell in Clockwork Orange, it was "pure horrorshow".
If there are any dream interpreters who can explain it, please let me know.
Monday involved a bit of a hangover and a long walk. I had to go to Cardiff Registry Office to give Notice of Marriage. You get some oddballs in there I've got to tell you. And being kept waiting 20 minutes to see the head honcho wasn't much fun.
I was a bit nervous and did a lot of revising. "Shit, what's Wren's name? Can't call her just Wren. And what's her date of birth? My God, what do I know of this woman?"
I must have looked a bit shifty, squirming on my chair at the easiest of questions, getting worried I would be "caught out". What for?
Anyway it's done now. The notice is posted. Exciting!
Withers may still get banned from being best man, though, if he keeps threatening to deliver his speech in his "Rippers" voice which, as I have said many times before, is just a poor imitation of Zippy from Rainbow.
It followed a rather hectic Sunday night in which we met up at the Irish bar Dempseys to watch Spain and Germany in the European Championship final.
Good Brits as we are, most of us were supporting Spain. Not the Wonderful Withers, though. He had on his Red, Yellow and Black wristband to show affinity to his Fuhrer, Michael Ballack.
Others making an appearance were the Prince, Paps and Smashy.
Well, Spain took the honours with the only goal of the game from Fernando Torres. It left everyone bar me biting their nails for the next 60 minutes, mainly because they feared losing the quid they had invested in the mini sweep. I'd managed to lose mine the moment Spain scored their goal, having taken the pessimistic option of backing the Krauts to win 1-0.
The Prince let out a howl moments after the only goal of the game - he had been outside puffing on a tab and missed it.
After the game we sauntered off to his favourite haunt for stalking young Virgins - 6ft Under - and he was greeted like a long-lost friend by the bouncers on the door, who hadn't seen him since, oh, Friday night?
At that stage the alcohol was having a warming, wowie wowie affect on the Dark Lord, a signal that it was immediately time for him to switch to vodka. Meanwhile, Paps decided it would be a good idea to invest £5 in two huge bowls of mixed olives, and we preceded to devour them while enjoying conversations about our favourite albums, songs, dance moves, drum solos, you name it... I think Withers was being a bit disingenuous when he said his favourite band were The Struts and his favourite song "Waiting in the Dole Queue", which he delivered with a typically bad impression of yours truly.
Later, while outside smoking a tab with the Prince, a group of celebrating Spanish supporters arrived, complete with shirts and capes. Fantastic. My memory of the Spanish at France 98 is still vivid, especially the time they took me out on the razz until five in the morning. I would not go as far as to say it was a heavenly night, but one of the guys was called Jesus.
Anyway, as these partying fans turned up to liven up the proceedings the fun was immediately killed stone dead. The bouncers refused to admit the Spanish on the basis that it was "company policy" not to allow anyone in wearing footie shirts.
What a crying shame! Surely these guys should have been allowed to celebrate in a city that claims to be the capital of Wales and on a par with London, but which spends more time than any other place I know acting like killjoys and failing to show any sort of sense or initiative. Apparently the party line is that people in football shirts are bound to cause trouble. Come off it! I've seen the best dressed people in town having a bundle at 2pm on a Saturday night. And this was a quiet Sunday in Cardiff in June, completely devoid of any rival gangs of football nutters.
The other thing that heartily annoys me, now I'm on a Rippers rant, is the fact that if this was at the height of the Six Nations Championship you can guarantee legless, rugby shirt wearing fans would be piling through the doors with the blessing of the management, who could see pound signs flashing before their eyes. The bouncer disputed this, claiming that rugby fans would be treated in exactly the same way. We'll see if they turn them away come next February.
Anyway, the only Spanish thing left to connect us with a party night were the olives, so we tucked in with gusto.
The Prince, obviously, paid the penalty. Should have stuck to blood.
I had a frightening dream the other night - one of those dreams that you panic when you wake up and come down slowly once the realisation that it is just a nightmare slowly dawns on you.
I can't recall all the dream, just the fact that I ended up sharing a flat with the Prince! Can you imagine? All those empty wine bottles lying around, it would be like living with Albert Steptoe (for those who remember him). Other things that happened in this rather scattered dream: I was lying in bed and opened a packet of crisps, only for loads of hundreds and thousands to pour out. Then there was a ring of the doorbell at 2 in the morning. A loved-up couple turned up saying they were mates of Glyn Gully (our circulation manager, how the hell he got involved in my dream I'll never know) and that the Prince had said it was ok for them to stay.
Yes, readers, in the words of Malcolm McDowell in Clockwork Orange, it was "pure horrorshow".
If there are any dream interpreters who can explain it, please let me know.
Monday involved a bit of a hangover and a long walk. I had to go to Cardiff Registry Office to give Notice of Marriage. You get some oddballs in there I've got to tell you. And being kept waiting 20 minutes to see the head honcho wasn't much fun.
I was a bit nervous and did a lot of revising. "Shit, what's Wren's name? Can't call her just Wren. And what's her date of birth? My God, what do I know of this woman?"
I must have looked a bit shifty, squirming on my chair at the easiest of questions, getting worried I would be "caught out". What for?
Anyway it's done now. The notice is posted. Exciting!
Withers may still get banned from being best man, though, if he keeps threatening to deliver his speech in his "Rippers" voice which, as I have said many times before, is just a poor imitation of Zippy from Rainbow.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Burnt offering
THE Prince of Darkness has found himself in a battle that he may not win. He has taken on the Beautiful People in a byline war that wouldn't look out of place in Lord of the Rings.
The scenario goes something like this... Not knowing which of the Beautiful People had written which features for this week's Wales on Sunday the Prince had a novel idea. It involved putting all the names in a hat, throwing the hat in the air and catching individual monikers as they came to land. A bit like a lottery, really.
The result: Everyone had the wrong bylines on the wrong pieces and there was grumblings of great discontent around in the features hub. So much so that Princess Margaret of O'Reillyshire was straight on to us at Mission Control.
"Where's our 'preshhhhious' bylines?" she inquired in the manner of Gollum of Rings fame.
Behind her the cries of anguish could be heard. "Yessh, where's our precious? We loves our precious."
Unfortunately the Prince had retired to his lair for the day and so yours truly had to appease the Beautiful Ones. "You'd better speak to the Prince," I said keenly. "He's in tomorrow."
On Tuesday night the war nearly broke out at the NUJ yearly party - or wake would probably be more to the point.
Somehow the Wonderful Withers, back from his trip to Corsica (not Sardinia, as previously stated on these pages) managed to persuade myself and the Prince to step into the Enemy's den. The Prince, appreciating the fact Zync was dark and dingy and sold alcohol, didn't take too much persuading and I tagged along dutifully with Smashy.
Those great Union men the honorable Viscount Shippo and the freeloading Sniffer, along with Steve "Flanders" Jones were dancing their hearts out at Zync. Um, well, maybe not. They were, in fact, huddled in a corner muttering about injustice for the workers and sowing dark seeks of rebellion.
And the first people we bumped into were the ones the Prince had so badly wronged.
It must be said the flame-haired Claire Voyant and her goth-like mysterious mate Morticia Richards look worthy adversaries. I can just imagine them now, standing around the cauldron, throwing in eye of toad and tail of Newt, and whisking up a potion to send the Prince into a coma. Come to think of it, looking at him today I think it has worked already.
My lovely wife-to-be Wren made me a terrific shepherd's pie on Monday while I was in work, and there was a whole load of it. I ate half on Monday night for my tea and put the other half in the fridge.
Returning home far too late from the NUJ do, I decided I would reheat said pie and put it in the oven for 15 minutes.
Did I say 15 minutes? Well, that was the intention. I thought I would just relax on the sofa in the meantime and listen to my latest CD purchase, the first Editors album.
Four hours later I woke to the sound of Run DMC, the discs on my CD player having gone around in a loop three or four times. What was I doing still up? Why hadn't I come straight in and gone to bed. Then a nagging thought crossed my alcohol-saturated brain. I wonder...
When I got to the kitchen my Wren's lovely pie had been well and truly cremated. Feeling guilty though, I tried to eat as much as I could. Putting aside the bitter taste of charcoal I think I could detect the odd bit of carrot and potato.
Having gnawed my way through three quarters of it, leaving the bits that were too hard to swallow, I finally gave up and went to bed.
The scenario goes something like this... Not knowing which of the Beautiful People had written which features for this week's Wales on Sunday the Prince had a novel idea. It involved putting all the names in a hat, throwing the hat in the air and catching individual monikers as they came to land. A bit like a lottery, really.
The result: Everyone had the wrong bylines on the wrong pieces and there was grumblings of great discontent around in the features hub. So much so that Princess Margaret of O'Reillyshire was straight on to us at Mission Control.
"Where's our 'preshhhhious' bylines?" she inquired in the manner of Gollum of Rings fame.
Behind her the cries of anguish could be heard. "Yessh, where's our precious? We loves our precious."
Unfortunately the Prince had retired to his lair for the day and so yours truly had to appease the Beautiful Ones. "You'd better speak to the Prince," I said keenly. "He's in tomorrow."
On Tuesday night the war nearly broke out at the NUJ yearly party - or wake would probably be more to the point.
Somehow the Wonderful Withers, back from his trip to Corsica (not Sardinia, as previously stated on these pages) managed to persuade myself and the Prince to step into the Enemy's den. The Prince, appreciating the fact Zync was dark and dingy and sold alcohol, didn't take too much persuading and I tagged along dutifully with Smashy.
Those great Union men the honorable Viscount Shippo and the freeloading Sniffer, along with Steve "Flanders" Jones were dancing their hearts out at Zync. Um, well, maybe not. They were, in fact, huddled in a corner muttering about injustice for the workers and sowing dark seeks of rebellion.
And the first people we bumped into were the ones the Prince had so badly wronged.
It must be said the flame-haired Claire Voyant and her goth-like mysterious mate Morticia Richards look worthy adversaries. I can just imagine them now, standing around the cauldron, throwing in eye of toad and tail of Newt, and whisking up a potion to send the Prince into a coma. Come to think of it, looking at him today I think it has worked already.
My lovely wife-to-be Wren made me a terrific shepherd's pie on Monday while I was in work, and there was a whole load of it. I ate half on Monday night for my tea and put the other half in the fridge.
Returning home far too late from the NUJ do, I decided I would reheat said pie and put it in the oven for 15 minutes.
Did I say 15 minutes? Well, that was the intention. I thought I would just relax on the sofa in the meantime and listen to my latest CD purchase, the first Editors album.
Four hours later I woke to the sound of Run DMC, the discs on my CD player having gone around in a loop three or four times. What was I doing still up? Why hadn't I come straight in and gone to bed. Then a nagging thought crossed my alcohol-saturated brain. I wonder...
When I got to the kitchen my Wren's lovely pie had been well and truly cremated. Feeling guilty though, I tried to eat as much as I could. Putting aside the bitter taste of charcoal I think I could detect the odd bit of carrot and potato.
Having gnawed my way through three quarters of it, leaving the bits that were too hard to swallow, I finally gave up and went to bed.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Curry on the hub
The Prince of Darkness has surpassed himself. We met up outside The Yard before the great and good of Meeja Wales gathered for a curry in the Spice Quarter. This was to celebrate the successful launch of this mega project which has turned our lives upside down.
And talking of upside down, the Prince appeared like he had been pulled through a bush backwards. It soon became clear why. "I couldn't be bothered to get up today," he admitted, "so I stayed in bed until about 4.30 this afternoon."
The Prince, Wren, Paps and myself had a couple of swift ones outside our usual haunt before braving the big curry get together, where we were met by the MD, the editors and the various Hub heads. I must admit I viewed it with some trepidation but it was an enjoyable evening, followed by the usual suspects getting together for a few drinks in Six Foot Under. Strangely, the Prince wasn't in his usual Wowy, wowy mood. "I've eaten too much to drink," said the waifer-thin executive editor, sipping on a drink which somewhat resembled the blood of a young virgin. So the night ended pretty swiftly by his standards.
I still can't get used to having Saturdays off. This weekend Wren and I went to see the new James McEvoy film Wanted. More to the point we had gone to the Odeon in the Bay hoping to see it. I had checked on her computer to discover that the film was showing at 3pm. Yeah, right. We arrived to find the place over-run with rugrats and members of that horrible group, the general public. Aargh! More to the point the film wasn't even on that day, which put me in a foul mood. In fact, there was a danger of life imitating art as I turned green, Incredible Hulk style.
Wren suggested we drive out into the Valleys (scary) to see if the Showcase cinema in Nantgarw was showing anything good. It wasn't. I can't stand it either when you have a cinema with 12 screens but about eight of them are showing the two most popular films. What's the point? Might as well just convert to four big cinemas rather than 12 tiny ones.
In the end, with the rain pouring down on another typical British summer's day, we opted for a drive through the Welsh heartland and, to be honest, it was pretty enjoyable. We went to Treorchy, Tonypandy (no sign of Fireman Sam, sadly) and then had an ice cream on a cold, rainy, blustery hill overlooking Tower Colliery. God knows what possessed Mr Whippy to open for business up there but despite the weather he appeared to be doing a roaring trade.
We then tried to find Joe Calzaghe's gym in Newbridge (without luck) and the Pot Noodle factory at Crumlin (even less luck), finally driving through Blackwood en route to Newport and home.
And talking of upside down, the Prince appeared like he had been pulled through a bush backwards. It soon became clear why. "I couldn't be bothered to get up today," he admitted, "so I stayed in bed until about 4.30 this afternoon."
The Prince, Wren, Paps and myself had a couple of swift ones outside our usual haunt before braving the big curry get together, where we were met by the MD, the editors and the various Hub heads. I must admit I viewed it with some trepidation but it was an enjoyable evening, followed by the usual suspects getting together for a few drinks in Six Foot Under. Strangely, the Prince wasn't in his usual Wowy, wowy mood. "I've eaten too much to drink," said the waifer-thin executive editor, sipping on a drink which somewhat resembled the blood of a young virgin. So the night ended pretty swiftly by his standards.
I still can't get used to having Saturdays off. This weekend Wren and I went to see the new James McEvoy film Wanted. More to the point we had gone to the Odeon in the Bay hoping to see it. I had checked on her computer to discover that the film was showing at 3pm. Yeah, right. We arrived to find the place over-run with rugrats and members of that horrible group, the general public. Aargh! More to the point the film wasn't even on that day, which put me in a foul mood. In fact, there was a danger of life imitating art as I turned green, Incredible Hulk style.
Wren suggested we drive out into the Valleys (scary) to see if the Showcase cinema in Nantgarw was showing anything good. It wasn't. I can't stand it either when you have a cinema with 12 screens but about eight of them are showing the two most popular films. What's the point? Might as well just convert to four big cinemas rather than 12 tiny ones.
In the end, with the rain pouring down on another typical British summer's day, we opted for a drive through the Welsh heartland and, to be honest, it was pretty enjoyable. We went to Treorchy, Tonypandy (no sign of Fireman Sam, sadly) and then had an ice cream on a cold, rainy, blustery hill overlooking Tower Colliery. God knows what possessed Mr Whippy to open for business up there but despite the weather he appeared to be doing a roaring trade.
We then tried to find Joe Calzaghe's gym in Newbridge (without luck) and the Pot Noodle factory at Crumlin (even less luck), finally driving through Blackwood en route to Newport and home.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Butter bean, leek, tomato and chorizo soup
I had a bit of a rude awakening on Sunday morning. There I was dozing away peacefully when a strange sound invaded my ears. No sooner did this annoying distraction wake me than my girlfriend Wren leapt into action, running into the front room like Marion Jones on drugs (well, like Marion Jones, I suppose).
Five minutes later she returned to the room and all became clear. You see, Wren has a new mobile phone, a state-of-the-art contraption which has a huge clockface on the front. Very 21st century. The sound was that of her phone alerting her to an urgent message.
"My phone has just told me I don't have to get up this morning because I'm not working," she informed me. What a useful message to get on a Sunday morning just after 8am.
It was a bit of a lazy day really after a rather long WoS shift on Saturday when I spent the first two hours answering various queries about things of which I knew absolutely nothing. The classic was some Wales on Sunday "reader" from the valleys who stormed: "I've got a complaint."
Another one? Ok, here we go, I thought.
"I was reading the TV pages of Wales on Sunday last week and it said 'International Rugby: 2.05". So I cancelled a trip out to watch the rugby, only to find out that it's on Sky!"
Oh dear.
I tried to explain that we had little to do with TV listings in the office as they were provided to us by the Press Association. "Oh, you lot have always got an excuse," he stormed. "Can I speak to someone important."
"Well, sir, I am executive editor, is that good enough?"
"Ok... well, I'm not blaming you, of course, but how can you say the rugby is on in your paper when it obviously isn't on? It's a lovely day and I had a chance to go on a day trip to Brecon."
Hmm. Then I had a thought. "Did it say what match was on?" I asked.
"Um, no. It just says International Rugby."
Grabbing for my Western Snail, I checked their listings in the Saturday Mag. "2.05: International Rugby," it said. "England v Australia: Under-20s World Cup."
All became clear and I told the ranting gentleman as such. "Oh... um... I see. Well I thought it would be Wales v South Africa."
"Yes, but I'm sure it will be a good game," I told him. He rang off rather sheepishly after that.
God, I'm fed up with complaints. Somehow, without any input from myself, I seem to have emerged as the South Wales Ego's Readers Champion and Letters page editor. It's a bit like being Lifeboat superintendent on the Titanic. The difference is the waves are made of Sh**.
On Friday Paps had a mate down so he demanded we attend Sh**ty O'Grimm's so he could prove he did have mates - to us, as well as his mate, I imagine.
During a cigarette break the Prince of Darkness watched a young girl in skimpy green skirt wobble down the street after partaking of far more alcohol than was good for her. She stumbled into Tony's chip shop and a few minutes later stumbled out. But she couldn't work out how to eat her chips while also holding her sausage in batter in the other hand. She ended up sitting on the ground in chip alley trying to nosh her supper.
It was quite a comic sight. Then seeing a fellow inbiber she stumbled across to the Prince and slurred: "Wanna buy me a drink, honey."
The Prince looked her up and down in his regal way and came to a conclusion. "Nah, you're all right," he said. Gutted, she wobbled off in the direction of home, sausage and chips tucked precariously under her arm.
"Mind you, if it had been Kate Moss in that state I may have come to a different decision," the Prince confided, conspiratorially.
The rest of Sunday turned into a relaxing rest day, watching Kevin Pietersen thump the New Zealanders in a one-sided cricket match, then being amazed at the brilliant comeback by the Turks in their European Championship winner-takes-all qualifier with the Czechs. Two-nil down with 15 minutes to go they managed to turn it around and win 3-2. Excellent.
And after all that there was the US Open with the injured Tiger Woods somehow grabbing an improbable birdie on the last hole to take the tournament to a play off. Poor old Rocco Mediate, who stood to be the oldest winner in the competition's history, ended up losing over the extra 18 holes on the Monday.
On the same day, I swam a mile and then visited the guru. In the evening I was planning to get the ironing done. Then The Fugitive rang, having returned from touring South Africa with the Welsh rugby team. With the sun still in the sky it was inevitable. "Fancy a beer?" I said. He turned up in shorts and sandals, a full two-weeks growth on his chinny chin chin. Apparently they don't have razors in the third world. He had also been on a big-game safari and was waxing lyrical about his close encounter with the King of the Jungle.
While in South Africa he also managed to arrive in Johannesburg without luggage and had to spend the afternoon shopping for pants in Woolworths.
Meanwhile, Rosey sent a text. "I hear you're getting married and Withers is the best man. Is that correct?" he inquired.
"You should know, you're on the nationals and they always get their gossip right," I informed him, remembering that just two weeks before he had rung me to inform me that I had already tied the knot. Some people...
The Wonderful One, meanwhile, sunning himself on the Meditteranean during an away-from-it-all holiday in Sardinia, sent me an absurd text. "Am I an idiot?" he inquired. "I am sitting here looking out on the Med and thinking: 'I wish I was back in Wales because I could have done the story about the Assembly Member Alan Cairns resigning after referring to Italians as Greasy Wops'."
"Yes, you are an idiot," I assured him.
The other lunchtime I fancied a light snack so found a good recipe in a Sainsbury's mag.
It was for Butter bean, leak, tomato and chorizo soup and it just hit the spot, with a hunk of french bread to accompany it. So without further ado, here it is...
INGREDIENTS
Large chunk of chorizo
2 tbsp olive oil
2 leeks, trimmed and thinly sliced
2 sticks celery, sliced
2 tins butter beans, drained and rinsed
1 1/2 pints chicken stock
4 large ripe vine tomatoes
fresh flat leaf parsley leaves.
Cut 12 thin slices off the chorizo.
Chop up the rest of it.
Heat the oil in a large, wide-based pan or wok.
Fry the leeks, celery and the chopped chorizo
Whiz half the butter beans in a liquidizer with half the chicken stock. Add the mixture to the pan with tomatoes, remaining beans and stock and seasoning. Add salt and pepper to taste.
Bring to boil and simmer for 15 minutes.
Just before serving add the parsley and dry fry the 12 slices of chorizo for 3-4 minutes in a hot frying pan till crisp.
Pour soup into bowls, top with chorizo and serve with crusty French bread.
Five minutes later she returned to the room and all became clear. You see, Wren has a new mobile phone, a state-of-the-art contraption which has a huge clockface on the front. Very 21st century. The sound was that of her phone alerting her to an urgent message.
"My phone has just told me I don't have to get up this morning because I'm not working," she informed me. What a useful message to get on a Sunday morning just after 8am.
It was a bit of a lazy day really after a rather long WoS shift on Saturday when I spent the first two hours answering various queries about things of which I knew absolutely nothing. The classic was some Wales on Sunday "reader" from the valleys who stormed: "I've got a complaint."
Another one? Ok, here we go, I thought.
"I was reading the TV pages of Wales on Sunday last week and it said 'International Rugby: 2.05". So I cancelled a trip out to watch the rugby, only to find out that it's on Sky!"
Oh dear.
I tried to explain that we had little to do with TV listings in the office as they were provided to us by the Press Association. "Oh, you lot have always got an excuse," he stormed. "Can I speak to someone important."
"Well, sir, I am executive editor, is that good enough?"
"Ok... well, I'm not blaming you, of course, but how can you say the rugby is on in your paper when it obviously isn't on? It's a lovely day and I had a chance to go on a day trip to Brecon."
Hmm. Then I had a thought. "Did it say what match was on?" I asked.
"Um, no. It just says International Rugby."
Grabbing for my Western Snail, I checked their listings in the Saturday Mag. "2.05: International Rugby," it said. "England v Australia: Under-20s World Cup."
All became clear and I told the ranting gentleman as such. "Oh... um... I see. Well I thought it would be Wales v South Africa."
"Yes, but I'm sure it will be a good game," I told him. He rang off rather sheepishly after that.
God, I'm fed up with complaints. Somehow, without any input from myself, I seem to have emerged as the South Wales Ego's Readers Champion and Letters page editor. It's a bit like being Lifeboat superintendent on the Titanic. The difference is the waves are made of Sh**.
On Friday Paps had a mate down so he demanded we attend Sh**ty O'Grimm's so he could prove he did have mates - to us, as well as his mate, I imagine.
During a cigarette break the Prince of Darkness watched a young girl in skimpy green skirt wobble down the street after partaking of far more alcohol than was good for her. She stumbled into Tony's chip shop and a few minutes later stumbled out. But she couldn't work out how to eat her chips while also holding her sausage in batter in the other hand. She ended up sitting on the ground in chip alley trying to nosh her supper.
It was quite a comic sight. Then seeing a fellow inbiber she stumbled across to the Prince and slurred: "Wanna buy me a drink, honey."
The Prince looked her up and down in his regal way and came to a conclusion. "Nah, you're all right," he said. Gutted, she wobbled off in the direction of home, sausage and chips tucked precariously under her arm.
"Mind you, if it had been Kate Moss in that state I may have come to a different decision," the Prince confided, conspiratorially.
The rest of Sunday turned into a relaxing rest day, watching Kevin Pietersen thump the New Zealanders in a one-sided cricket match, then being amazed at the brilliant comeback by the Turks in their European Championship winner-takes-all qualifier with the Czechs. Two-nil down with 15 minutes to go they managed to turn it around and win 3-2. Excellent.
And after all that there was the US Open with the injured Tiger Woods somehow grabbing an improbable birdie on the last hole to take the tournament to a play off. Poor old Rocco Mediate, who stood to be the oldest winner in the competition's history, ended up losing over the extra 18 holes on the Monday.
On the same day, I swam a mile and then visited the guru. In the evening I was planning to get the ironing done. Then The Fugitive rang, having returned from touring South Africa with the Welsh rugby team. With the sun still in the sky it was inevitable. "Fancy a beer?" I said. He turned up in shorts and sandals, a full two-weeks growth on his chinny chin chin. Apparently they don't have razors in the third world. He had also been on a big-game safari and was waxing lyrical about his close encounter with the King of the Jungle.
While in South Africa he also managed to arrive in Johannesburg without luggage and had to spend the afternoon shopping for pants in Woolworths.
Meanwhile, Rosey sent a text. "I hear you're getting married and Withers is the best man. Is that correct?" he inquired.
"You should know, you're on the nationals and they always get their gossip right," I informed him, remembering that just two weeks before he had rung me to inform me that I had already tied the knot. Some people...
The Wonderful One, meanwhile, sunning himself on the Meditteranean during an away-from-it-all holiday in Sardinia, sent me an absurd text. "Am I an idiot?" he inquired. "I am sitting here looking out on the Med and thinking: 'I wish I was back in Wales because I could have done the story about the Assembly Member Alan Cairns resigning after referring to Italians as Greasy Wops'."
"Yes, you are an idiot," I assured him.
The other lunchtime I fancied a light snack so found a good recipe in a Sainsbury's mag.
It was for Butter bean, leak, tomato and chorizo soup and it just hit the spot, with a hunk of french bread to accompany it. So without further ado, here it is...
INGREDIENTS
Large chunk of chorizo
2 tbsp olive oil
2 leeks, trimmed and thinly sliced
2 sticks celery, sliced
2 tins butter beans, drained and rinsed
1 1/2 pints chicken stock
4 large ripe vine tomatoes
fresh flat leaf parsley leaves.
Cut 12 thin slices off the chorizo.
Chop up the rest of it.
Heat the oil in a large, wide-based pan or wok.
Fry the leeks, celery and the chopped chorizo
Whiz half the butter beans in a liquidizer with half the chicken stock. Add the mixture to the pan with tomatoes, remaining beans and stock and seasoning. Add salt and pepper to taste.
Bring to boil and simmer for 15 minutes.
Just before serving add the parsley and dry fry the 12 slices of chorizo for 3-4 minutes in a hot frying pan till crisp.
Pour soup into bowls, top with chorizo and serve with crusty French bread.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Coq Au Vin
FORGOT to mention on my last entry about how the Prince of Darkness managed to live up to his name at the weekend. On Sunday morning he awoke covered head-to-toe in blood. It was all pretty worrying for the dark lord. Had he enticed a young virgin back to his abode, taking a bite into her neck and then let her wander around Cardiff with a complexion resembling porcelain? He couldn't piece it together.
Then he looked at his hand and there lay the answer. His hand was covered in blood and he knew he had somehow got wounded during the night at Six Feet Under. Washing the blood away, he discovered a tiny pinprick and the truth came flooding back. He had, in fact, accidentally put his hand down on a tiny fleck of broken glass. For most of us it wouldn't be a problem but, you know what they say, vodka is thinner than blood (well, they don't but it appears it must be).
The wonderful Withers had been so troubled at the weekend that it was only fair the Prince and I accompanied him to see one of his favourite bands at the Buffalo Bar on Monday, although we both viewed the idea with trepidation.
Did I say band? We are talking about one rather strange geezer from Basildon, who waves around a hand puppet and sings disgusting songs - all in a vain attempt at humour. Still, the clue was in the band's title: K**t and the gang. We actually met up with K**t himself on the door as he took our £5 entry fee and invited us to join the other 12 saddos in the upstairs bar. Withers almost wet himself with excitement.
Once the guy started playing - clever ventriloquist act but devoid of musical talent - Withers didn't need to follow his instruction to "have a little w*nk", he had already made a rather sticky mess in his pants. The Prince and I, meanwhile, looked at each other in a completely baffled manner. What was this nonsense?
Eventually it was over. A bit of a gimmick act, quite fun really, but doing nothing that Splodginess Abounds hadn't done in the late 70s and early 80s.
The following day, though, I woke to find evidence of the night before on my wrist. There in indelible red ink was the legend "K**t". I failed to wash it off in the shower and I'm sure I got some dodgy looks in conference on Tuesday morning.
At the weekend Wren and I continued to make wedding plans, going to visit the lovely Avon Gorge Hotel in Bristol. I also had time to rustle up a rather nice little Coq Au Vin, adapted from a recipe in Nigel Slater's Real Food book.
Ingredients:
25g butter
tbsp olive oil
100g pancetta
1 small onion, peeled and chopped
2 cloves of garlic, peeled and chopped
2 large free-range chicken breasts
five or six brown mushrooms, halved or quartered
1/2 pint of medium dry white wine
300ml creme fraiche
3tbsp chopped parsley
TO DO:
Melt butter in heavy-based casserole and pour in oil. Put in pancetta and colour it, then add onion and garlic.
Leave to cook on moderate heat until onions soften but don't colour.
Scoop pancetta and onions out with draining spoon, leaving the juices in the pan, then add the chicken. Brown lightly on all sides.
Add mushrooms and cook for a few minutes, then return pancetta and onions to the pan. Turn up the heat, pour in the wine, bring it to the boil and simmer. Let it gently bubble for 25 minutes, turning chicken from time to time.
Then lift chicken out of pan and pour in the cream. Season with salt and black pepper and stir in parsley. Continue cooking at an enthusiastic bubble, until cream starts to thicken slightly. Return chicken to pan. When it is thoroughly hot and the sauce in thick, serve.
Then he looked at his hand and there lay the answer. His hand was covered in blood and he knew he had somehow got wounded during the night at Six Feet Under. Washing the blood away, he discovered a tiny pinprick and the truth came flooding back. He had, in fact, accidentally put his hand down on a tiny fleck of broken glass. For most of us it wouldn't be a problem but, you know what they say, vodka is thinner than blood (well, they don't but it appears it must be).
The wonderful Withers had been so troubled at the weekend that it was only fair the Prince and I accompanied him to see one of his favourite bands at the Buffalo Bar on Monday, although we both viewed the idea with trepidation.
Did I say band? We are talking about one rather strange geezer from Basildon, who waves around a hand puppet and sings disgusting songs - all in a vain attempt at humour. Still, the clue was in the band's title: K**t and the gang. We actually met up with K**t himself on the door as he took our £5 entry fee and invited us to join the other 12 saddos in the upstairs bar. Withers almost wet himself with excitement.
Once the guy started playing - clever ventriloquist act but devoid of musical talent - Withers didn't need to follow his instruction to "have a little w*nk", he had already made a rather sticky mess in his pants. The Prince and I, meanwhile, looked at each other in a completely baffled manner. What was this nonsense?
Eventually it was over. A bit of a gimmick act, quite fun really, but doing nothing that Splodginess Abounds hadn't done in the late 70s and early 80s.
The following day, though, I woke to find evidence of the night before on my wrist. There in indelible red ink was the legend "K**t". I failed to wash it off in the shower and I'm sure I got some dodgy looks in conference on Tuesday morning.
At the weekend Wren and I continued to make wedding plans, going to visit the lovely Avon Gorge Hotel in Bristol. I also had time to rustle up a rather nice little Coq Au Vin, adapted from a recipe in Nigel Slater's Real Food book.
Ingredients:
25g butter
tbsp olive oil
100g pancetta
1 small onion, peeled and chopped
2 cloves of garlic, peeled and chopped
2 large free-range chicken breasts
five or six brown mushrooms, halved or quartered
1/2 pint of medium dry white wine
300ml creme fraiche
3tbsp chopped parsley
TO DO:
Melt butter in heavy-based casserole and pour in oil. Put in pancetta and colour it, then add onion and garlic.
Leave to cook on moderate heat until onions soften but don't colour.
Scoop pancetta and onions out with draining spoon, leaving the juices in the pan, then add the chicken. Brown lightly on all sides.
Add mushrooms and cook for a few minutes, then return pancetta and onions to the pan. Turn up the heat, pour in the wine, bring it to the boil and simmer. Let it gently bubble for 25 minutes, turning chicken from time to time.
Then lift chicken out of pan and pour in the cream. Season with salt and black pepper and stir in parsley. Continue cooking at an enthusiastic bubble, until cream starts to thicken slightly. Return chicken to pan. When it is thoroughly hot and the sauce in thick, serve.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Withered on the vine
IT'S not been a good weekend for the wonderful Withers of (Meeja) Wales. On Friday we were minding our own business, standing outside Sh*tty O'Grim's having a cigarette, when a rather inebriated old tramp wobbled up to us. He looked at me in all my dapper glory, proudly sporting my new yellow silk tie, and slurred: "Tha' mate, is a great tie, a great tie... Ah would be proud to be seen wearing tha' tie."
Then he looked Withers up and down. "You a solicitor?" he asked.
Withers, looking rather worried about what this rather rough old street dweller was getting at, stuttered: "N, no... I'm not a solicitor."
"Well, that's a good job," said the trampy character, hitching up his soggy old tracksuit trousers and tucking in his crusty old shirt and tracksuit top. "Cos I wouldn't be seen dead in that tie. It's a blooody awful tie, that one. This man (he points at me) has a great tie, but yooo, yoooo should be shot for wearing that tie. If you WERE a solicitor I think you would be thrown out of court for wearing that tie."
He then offered the wonderful one a doleful tune on his harmonica in commemorance of the death of his reputation for sartorial elegance (a reputation which, admittedly, he invented for himself upon the purchase of a pair of red socks).
But worse was to come at the weekend. On Saturday night Wren and I ventured into town to meet up for drinkies with the Prince of Darkness, Withers and David "the suit" James. It was quite an amusing night, particularly once the Prince began to go all "wowy wowy" on us and demanded to go dancing.
We managed to persuade him to walk around the corner to the City Arms and spent an enjoyable night dancing to the juke box with a group of ne'er-do-well students including a rather tall lady to whom the Prince took rather a fancy. After trying to explain to her the full story of the Rolling Stones while dancing like the rather strange Dickensian fellow into whom he sometimes transforms, he then started shouting at us "Ten Foot Tall, Ten Foot Tall". We thought he was referring to the girl in question, but he was actually pining to visit the young social butterflies that inhabit that corridor of a club which I call Six Feet Under.
At that point Wren and I made our exit, before things got out of hand. David "the suit" James was now well into the boogying WoS scene, resembling somewhat Talking Heads' David Byrne in his infamous big suit dance on the dvd "Stop Making Sense".
But the night turned bad for the Wonderful Withers when they arrived at Six Feet Under. The Prince, having blagged his way in by draping himself over his 'friend' the bouncer, was then consumed by the throng of bright young things. The wonderful One tried to join the party and thought his luck was in when a slender female approached him and looked deep into his eyes. "You're possibly the ugliest man in Cardiff," she told him rather rudely.
We just had to cheer the poor guy up and we did that on Monday night. But more of that on a later entry...
Then he looked Withers up and down. "You a solicitor?" he asked.
Withers, looking rather worried about what this rather rough old street dweller was getting at, stuttered: "N, no... I'm not a solicitor."
"Well, that's a good job," said the trampy character, hitching up his soggy old tracksuit trousers and tucking in his crusty old shirt and tracksuit top. "Cos I wouldn't be seen dead in that tie. It's a blooody awful tie, that one. This man (he points at me) has a great tie, but yooo, yoooo should be shot for wearing that tie. If you WERE a solicitor I think you would be thrown out of court for wearing that tie."
He then offered the wonderful one a doleful tune on his harmonica in commemorance of the death of his reputation for sartorial elegance (a reputation which, admittedly, he invented for himself upon the purchase of a pair of red socks).
But worse was to come at the weekend. On Saturday night Wren and I ventured into town to meet up for drinkies with the Prince of Darkness, Withers and David "the suit" James. It was quite an amusing night, particularly once the Prince began to go all "wowy wowy" on us and demanded to go dancing.
We managed to persuade him to walk around the corner to the City Arms and spent an enjoyable night dancing to the juke box with a group of ne'er-do-well students including a rather tall lady to whom the Prince took rather a fancy. After trying to explain to her the full story of the Rolling Stones while dancing like the rather strange Dickensian fellow into whom he sometimes transforms, he then started shouting at us "Ten Foot Tall, Ten Foot Tall". We thought he was referring to the girl in question, but he was actually pining to visit the young social butterflies that inhabit that corridor of a club which I call Six Feet Under.
At that point Wren and I made our exit, before things got out of hand. David "the suit" James was now well into the boogying WoS scene, resembling somewhat Talking Heads' David Byrne in his infamous big suit dance on the dvd "Stop Making Sense".
But the night turned bad for the Wonderful Withers when they arrived at Six Feet Under. The Prince, having blagged his way in by draping himself over his 'friend' the bouncer, was then consumed by the throng of bright young things. The wonderful One tried to join the party and thought his luck was in when a slender female approached him and looked deep into his eyes. "You're possibly the ugliest man in Cardiff," she told him rather rudely.
We just had to cheer the poor guy up and we did that on Monday night. But more of that on a later entry...
Thursday, June 05, 2008
A dastardly laugh
ONE of my new colleagues is called Cat. Ironic really, because her laugh closely resembles that of the cartoon dog Muttley of Whacky Races fame. And we do have a laugh on the 'hub', even though most of the time we are up to our necks in doo doo.
Take yesterday when one of our main stories was about the rather alarming detection of human poo in ice cubes served with your Vodka and Coke in the pub (Prince of Darkness be afraid, be very afraid). Some of the ideas for headlines and bills were pretty unrepeatable.
Meanwhile, Paps came up with an extraordinary demand this morning. He insisted that everyone goes out for a beer on Friday week (what a break with tradition THAT will be) because he has a pal visiting from the home country and he wants to prove that he actually has mates in Cardiff!
Last night all the talk was of stag do's. It is left to the boy Withers to make the arrangements (a bit worrying really, because a night out in Crewe really doesn't appeal). I quite fancy Brighton but Smashy has more ambitious ideas. At 11pm last night, a good two hours after I said goodbye to the boozing crew outside the yard, he sent me a text message. "We've decided we are going to have your stag night in Boston. Go Sox!" Cheap at the price I have to say.
As for food, on Wednesday night I managed to smoke out the kitchen with a little Spanish tapas dish called chorizo and potatoes. You are supposed to cook it in oil and butter and leave it for a good hour, but being a bit impatient I thought I would give the heat a bit of a boost. Then I retired to watch a bit of the Aussie-West Indies test series.
Ten minutes later, checking on my tea, I found the kitchen enveloped in a thick fog (like London in the days of Jack the Ripper) and my chorizo cremated. Still, waste not want not, I shovelled it down. I could still taste charcoal the next morning.
Take yesterday when one of our main stories was about the rather alarming detection of human poo in ice cubes served with your Vodka and Coke in the pub (Prince of Darkness be afraid, be very afraid). Some of the ideas for headlines and bills were pretty unrepeatable.
Meanwhile, Paps came up with an extraordinary demand this morning. He insisted that everyone goes out for a beer on Friday week (what a break with tradition THAT will be) because he has a pal visiting from the home country and he wants to prove that he actually has mates in Cardiff!
Last night all the talk was of stag do's. It is left to the boy Withers to make the arrangements (a bit worrying really, because a night out in Crewe really doesn't appeal). I quite fancy Brighton but Smashy has more ambitious ideas. At 11pm last night, a good two hours after I said goodbye to the boozing crew outside the yard, he sent me a text message. "We've decided we are going to have your stag night in Boston. Go Sox!" Cheap at the price I have to say.
As for food, on Wednesday night I managed to smoke out the kitchen with a little Spanish tapas dish called chorizo and potatoes. You are supposed to cook it in oil and butter and leave it for a good hour, but being a bit impatient I thought I would give the heat a bit of a boost. Then I retired to watch a bit of the Aussie-West Indies test series.
Ten minutes later, checking on my tea, I found the kitchen enveloped in a thick fog (like London in the days of Jack the Ripper) and my chorizo cremated. Still, waste not want not, I shovelled it down. I could still taste charcoal the next morning.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Wren's chilli con carne
I BLAME the barmaid at the Tut. Ever since we popped in for a little drink the other weekend the talk has all been about weddings.
The barmaid in question saw the ring on Wren's finger and immediately went all gooey about how she loved nuptials, watched the Weddings Channel on Satellite TV and demanded to know when we would be tying the knot.
After about half an hour of the conversation I disappeared outside for a cigarette and didn't rematerialise until the coast was clear. By then, she and Wren had decided it was time to set a date. Game, Set and Match to the women.
Only joking. It was probably about time I got a kick up the arse and tried to organise something, so at the weekend Wren and I actually got down to talking tactics. And we had a great idea. If we chose the Sunday on the second bank holiday in May it would be excellent. The weather would probably be good and anyone wanting to stay over might be off work on the Monday. It meant my pals from all over the country would have 24 hours to shake off their hangovers.
May 24 it is then. Umm, or maybe not.
I thought I had better check things out with my close family so rang them to impart the news. Ten minutes later I received a text message from my bro Tim. "Do you realise that date will coincide with the League One Play-off final?" He politely inquired. I had to laugh.
Tim, like me, is a dyed-in-the-wool gashead, but putting off a wedding for the play-off final when our beloved team only won one of their last 15 matches in the season just gone? In the words of Ricky Gervais in Extras: "You're having a laugh".
Then I got to thinking about it. And the more I got to think about it, the more I started to worry. If I had the wedding on that day you can guarantee the Gas would rise from the Ashes like some footballing version of a Phoenix, march on to Wembley and 25,000 Gas supporters, including some of my mates, would be hot-footing it to London for the great day.
Meanwhile I would be standing at the altar (or whatever they have for a civil ceremony), looking nervously at my watch, wondering about things 150 miles away. The registrar's words would be muddled in my brain (do you, Paul Trollope, take this trophy...) and my words would be muddled in response (I Nick Rippington take Ricky Lambert to be my lawfully wedded...) It just doesn't bare thinking about.
I sheepishly mentioned the conundrum to Wren, but she is so understanding that it wasn't a problem. "Let's do it on the Saturday then."
Ok, no problem. Only that is the date of the Championship play-off final and, if by some bizarre coincidence, Cardiff City or Swansea City were to appear in it suddenly half my guest list would disappear overnight.
So now our wedding is being dominated by mythical sports events that probably won't happen. But you can't take that chance. I've heard of stories where unprepared bridegrooms have marched down the aisle on the same day that Wales have been taking on England at rugby.
At one point in the afternoon nearly all the guests had disappeared, only to be found huddled around the TV... in the bridal suite!
By now, of course, Wren must be aware that she is going to become a sporting widow. But she is very philosophical, which is why I love her (creep, creep).
The worst thing is, of course, that now we have agreed to change the date I have completely ruled out any hope of the Gas reaching the play-off finals next season. Sod's law.
Another reason I love Wren. I returned home on Saturday night from a WoS shift to find she had made a bucket load of chilli con carne.
She, however, was having a jacket potato and ready meal for tea.
"It's all for you," she said. "I know you're too busy to cook (and spend far too much time in the pub afterwards, the subtext read) so I've made you enough for the week."
Fantastic.
It was quite hot, too, enough to bring perspiration to my brow.
Not as hot as I usually have it, though, so I decided on Monday to spice up the first installment a bit more by adding a Scotch Bonnet chilli. And more chilli powder. And some cumin and black pepper.
Kaboom! It blew my socks off and brought tears to my eyes. Trying to rub them away I managed to rub a little chilli into my eye, despite the fact I had earlier washed my hands.
So I watched the Simpsons with eyes streaming and forehead dripping.
Just the way I like it!
The barmaid in question saw the ring on Wren's finger and immediately went all gooey about how she loved nuptials, watched the Weddings Channel on Satellite TV and demanded to know when we would be tying the knot.
After about half an hour of the conversation I disappeared outside for a cigarette and didn't rematerialise until the coast was clear. By then, she and Wren had decided it was time to set a date. Game, Set and Match to the women.
Only joking. It was probably about time I got a kick up the arse and tried to organise something, so at the weekend Wren and I actually got down to talking tactics. And we had a great idea. If we chose the Sunday on the second bank holiday in May it would be excellent. The weather would probably be good and anyone wanting to stay over might be off work on the Monday. It meant my pals from all over the country would have 24 hours to shake off their hangovers.
May 24 it is then. Umm, or maybe not.
I thought I had better check things out with my close family so rang them to impart the news. Ten minutes later I received a text message from my bro Tim. "Do you realise that date will coincide with the League One Play-off final?" He politely inquired. I had to laugh.
Tim, like me, is a dyed-in-the-wool gashead, but putting off a wedding for the play-off final when our beloved team only won one of their last 15 matches in the season just gone? In the words of Ricky Gervais in Extras: "You're having a laugh".
Then I got to thinking about it. And the more I got to think about it, the more I started to worry. If I had the wedding on that day you can guarantee the Gas would rise from the Ashes like some footballing version of a Phoenix, march on to Wembley and 25,000 Gas supporters, including some of my mates, would be hot-footing it to London for the great day.
Meanwhile I would be standing at the altar (or whatever they have for a civil ceremony), looking nervously at my watch, wondering about things 150 miles away. The registrar's words would be muddled in my brain (do you, Paul Trollope, take this trophy...) and my words would be muddled in response (I Nick Rippington take Ricky Lambert to be my lawfully wedded...) It just doesn't bare thinking about.
I sheepishly mentioned the conundrum to Wren, but she is so understanding that it wasn't a problem. "Let's do it on the Saturday then."
Ok, no problem. Only that is the date of the Championship play-off final and, if by some bizarre coincidence, Cardiff City or Swansea City were to appear in it suddenly half my guest list would disappear overnight.
So now our wedding is being dominated by mythical sports events that probably won't happen. But you can't take that chance. I've heard of stories where unprepared bridegrooms have marched down the aisle on the same day that Wales have been taking on England at rugby.
At one point in the afternoon nearly all the guests had disappeared, only to be found huddled around the TV... in the bridal suite!
By now, of course, Wren must be aware that she is going to become a sporting widow. But she is very philosophical, which is why I love her (creep, creep).
The worst thing is, of course, that now we have agreed to change the date I have completely ruled out any hope of the Gas reaching the play-off finals next season. Sod's law.
Another reason I love Wren. I returned home on Saturday night from a WoS shift to find she had made a bucket load of chilli con carne.
She, however, was having a jacket potato and ready meal for tea.
"It's all for you," she said. "I know you're too busy to cook (and spend far too much time in the pub afterwards, the subtext read) so I've made you enough for the week."
Fantastic.
It was quite hot, too, enough to bring perspiration to my brow.
Not as hot as I usually have it, though, so I decided on Monday to spice up the first installment a bit more by adding a Scotch Bonnet chilli. And more chilli powder. And some cumin and black pepper.
Kaboom! It blew my socks off and brought tears to my eyes. Trying to rub them away I managed to rub a little chilli into my eye, despite the fact I had earlier washed my hands.
So I watched the Simpsons with eyes streaming and forehead dripping.
Just the way I like it!
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Meatball sub
DANNY Boy (the poipes, the poipes) fancies himself to be in the know when it comes to the latest gossip. So he was being particularly mischievous this week when he claimed to have spotted a naughty liaision in the street.
As the Wonderful Withers of (Meeja) Wales past his desk he announced: "You have to be nice to me Withers. I possess information that you will need to know."
Eventually after the teasing, he handed over his scurrilous revelation. "I saw the Prince of Darkness on the way to lunch with a young lady!" he offered.
Only later did the Prince explain the true situation. "It was my daughter. We were going for lunch."
When the news was revealed to the Poipes later he was just a little bit sheepish.
Just a message for Tambrosian. Thanks for your comments on the blog the other day. I don't know if I am related to Lord Repington but my name apparently derives from that. You weren't the bloke with the golf club preparing to chase me off the premises, perchance?
Meanwhile, back on WoS today I enjoyed a meatball sub from Subways for dinner with all the trimmings. Yummy.
As the Wonderful Withers of (Meeja) Wales past his desk he announced: "You have to be nice to me Withers. I possess information that you will need to know."
Eventually after the teasing, he handed over his scurrilous revelation. "I saw the Prince of Darkness on the way to lunch with a young lady!" he offered.
Only later did the Prince explain the true situation. "It was my daughter. We were going for lunch."
When the news was revealed to the Poipes later he was just a little bit sheepish.
Just a message for Tambrosian. Thanks for your comments on the blog the other day. I don't know if I am related to Lord Repington but my name apparently derives from that. You weren't the bloke with the golf club preparing to chase me off the premises, perchance?
Meanwhile, back on WoS today I enjoyed a meatball sub from Subways for dinner with all the trimmings. Yummy.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Corned beef and Wensleydale sandwich
NEWS reaches me of one particular Cardiff City supporter who wasn't quite as well behaved as his brethren who made the trip to Wembley. My source was sitting in the first-class compartment on a train waiting at Paddington for the journey home. A fellow passenger entered the carriage and was heard talking on his mobile phone. "No, I think he may have been kicked off the station. I think he was going to be arrested," was the gist of the conversation.
Ten minutes later a staggering figure burst into the compartment and fell down in the seat next to the phone user. It was none other than Coggsy, taking his seat next to his father, the renowned journalist Peter Corrigan.
In true Father Jack manner he then proceeded to demand: "Driiiink!!"
His father had to turn to him and explain, in words of no more than two syllabus, that no, Coggsy would not be allowed to have a drinky on the train as it had no bar and was, in fact, alcohol free.
It later emerged than Coggsy, stumbling on to the platform and swigging from a bottle of brandy, was stopped by transport police as he made to board the train.
"I'm sorry sir, I am afraid you can't take that with you," said the policeman, indicating the brandy bottle.
"Ok," said Coggsy, and then attempted to guzzle the lot in front of the bemused plod. At this moment a bit of grappling broke out and eventually the award-winning columnist was forced to admit defeat.
Rather than have to put up with this slobbering example of the human race, the Met boys decided they had better put him on the train, though, and send him back to Wales before they were faced with even more earache. I suppose you could say he was deported from England.
Rest assured, though, he'll be back.
This week I have been pretty busy at Meeja Wales editing the Western Mail, a job I never thought I would see.
Even so it's been quite a fun week and I have needed a few beers afterwards, particularly with the Prince of Darkness taking time off to replace his blood with pure vodka.
Withers and I bumped into a real odd fish last night, a rather scary lesbian scriptwriter. Fortunately we lost her when Withers went and hid around the corner on the pretext of watching Wales play Iceland at football. No one in their right mind would swallow the fact that someone would actually choose to do that, and she certainly didn't view it an attractive proposition. I will have to use similar excuses in future.
On arrival at home I made use of some bargain corned beef I bought from Sainsbury's the other day. With a nice bit of flaky Wensleydale (My God I am starting to sound like Wallis of Wallis and Gromit fame) and some pickle it was really quite tasty.
Ten minutes later a staggering figure burst into the compartment and fell down in the seat next to the phone user. It was none other than Coggsy, taking his seat next to his father, the renowned journalist Peter Corrigan.
In true Father Jack manner he then proceeded to demand: "Driiiink!!"
His father had to turn to him and explain, in words of no more than two syllabus, that no, Coggsy would not be allowed to have a drinky on the train as it had no bar and was, in fact, alcohol free.
It later emerged than Coggsy, stumbling on to the platform and swigging from a bottle of brandy, was stopped by transport police as he made to board the train.
"I'm sorry sir, I am afraid you can't take that with you," said the policeman, indicating the brandy bottle.
"Ok," said Coggsy, and then attempted to guzzle the lot in front of the bemused plod. At this moment a bit of grappling broke out and eventually the award-winning columnist was forced to admit defeat.
Rather than have to put up with this slobbering example of the human race, the Met boys decided they had better put him on the train, though, and send him back to Wales before they were faced with even more earache. I suppose you could say he was deported from England.
Rest assured, though, he'll be back.
This week I have been pretty busy at Meeja Wales editing the Western Mail, a job I never thought I would see.
Even so it's been quite a fun week and I have needed a few beers afterwards, particularly with the Prince of Darkness taking time off to replace his blood with pure vodka.
Withers and I bumped into a real odd fish last night, a rather scary lesbian scriptwriter. Fortunately we lost her when Withers went and hid around the corner on the pretext of watching Wales play Iceland at football. No one in their right mind would swallow the fact that someone would actually choose to do that, and she certainly didn't view it an attractive proposition. I will have to use similar excuses in future.
On arrival at home I made use of some bargain corned beef I bought from Sainsbury's the other day. With a nice bit of flaky Wensleydale (My God I am starting to sound like Wallis of Wallis and Gromit fame) and some pickle it was really quite tasty.
Monday, May 26, 2008
The Repington dynasty
DID I tell you about my family seat? I am sure I did. I learnt about it when I bought a scroll mapping the course of the family name - Rippington - when Wren and I visited Portsmouth last year. Anyway, having a hard-earned week off, we decided to go on a road trip which would take in a visit to the Fat Kid and Wren's mum, plus a trip to the area in the Midlands to track down a mansion house synonymous with the family name.
The previous evening we drove from Lavenham in Suffolk to the Honily Court Hotel outside Warwick where we took advantage of a Sunday Times offer in which we were given a free hotel room in exchange for paying for two meals in the restaurant. It turned out a complete bargain, particularly as the rump steak with peppercorn sauce and a sharing platter to start was well worth it.
The next morning we went into Warwick where Wren devoured a farmhouse breakfast in preparation for our trip to Amington, a small suburb of Tamworth, where Amington Hall (the Repington family seat) was supposed to exist.
After driving around for ages in search of the house we came to a halt outside Repington Road (North) - surely a clue. Opposite the street was the parish church and when I entered the churchyard I asked a couple of helpful ladies where we might find the hall. "Oh, I think it's been turned into flats," said one of them.
When I explained my name and the reason I was visiting, however, there was a completely different response. "Oh, yes, you mean Repington Hall. We know all about Lord Repington - he built this church, you know. Our organist has written a book and has loads of stuff about his family history."
Not content with that she decided to ring him. And before long the historian in question, Michael Ackroyd, turned up to give us a tour of the church. There was even a stained glass window dedicated to his lordship and outside the grave of one of the Repington clan was still visible beneath a covering of moss.
Michael was delighted to impart his knowledge of what seemed to have been a lifetime's work and invited us back to his gaslit cottage in the village. Walking into the front room it was immediately apparent that his research had become his life. There were giant portraits on the walls, books written by Charles Repington, a war journalist, in the bookcases and hundreds of papers and documents that he had received from Charles' illegitimate daughter. It was quite a strange experience hearing this man waxing lyrical about someone who, quite feasibly, was one of my ancestors.
From there he gave us directions to the house and after driving through a village called Shuttington (interesting to see the Rippington's have always lorded it over the Shutts' of this world) we arrived at a narrow country lane. Driving down we eventually arrived on a small estate where one of the residents was unloading his golf clubs from the car with his wife waiting on the doorstep. The big house itself seemed crumbly but historic and I couldn't resist taking a picture out of the window of the car. The golfer, though, didn't seem too impressed. I got the idea he was mentally storing my registration number in case I was casing the joint. I felt like getting out and saying "get orf my land", but I don't think he would have appreciated it, particularly as he was armed with a driver and a nine iron.
So we quickly shot off down the lane and headed north for our exclusive press break at a magnificent stately home called Thoresby Hall in Nottinghamshire, complete with a spa, great food and entertainment.
When we finally got there after losing our way a few times trying to avoid the log jams on the M1 we found ourselves deep in Sherwood Forest, gazing up at a huge manor. After checking in we had dinner in the Bistro then moved on to the bar where we enjoyed the entertainment provided by Jeepster, a T Rex cover band who also dabbled in other popular 70s songs from groups like the Bay City Rollers, Mud and the Sweet. A great laugh, and there was plenty of people watching to be done with the future bride on a hen party taking to the floor dressed as Tina Turner and a couple who danced as if they were appearing on Strictly Come Dancing.
An interesting point about the Warner Leisure Hotel. It is completely children free. In fact, they're barred. So even though it has the feel of a holiday camp, all the fun is adults only. You imagine there might be a child catcher like the long-nosed geezer out of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang lurking somewhere in the shadows. Heaven.
The following day we took advantage of the Spa with a swim and a massage. Wren was particularly enjoying the chance to spoil herself, having a 40 minute manicure session and returning with pink nails.
That night we were treated to Mercury, a Queen tribute band who, although I am no great fan of that band, did a brilliant job in entertaining a lively audience. They had all turned Radio GaGa by the time it was over.
On Sunday Wren decided she couldn't return from a week's holiday without some evidence of her time away, so opted for a full body spray tan. How she will convince everyone at work that we had tropical weather just 20 minutes drive from Doncaster I'm not sure.
Oh and the most enjoyable part of the weekend? Sitting in the bar in my Bristol Rovers retro shirt watching Dean Windass score the goal that foiled that other Bristol team's chances of going into the Premiership. As the Barclaycard advert would say: Priceless.
On the way back to Cardiff I tried some scales at a local service station. Aaargh! After all the good eating and drinking of the week I reckon I've gained four pounds. Time for some exercise and a starvation diet, I reckon.
Anyway, to cut a long story from being too long, here are the other highlights of the week:
* A trip to see the fat kid, the vin monster and big boy in Southend. I treated them all to a bargain bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. That evening Wren and I saw the film Disturbia, which we thoroughly enjoyed. I've worked it out that while the Fat Kid has a flat screen tv, super duper Renault Clio and state-of-the-art washing machine (all of which I have helped to finance) I am living like a pauper in comparison (shurely, shum, mishtake)
* Tuesday and Wednesday: All the fun of the fair at Lavenham. Believe it or not, sitting in the beer garden of the local pub I managed to turn a gentle shade of red. On Wednesday night Wren and I watched Chelsea - the difference being she saw the flower show highlights on TV with her mum and I saw the Premier League giants being pipped to European glory by the mighty Manchester United in a nerve-tingling penalty shootout. After van der Saar saved the final penalty Smashy sent me a text explaining that he had just kissed the Prince of Darkness. What has been going on since I went away?
The previous evening we drove from Lavenham in Suffolk to the Honily Court Hotel outside Warwick where we took advantage of a Sunday Times offer in which we were given a free hotel room in exchange for paying for two meals in the restaurant. It turned out a complete bargain, particularly as the rump steak with peppercorn sauce and a sharing platter to start was well worth it.
The next morning we went into Warwick where Wren devoured a farmhouse breakfast in preparation for our trip to Amington, a small suburb of Tamworth, where Amington Hall (the Repington family seat) was supposed to exist.
After driving around for ages in search of the house we came to a halt outside Repington Road (North) - surely a clue. Opposite the street was the parish church and when I entered the churchyard I asked a couple of helpful ladies where we might find the hall. "Oh, I think it's been turned into flats," said one of them.
When I explained my name and the reason I was visiting, however, there was a completely different response. "Oh, yes, you mean Repington Hall. We know all about Lord Repington - he built this church, you know. Our organist has written a book and has loads of stuff about his family history."
Not content with that she decided to ring him. And before long the historian in question, Michael Ackroyd, turned up to give us a tour of the church. There was even a stained glass window dedicated to his lordship and outside the grave of one of the Repington clan was still visible beneath a covering of moss.
Michael was delighted to impart his knowledge of what seemed to have been a lifetime's work and invited us back to his gaslit cottage in the village. Walking into the front room it was immediately apparent that his research had become his life. There were giant portraits on the walls, books written by Charles Repington, a war journalist, in the bookcases and hundreds of papers and documents that he had received from Charles' illegitimate daughter. It was quite a strange experience hearing this man waxing lyrical about someone who, quite feasibly, was one of my ancestors.
From there he gave us directions to the house and after driving through a village called Shuttington (interesting to see the Rippington's have always lorded it over the Shutts' of this world) we arrived at a narrow country lane. Driving down we eventually arrived on a small estate where one of the residents was unloading his golf clubs from the car with his wife waiting on the doorstep. The big house itself seemed crumbly but historic and I couldn't resist taking a picture out of the window of the car. The golfer, though, didn't seem too impressed. I got the idea he was mentally storing my registration number in case I was casing the joint. I felt like getting out and saying "get orf my land", but I don't think he would have appreciated it, particularly as he was armed with a driver and a nine iron.
So we quickly shot off down the lane and headed north for our exclusive press break at a magnificent stately home called Thoresby Hall in Nottinghamshire, complete with a spa, great food and entertainment.
When we finally got there after losing our way a few times trying to avoid the log jams on the M1 we found ourselves deep in Sherwood Forest, gazing up at a huge manor. After checking in we had dinner in the Bistro then moved on to the bar where we enjoyed the entertainment provided by Jeepster, a T Rex cover band who also dabbled in other popular 70s songs from groups like the Bay City Rollers, Mud and the Sweet. A great laugh, and there was plenty of people watching to be done with the future bride on a hen party taking to the floor dressed as Tina Turner and a couple who danced as if they were appearing on Strictly Come Dancing.
An interesting point about the Warner Leisure Hotel. It is completely children free. In fact, they're barred. So even though it has the feel of a holiday camp, all the fun is adults only. You imagine there might be a child catcher like the long-nosed geezer out of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang lurking somewhere in the shadows. Heaven.
The following day we took advantage of the Spa with a swim and a massage. Wren was particularly enjoying the chance to spoil herself, having a 40 minute manicure session and returning with pink nails.
That night we were treated to Mercury, a Queen tribute band who, although I am no great fan of that band, did a brilliant job in entertaining a lively audience. They had all turned Radio GaGa by the time it was over.
On Sunday Wren decided she couldn't return from a week's holiday without some evidence of her time away, so opted for a full body spray tan. How she will convince everyone at work that we had tropical weather just 20 minutes drive from Doncaster I'm not sure.
Oh and the most enjoyable part of the weekend? Sitting in the bar in my Bristol Rovers retro shirt watching Dean Windass score the goal that foiled that other Bristol team's chances of going into the Premiership. As the Barclaycard advert would say: Priceless.
On the way back to Cardiff I tried some scales at a local service station. Aaargh! After all the good eating and drinking of the week I reckon I've gained four pounds. Time for some exercise and a starvation diet, I reckon.
Anyway, to cut a long story from being too long, here are the other highlights of the week:
* A trip to see the fat kid, the vin monster and big boy in Southend. I treated them all to a bargain bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. That evening Wren and I saw the film Disturbia, which we thoroughly enjoyed. I've worked it out that while the Fat Kid has a flat screen tv, super duper Renault Clio and state-of-the-art washing machine (all of which I have helped to finance) I am living like a pauper in comparison (shurely, shum, mishtake)
* Tuesday and Wednesday: All the fun of the fair at Lavenham. Believe it or not, sitting in the beer garden of the local pub I managed to turn a gentle shade of red. On Wednesday night Wren and I watched Chelsea - the difference being she saw the flower show highlights on TV with her mum and I saw the Premier League giants being pipped to European glory by the mighty Manchester United in a nerve-tingling penalty shootout. After van der Saar saved the final penalty Smashy sent me a text explaining that he had just kissed the Prince of Darkness. What has been going on since I went away?
Monday, May 19, 2008
tuna fish curry
I HAVE always been a great defender of the tabloid press. Whenever a lurid story has appeared in the papers about some kind of celeb or other and they have reacted with cries of "lies" I have always been firmly in the press camp, as it were. Now I find myself on the other side of the fence - a victim of scurrilous rumours with no basis in fact.
Let me explain. On Wednesday I had two missed calls from Rosey on my phone. Being a busy working executive at Meeja Wales I ignored them for a while, then when my curiosity finally got the better of me I gave him a bell.
"Have you got married?" he asked disbelievingly.
My God, the bloke only saw me two weeks ago. Even by my standards that would have been quick work.
"No, of course not. Where did you hear that?"
"It was all the talk at the Football Writers Association Player of the Year awards in London last night."
You would think those people had a few better rumours to discuss: Like will Ronaldo leave Manchester United for Spain? Or will Avram Grant be sacked as manager of Chelsea?
Apparently not.
I asked him who had come up with this tasty morsel of gossip. "Scott Wilson of the Sunday Express told me."
Must be true then cos Scotty, AKA Kramer because his mannerisms always remind me of the character out of Seinfeld, is one of Fleet Street's finest - sports editor of that esteemed journal, no less.
Next thing I know the phone is ringing and Kramer is, way hey, on the line. "I hear congratulations are in order," he says. "Yeah, well you hear wrong. I don't imagine you are going to reveal your source."
"Yeh, it was that bloke who used to work with you on the Sunday Mirror. Rob someone."
Aah. The famous Rob Bowden, who I haven't spoken to since he spent the night at my flat the night before his beloved Millwall played in the FA Cup final against Manchester United in Cardiff. Obviously his stock as a hack with the London media has risen dramatically because of stunning exclusives such as these. I understand he is now Deputy Sports Editor of the News of the World.
In true A-list style I think it is time I throw a strop and declare: "Reports of my marriage are greatly exaggerated."
FINALLY. After five months of hard labour I have been given a week's parole for good behaviour and Wren and I are shooting off on another world tour. Well, more accurately, we are going to see the Fat Kid, Vin Man and the Big Boy in Southend. Then we are moving on to that lively hub of British nightlife which is known as Lavernham in Suffolk, to visit Wren's mum. After that we intend to visit my stately home, Amington Hall near Tamworth, which I discovered existed when I obtained my family history during last year's trip to Portsmouth. I'm wondering whether I should just march in and claim my ancestral birthright, kicking out any squatters who have taken root in my family seat. The nerve!
Meanwhile, it has been an interesting week, particularly as I am now a fully-fledged member of Facebook. Can you believe it? This is that nonsensical "social networking" website that I lambasted for being solely for people who can't make proper friends. I already have 14 online pals, would you believe, even though I have done nothing to attract such interest. It still seems a load of old twaddle, but when my old school mate Ed Brown contacted me from Hong Kong asking me if I would be her "friend" I felt a bit rotten ignoring it, especially when she had made a similar request a couple of years ago through a different network and I thought it was just one of those pyramid selling devices.
I haven't told Shutts yet, having torn him to pieces over his dedication to this knobend means of communication. He'll slaughter me when he reads this.
Bad luck Cardiff City. A great effort in the FA Cup final came to nothing when Portsmouth pipped them at the final hurdle. It's been an exciting week for our newspapers, though, and culminated in me taking charge of good old WoS on Saturday. It was hard work, but thoroughly enjoyable, too.
Hasn't been much time for cooking, what with trying to avoid the paparazzi chasing me around Cardiff (well, paps, anyway). A new bar called Zero Degrees opened up and the entire Welsh media fraternity turned up - to a large degree due to the free food and booze.
Still hungry by the time I got home I rustled up a quick tuna curry from my "Best Ever Wok and Stir Fry book".
INGREDIENTS
1 onion (sliced)
1 red bell pepper (sliced)
1 green pepper (sliced)
2 tbsp oil
1/4 tsp cumin seeds
1/2 tsp ground cumin
1/2 tsp chilli powder
1/4 tsp salt
2 crushed garlic cloves
4oz can of tuna in brine
1 green chilli, chopped
1 inch piece root ginger, grated
1/4 tsp garam masala
1 tsp lemon juice
2 tbsp chopped coriander
TO DO
Heat the oil in wok then add cumin seeds until they start to spit and pop
Add cumin, coriander, chilli powder and salt, followed by garlic, onion and peppers
Stir fry for 5-7 mins until the onion has browned.
Stir in the tuna, green chilli and ginger and cook for five minutes.
Add garam masala, lemon juice and chopped coriander and cook for 3 to 4 mins.
Serve in pitta bread or, like I did, have it with white rice.
Let me explain. On Wednesday I had two missed calls from Rosey on my phone. Being a busy working executive at Meeja Wales I ignored them for a while, then when my curiosity finally got the better of me I gave him a bell.
"Have you got married?" he asked disbelievingly.
My God, the bloke only saw me two weeks ago. Even by my standards that would have been quick work.
"No, of course not. Where did you hear that?"
"It was all the talk at the Football Writers Association Player of the Year awards in London last night."
You would think those people had a few better rumours to discuss: Like will Ronaldo leave Manchester United for Spain? Or will Avram Grant be sacked as manager of Chelsea?
Apparently not.
I asked him who had come up with this tasty morsel of gossip. "Scott Wilson of the Sunday Express told me."
Must be true then cos Scotty, AKA Kramer because his mannerisms always remind me of the character out of Seinfeld, is one of Fleet Street's finest - sports editor of that esteemed journal, no less.
Next thing I know the phone is ringing and Kramer is, way hey, on the line. "I hear congratulations are in order," he says. "Yeah, well you hear wrong. I don't imagine you are going to reveal your source."
"Yeh, it was that bloke who used to work with you on the Sunday Mirror. Rob someone."
Aah. The famous Rob Bowden, who I haven't spoken to since he spent the night at my flat the night before his beloved Millwall played in the FA Cup final against Manchester United in Cardiff. Obviously his stock as a hack with the London media has risen dramatically because of stunning exclusives such as these. I understand he is now Deputy Sports Editor of the News of the World.
In true A-list style I think it is time I throw a strop and declare: "Reports of my marriage are greatly exaggerated."
FINALLY. After five months of hard labour I have been given a week's parole for good behaviour and Wren and I are shooting off on another world tour. Well, more accurately, we are going to see the Fat Kid, Vin Man and the Big Boy in Southend. Then we are moving on to that lively hub of British nightlife which is known as Lavernham in Suffolk, to visit Wren's mum. After that we intend to visit my stately home, Amington Hall near Tamworth, which I discovered existed when I obtained my family history during last year's trip to Portsmouth. I'm wondering whether I should just march in and claim my ancestral birthright, kicking out any squatters who have taken root in my family seat. The nerve!
Meanwhile, it has been an interesting week, particularly as I am now a fully-fledged member of Facebook. Can you believe it? This is that nonsensical "social networking" website that I lambasted for being solely for people who can't make proper friends. I already have 14 online pals, would you believe, even though I have done nothing to attract such interest. It still seems a load of old twaddle, but when my old school mate Ed Brown contacted me from Hong Kong asking me if I would be her "friend" I felt a bit rotten ignoring it, especially when she had made a similar request a couple of years ago through a different network and I thought it was just one of those pyramid selling devices.
I haven't told Shutts yet, having torn him to pieces over his dedication to this knobend means of communication. He'll slaughter me when he reads this.
Bad luck Cardiff City. A great effort in the FA Cup final came to nothing when Portsmouth pipped them at the final hurdle. It's been an exciting week for our newspapers, though, and culminated in me taking charge of good old WoS on Saturday. It was hard work, but thoroughly enjoyable, too.
Hasn't been much time for cooking, what with trying to avoid the paparazzi chasing me around Cardiff (well, paps, anyway). A new bar called Zero Degrees opened up and the entire Welsh media fraternity turned up - to a large degree due to the free food and booze.
Still hungry by the time I got home I rustled up a quick tuna curry from my "Best Ever Wok and Stir Fry book".
INGREDIENTS
1 onion (sliced)
1 red bell pepper (sliced)
1 green pepper (sliced)
2 tbsp oil
1/4 tsp cumin seeds
1/2 tsp ground cumin
1/2 tsp chilli powder
1/4 tsp salt
2 crushed garlic cloves
4oz can of tuna in brine
1 green chilli, chopped
1 inch piece root ginger, grated
1/4 tsp garam masala
1 tsp lemon juice
2 tbsp chopped coriander
TO DO
Heat the oil in wok then add cumin seeds until they start to spit and pop
Add cumin, coriander, chilli powder and salt, followed by garlic, onion and peppers
Stir fry for 5-7 mins until the onion has browned.
Stir in the tuna, green chilli and ginger and cook for five minutes.
Add garam masala, lemon juice and chopped coriander and cook for 3 to 4 mins.
Serve in pitta bread or, like I did, have it with white rice.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Fish and chips; Paps-style
MOST people would know me as a mild-mannered soul. I would like to think I never lose my temper when things get tricky and that my calm exterior promotes serenity all around me.
Ok, that might not be strictly true.
And I certainly wasn't feeling particularly cool when it came to trying to fit a pair of new windscreen wipers to Basil in the steaming temperatures of Saturdy afternoon.
Now, a visit to Halford's for me is about as common as a solar eclipse, but I had got to the stage where the stringy, rubbery bit on the underside of my wipers was flapping about like a wet fish on a harbour dock. It was actually spreading rain and gunk over the windscreen to such an extent that I would have done better to stick my head out of the side window to see where I was actually going.
Anyway, having got to motorist heaven I found it quite easy to pick up the wipers I needed thanks to looking at the necessary charts under the shelf. Then I went to the counter to purchase them. "Would you like us to fit them for you, sir," the girl behind the till enquired.
Feeling particularly macho and not wanting to look like a right wus, I declined. I remember having watched my mate Gareth changing some once in two seconds flat, and he has an IQ of minus 10.
So out I strolled to the car park in confident mood. Well, no, not really. Instead I turned to my loyal sidekick Wren and said: "You know something about cars. Your dad likes them. I think you should fix them on."
Hmmm. Looking at the back of the box, the instructions were absolutely nonsensical. We were on our own. I started pulling and poking to get the old windscreen wipers off, but I could see the look of fear in Wren's eyes. "Here let me do it - you might break them," she said.
Pah, fooey. Bit of brute force always works - and I'm the bloke in this relationship, I thought grumpily.
As we stood out in the baking sun wrestling with the wipers cars kept coming and going, meaning we had to move to let them park up. A succession of mechanic-type blokes gave us curious glances as we fought the mother of all battles to get the bloody things off. Eventually there was a snap. "Think I've broken this one," I said. Wren looked at me coldly.
But, no, it was ok. It was only the bit of the wiper that needed to come off anyway.
Then it came to fitting the new ones. I struggled a bit before Wren elbowed me aside. She then studied the implement carefully and started messing around with a little clip, confidently lining it up with the bit still attached to the car. She pushed it on, but it wouldn't go any further. I muscled in. "It probably needs some force," I said, that being my answer to everything.
I push, tugged and prodded and gritted my teeth in furious reaction. How can such a poxy little thing be so hard to fit.
"Perhaps we should go back and asked them to fit it," ventured Wren bravely.
My blood-red face told her differently, as did the steam coming out of my ears. There was no way that I was going to look an even bigger numpty by admitting defeat. To be honest, what I really wanted to do was enter into the noble art of Fuckuso in which you swing a pair of windscreen wipers around your head like numchucks and throw them at the nearest smug-looking bloke in a grease-stained blue overall you can find.
Instead I pushed harder on the wiper and... click.
Ha, no you're wrong - I didn't break it! It actually fitted in.
Then I looked at Wren. "I think we've done it," I exclaimed. Oh joy.
But how did we figure it out? Neither of us really knew and we had one more to do.
Soon afterwards it appeared that Wren had broken the passenger's side wiper. A clip came lose and I couldn't see how it was possibly going to work now. I was all ready to storm back into Halfords and buy a replacement.
"No, it's fine," she assured me. "It will all clip together once it's fitted on."
I believed her. I believed her so strongly that I then had a silent strop, walked around the other side of the car and rolled a cigarette. Very helpful. Spirit of teamwork and all that.
And Wren battled on gamely - 15 minutes later it was job done. My contribution = a bit of brute force and a cantankerous strop. Wren had done the rest... and it had only taken around 40 minutes, time which would have been so much more enjoyably spent on the beach.
Do I know from this experience how to fit new wipers in future? Absolutely not.
Followed that with a trip to a chip shop that Paps recommended. We spoke to Pete the Greek and I ordered two cod and chips, mine with curry sauce, Wren's with mushy peas. We then went home and ate them in the paper. A lovely treat.
Ok, that might not be strictly true.
And I certainly wasn't feeling particularly cool when it came to trying to fit a pair of new windscreen wipers to Basil in the steaming temperatures of Saturdy afternoon.
Now, a visit to Halford's for me is about as common as a solar eclipse, but I had got to the stage where the stringy, rubbery bit on the underside of my wipers was flapping about like a wet fish on a harbour dock. It was actually spreading rain and gunk over the windscreen to such an extent that I would have done better to stick my head out of the side window to see where I was actually going.
Anyway, having got to motorist heaven I found it quite easy to pick up the wipers I needed thanks to looking at the necessary charts under the shelf. Then I went to the counter to purchase them. "Would you like us to fit them for you, sir," the girl behind the till enquired.
Feeling particularly macho and not wanting to look like a right wus, I declined. I remember having watched my mate Gareth changing some once in two seconds flat, and he has an IQ of minus 10.
So out I strolled to the car park in confident mood. Well, no, not really. Instead I turned to my loyal sidekick Wren and said: "You know something about cars. Your dad likes them. I think you should fix them on."
Hmmm. Looking at the back of the box, the instructions were absolutely nonsensical. We were on our own. I started pulling and poking to get the old windscreen wipers off, but I could see the look of fear in Wren's eyes. "Here let me do it - you might break them," she said.
Pah, fooey. Bit of brute force always works - and I'm the bloke in this relationship, I thought grumpily.
As we stood out in the baking sun wrestling with the wipers cars kept coming and going, meaning we had to move to let them park up. A succession of mechanic-type blokes gave us curious glances as we fought the mother of all battles to get the bloody things off. Eventually there was a snap. "Think I've broken this one," I said. Wren looked at me coldly.
But, no, it was ok. It was only the bit of the wiper that needed to come off anyway.
Then it came to fitting the new ones. I struggled a bit before Wren elbowed me aside. She then studied the implement carefully and started messing around with a little clip, confidently lining it up with the bit still attached to the car. She pushed it on, but it wouldn't go any further. I muscled in. "It probably needs some force," I said, that being my answer to everything.
I push, tugged and prodded and gritted my teeth in furious reaction. How can such a poxy little thing be so hard to fit.
"Perhaps we should go back and asked them to fit it," ventured Wren bravely.
My blood-red face told her differently, as did the steam coming out of my ears. There was no way that I was going to look an even bigger numpty by admitting defeat. To be honest, what I really wanted to do was enter into the noble art of Fuckuso in which you swing a pair of windscreen wipers around your head like numchucks and throw them at the nearest smug-looking bloke in a grease-stained blue overall you can find.
Instead I pushed harder on the wiper and... click.
Ha, no you're wrong - I didn't break it! It actually fitted in.
Then I looked at Wren. "I think we've done it," I exclaimed. Oh joy.
But how did we figure it out? Neither of us really knew and we had one more to do.
Soon afterwards it appeared that Wren had broken the passenger's side wiper. A clip came lose and I couldn't see how it was possibly going to work now. I was all ready to storm back into Halfords and buy a replacement.
"No, it's fine," she assured me. "It will all clip together once it's fitted on."
I believed her. I believed her so strongly that I then had a silent strop, walked around the other side of the car and rolled a cigarette. Very helpful. Spirit of teamwork and all that.
And Wren battled on gamely - 15 minutes later it was job done. My contribution = a bit of brute force and a cantankerous strop. Wren had done the rest... and it had only taken around 40 minutes, time which would have been so much more enjoyably spent on the beach.
Do I know from this experience how to fit new wipers in future? Absolutely not.
Followed that with a trip to a chip shop that Paps recommended. We spoke to Pete the Greek and I ordered two cod and chips, mine with curry sauce, Wren's with mushy peas. We then went home and ate them in the paper. A lovely treat.
Friday, May 09, 2008
Freezer jolly good fellow
IT seems that everyone but we executive editors - the undisputed boozing champs of Meeja Wales - have been walking around with big beaming smiles on their faces and barrels of beer tucked under their arms. Apparently they have all been given a "bribe" by the new Cardiff micro brewery Zero Degrees, which opens its doors next week. At least the Prince and I have been invited to the Grand Opening, along with the other million Meeja Wales journos in the building.
Not every recipient of this contraband has been smiling, though. Paps looked distinctly mopey the other day having dropped his barrel on the floor. He now fears that if he opens it, the thing might explode and cover his kitchen with beer.
But it's not what he did that amuses me, but how this terrible accident came about. When Paps relayed his story there was a gasp from his attentive audience.
"Well, there I was, you know, hoovering the fridge..." What? "Everyone does it," he assured us, looking around the stunned faces.
Actually Paps maybe it's something that caught on in one of those northern towns like Lincoln you like to witter on about, but in all my thousands of years on this planet I have NEVER heard of anyone hoovering their fridge. Washing it out with a bit of bicarb, maybe, but getting out the Dyson and sweeping it across the remnants of Tuesday's chicken curry? Sorry, it just doesn't wash.
Not every recipient of this contraband has been smiling, though. Paps looked distinctly mopey the other day having dropped his barrel on the floor. He now fears that if he opens it, the thing might explode and cover his kitchen with beer.
But it's not what he did that amuses me, but how this terrible accident came about. When Paps relayed his story there was a gasp from his attentive audience.
"Well, there I was, you know, hoovering the fridge..." What? "Everyone does it," he assured us, looking around the stunned faces.
Actually Paps maybe it's something that caught on in one of those northern towns like Lincoln you like to witter on about, but in all my thousands of years on this planet I have NEVER heard of anyone hoovering their fridge. Washing it out with a bit of bicarb, maybe, but getting out the Dyson and sweeping it across the remnants of Tuesday's chicken curry? Sorry, it just doesn't wash.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
Chinese delivered from 100 yards away
STORIES of the Wonderful Withers of (Media) Wales - and that doesn't sound nearly as impressive as the Wonderful Withers of WoS - have tended to fill this blog on a slow news day. And today is no exception.
The boy's reputation as a complete and utter tight-wad took another turn for the worse on Friday night. It was a birthday bash for the lovely Gerry "Halt who goes there" and the great and good of the Welsh Media were there in abundance.
First we met up in Old Orleans where I was accompanied by my fiancee Wren. After a couple of beers we went out for a cigarette where we were joined by the Wonderful One, who was full of beans and up for a big night.
The next stop was a new nightclub/boozer called Ten Feet Tall, which used to be a fine little Italian restaurant called Topo Gigios. My sources had already warned me that it could be an expensive evening as said club was rather pricey. Withers, too, was aware of this and immediately crossed the road to the cashpoint to take out enough money to cover him for a big night.
Mind you, when we got inside the club it was noticeable that he took a giant step backwards from the bar and left me to get the round in. Oh well, that's Withers, I thought to myself.
A bit later we were joined by Danny Boy "the poipes, the poipes" and his lovely girlfriend the Solicitor, who he really should propose to at some stage seeing that they have been together since school and he has been taking on the look of an ageing Jack Nicholson of late (in Wolf, with those sideburns).
I must say I am not too impressed with this new boozer. Get 12 people in and it feels like you are drinking in a rather busy corridor, a bit like being on a packed British Rail train before they run out of Stella. Having nearly had my teeth knocked out by a stray elbow from Gareth Griffiths, our erstwhile cricket reporter, we decided to see if there was any more room upstairs.
There was for a short while then that, too, became packed out with Meeja people with a large contingent of BBC wallahs joining in the tomfoolery.
It was at that point I spotted Withers rolling around in good old Zombie mode, not unlike the day of the Famous Teeth Disaster. Remembering he owed Wren and I a drink I sidled up to him and told him it was his round. "Slorrrry," he slurred. "I can only buy one of you a drink cosh Iy only av a fiver."
Now A. How on earth did he manage to stay out in Ten Foot Tall until the early hours on the strength of just a fiver and,
B. Surely someone who knows the expense of the club actually goes to the cashpoint and takes out a decent amount of money, not just a few small notes.
Withers, you are a disgrace.
Saturday I was on WoS duty but it was quite a comfortable day and on Sunday myself and Paps (the piss artist formerly known as Nicey...) went out for a good, old-fashioned Sunday Sesh (as they call it in Perth, Australia).
We were trying to see the denouement of the Football League Championship in which Stoke City and Hull City were vying for the one Premiership slot on offer and Southampton, Leicester and Coventry were fighting against relegation.
But all the pubs seemed to have the boring, nothing-at-stake Arsenal v Everton Premiership match on instead. We went to PC's (or the Tut as I know it), the Royal George, the Albany and the Billabong). Finally in the latter boozer we struck lucky and had an enjoyable 40 minutes watching the saga unfold.
Poor old Leicester fans, you had to feel sorry for them. They ran a gamut of emotions as first Southampton went behind, then they went ahead, then Sheffield United equalised and finally the Saints grabbed the winner that sent Leicester down. Even then they had to play the last 10 minutes with 10 men. Doh!
Moving on, we watched Liverpool take on Manchester City in the Claude before I wandered home, pleasantly inebriated. Then, nice surprise, Wren turned up again. Her work at Bristol had finished early so she decided to drive back and visit her rather sozzled bloke.
MONDAY and we had the nasty early warning call of Dan the builder turning up to knock my flat about a bit more. Great! I dragged Wren into the car and we headed off to Worcester to see if we could see some cricket. The weather was perfect and my girlfriend hadn't been to a live match before so she had a treat in store.
Apart from the fact she didn't.
Having paid to get into the ground we then sat watching an empty stretch of grass and some covers for about an hour. Then the announcement came. Due to heavy flooding the night before and a high water table at New Road, there was very unlikely to be any play. We could get our money back, though.
We then left and went to a restaurant over the road that sold me a lovely Fishcake starter and the most ordinary Fish Pie you could ever eat in your life. Can't remember the name of the place, it was pleasant enough and had some lovely alternatives on the menu. Just a bad choice, I guess.
Last night I left earlyish for a few drinks with the Fugitive, who has at last shaved his beard off though was looking a bit stubbly nonetheless. When Withers turned up as well it turned into a bit more than a quiet drink and by the time I stumbled home I was too under-the-weather to cook. I therefore rang the A1 takeaway around the corner and ordered a very tasty pork curry to be delivered to my door. What a lazy sod!
The boy's reputation as a complete and utter tight-wad took another turn for the worse on Friday night. It was a birthday bash for the lovely Gerry "Halt who goes there" and the great and good of the Welsh Media were there in abundance.
First we met up in Old Orleans where I was accompanied by my fiancee Wren. After a couple of beers we went out for a cigarette where we were joined by the Wonderful One, who was full of beans and up for a big night.
The next stop was a new nightclub/boozer called Ten Feet Tall, which used to be a fine little Italian restaurant called Topo Gigios. My sources had already warned me that it could be an expensive evening as said club was rather pricey. Withers, too, was aware of this and immediately crossed the road to the cashpoint to take out enough money to cover him for a big night.
Mind you, when we got inside the club it was noticeable that he took a giant step backwards from the bar and left me to get the round in. Oh well, that's Withers, I thought to myself.
A bit later we were joined by Danny Boy "the poipes, the poipes" and his lovely girlfriend the Solicitor, who he really should propose to at some stage seeing that they have been together since school and he has been taking on the look of an ageing Jack Nicholson of late (in Wolf, with those sideburns).
I must say I am not too impressed with this new boozer. Get 12 people in and it feels like you are drinking in a rather busy corridor, a bit like being on a packed British Rail train before they run out of Stella. Having nearly had my teeth knocked out by a stray elbow from Gareth Griffiths, our erstwhile cricket reporter, we decided to see if there was any more room upstairs.
There was for a short while then that, too, became packed out with Meeja people with a large contingent of BBC wallahs joining in the tomfoolery.
It was at that point I spotted Withers rolling around in good old Zombie mode, not unlike the day of the Famous Teeth Disaster. Remembering he owed Wren and I a drink I sidled up to him and told him it was his round. "Slorrrry," he slurred. "I can only buy one of you a drink cosh Iy only av a fiver."
Now A. How on earth did he manage to stay out in Ten Foot Tall until the early hours on the strength of just a fiver and,
B. Surely someone who knows the expense of the club actually goes to the cashpoint and takes out a decent amount of money, not just a few small notes.
Withers, you are a disgrace.
Saturday I was on WoS duty but it was quite a comfortable day and on Sunday myself and Paps (the piss artist formerly known as Nicey...) went out for a good, old-fashioned Sunday Sesh (as they call it in Perth, Australia).
We were trying to see the denouement of the Football League Championship in which Stoke City and Hull City were vying for the one Premiership slot on offer and Southampton, Leicester and Coventry were fighting against relegation.
But all the pubs seemed to have the boring, nothing-at-stake Arsenal v Everton Premiership match on instead. We went to PC's (or the Tut as I know it), the Royal George, the Albany and the Billabong). Finally in the latter boozer we struck lucky and had an enjoyable 40 minutes watching the saga unfold.
Poor old Leicester fans, you had to feel sorry for them. They ran a gamut of emotions as first Southampton went behind, then they went ahead, then Sheffield United equalised and finally the Saints grabbed the winner that sent Leicester down. Even then they had to play the last 10 minutes with 10 men. Doh!
Moving on, we watched Liverpool take on Manchester City in the Claude before I wandered home, pleasantly inebriated. Then, nice surprise, Wren turned up again. Her work at Bristol had finished early so she decided to drive back and visit her rather sozzled bloke.
MONDAY and we had the nasty early warning call of Dan the builder turning up to knock my flat about a bit more. Great! I dragged Wren into the car and we headed off to Worcester to see if we could see some cricket. The weather was perfect and my girlfriend hadn't been to a live match before so she had a treat in store.
Apart from the fact she didn't.
Having paid to get into the ground we then sat watching an empty stretch of grass and some covers for about an hour. Then the announcement came. Due to heavy flooding the night before and a high water table at New Road, there was very unlikely to be any play. We could get our money back, though.
We then left and went to a restaurant over the road that sold me a lovely Fishcake starter and the most ordinary Fish Pie you could ever eat in your life. Can't remember the name of the place, it was pleasant enough and had some lovely alternatives on the menu. Just a bad choice, I guess.
Last night I left earlyish for a few drinks with the Fugitive, who has at last shaved his beard off though was looking a bit stubbly nonetheless. When Withers turned up as well it turned into a bit more than a quiet drink and by the time I stumbled home I was too under-the-weather to cook. I therefore rang the A1 takeaway around the corner and ordered a very tasty pork curry to be delivered to my door. What a lazy sod!
Friday, May 02, 2008
Rice and chorizo
Our old pal 'Arry 'Awkins, 'arry 'awkins, 'arry 'arry 'arry etc etc was back in touch today. He is now working for the Newport Argos catalogue and no doubt doing very well. Certainly his reputation seems to be catching on. I received a text message from him just this afternoon, following on from the local council elections.
He informed me that he was introduced to the Welsh Assembly kit member Rosemary Butler at the Newport recount at which point she started kicking her legs up in the air, thumbs tucked under lapels, and sang "Arry Awkins, Arry Awkins, Arry, arry, arry Awkins". The guy is now a Gwent leg end.
I've got a lovely recipe for rice and chorizo that I got from the Observer mag. Apparently it is a favourite creation of artist Marc Quinn.
Ingredients:
2 large onions
4 chopped garlic gloves
2 small chillis
large knob of ginger peeled and chopped fine
1 tsp turmeric
1 tsp mustard seeds, ground
1 tsp coriander seeds, ground
500g chopped chorizo
500g wholegrain brown rice
1 litre chicken stock
1 tin chopped tomatoes
1 tin coconut milk
5 saffron strands
oil
TO DO:
Grind the seeds in a mortar and pestle or similar
Heat 2tbsps oil in wok or paella pan
Gently cook onions, garlic, chillis, ginger, turmeric, seeds, and half chorizo.
Add the rice, stock, tomatoes, coconut milk and saffron.
Cook for at least 40 mins, adding more stock if necessary.
Fry remaining chorizo in small pan.
Remove the original and replace with fresh, if you prefer. I actually left the original in as well, because that's the kind of guy I am!
Gently cook onions, garlic
He informed me that he was introduced to the Welsh Assembly kit member Rosemary Butler at the Newport recount at which point she started kicking her legs up in the air, thumbs tucked under lapels, and sang "Arry Awkins, Arry Awkins, Arry, arry, arry Awkins". The guy is now a Gwent leg end.
I've got a lovely recipe for rice and chorizo that I got from the Observer mag. Apparently it is a favourite creation of artist Marc Quinn.
Ingredients:
2 large onions
4 chopped garlic gloves
2 small chillis
large knob of ginger peeled and chopped fine
1 tsp turmeric
1 tsp mustard seeds, ground
1 tsp coriander seeds, ground
500g chopped chorizo
500g wholegrain brown rice
1 litre chicken stock
1 tin chopped tomatoes
1 tin coconut milk
5 saffron strands
oil
TO DO:
Grind the seeds in a mortar and pestle or similar
Heat 2tbsps oil in wok or paella pan
Gently cook onions, garlic, chillis, ginger, turmeric, seeds, and half chorizo.
Add the rice, stock, tomatoes, coconut milk and saffron.
Cook for at least 40 mins, adding more stock if necessary.
Fry remaining chorizo in small pan.
Remove the original and replace with fresh, if you prefer. I actually left the original in as well, because that's the kind of guy I am!
Gently cook onions, garlic
Thursday, May 01, 2008
Spanish sea bream and a lovely cup of tea
I'M not saying my mind is frazzled but some strange things have been happening to me lately. The other morning I found myself sleep brewing. I didn't have to get up until nine, being on the late shift for the Snail, but I suddenly found myself in the kitchen putting the kettle on. I didn't even know how I had got there, why I was there or what provoked me to make a cup of tea. I then glanced at the clock on the cooker - 6.46am. Am I going mad? Don't answer that it's a rhetorical question.
Still, it's been a pretty good week all in all. Monday was a late night working, waiting for pictures of Swansea City's triumphant bus tour through the city, but I still managed to catch up with the Prince of Darkness and the Wonderful Withers of WoS in The Yard, even though I didn't get out of the office until 9.30. They had gathered at around 3pm for a quiet drink, both being on a day off, and it was only when I pointed out it was 10 that the Prince snarled as if being shown a crucifix embedded with garlic, wrapped his cloak around him and shot off home. He was on the 7am shift for t'echo the following day. I honestly don't know how he manages it sometimes.
On Tuesday we had a visit from Rosey, down in Cardiff to interview one of their FA Cup final-bound players. He was looking pretty sharp and is obviously finding the London life suits him greatly.
The Fugitive, meanwhile, seems to be cracking up. He arrived back from the States just about the same time as his postcard, which contained what can only be described as the ramblings of a lunatic. Containing a picture of four people bending over showing their rather pert backsides to the camera, the Fugitive claimed to have got them to pose on the basis of being an artist. They then found out he worked for Media Wales and described him as a "dirty b**tard". Hmmm, strange indeed. Though, pretty correct as it happens.
Tuesday night I got away a bit early and watched Manchester United reach the European Champions League final with a 1-0 win over Barcelona thanks to a sensational Paul Scholes goal. And on Wednesday I joined the Prince for beers in Dempseys, where the hordes of Liverpool fans who have chosen it as their Cardiff venue were left distraught by their 3-2 European defeat to Chelsea. Cracking game though, Gromit.
Unfortunately on Wednesday I also fell victim of the Style Nazi. I was designing a page about a piece of Welsh slate found in a garden which, according to some, bares the image of Elvis Pressley. Hence we dubbed it Elvis Presili, because that was where it was discovered. Ho hum.
I was quite happy with my design only to find the Style Nazi changing the headline. "You can't have a headline that size," he insisted, "you are going against Western Snail style." Oh, heaven forbid.
On Tuesday night I had some Sea Bream to cook and even though it was gone 10pm I set about it with gusto.
You can buy readily prepared Sea Bream at Morrisons complete with parsley - an excellent buy.
So I did Sea Bream baked with garlic, parsley and white wine vinegar.
INGREDIENTS
Sea Bream
1 large potato, sliced
250ml olive oil
2-3 sprigs of fresh fennel (unfortunately I didn't have any so left it out)
3 tbs white wine vinegar
3 cloves garlic, chopped
1 tbs chopped fresh parsley
sea salt
TO DO
Heat the oven to 180 degrees/gas mark 4.
Heat the oil in a frying pan then add the potatoes and cook, turning regularly, but don't brown (10 mins). Lightly season with salt, remove and put in bottom of ovenproof dish.
Season fish in and out with salt (not too much). Put fennel sprigs in cavity and place fish on top of potatoes. Place fennel on top and underneath.
Pour the reserved oil over the fish and bake for 10 mins.
Remove dish and increase oven temp to 220 degrees/gas mark 7.
Discard fennel, then pour half the vinegar inside the cavity of the fish and sprinkle half the garlic and half the parsley inside (you may not need the parsley if it is already the prepared version from Morrisons).
Close fish and pour remaining vinegar on top with the rest of the garlic and parsley. Return to oven for 8 minutes or so until the flesh flakes easily.
Serve. I did it with spinach fried with sliced garlic in a frying pan until it wilts.
Still, it's been a pretty good week all in all. Monday was a late night working, waiting for pictures of Swansea City's triumphant bus tour through the city, but I still managed to catch up with the Prince of Darkness and the Wonderful Withers of WoS in The Yard, even though I didn't get out of the office until 9.30. They had gathered at around 3pm for a quiet drink, both being on a day off, and it was only when I pointed out it was 10 that the Prince snarled as if being shown a crucifix embedded with garlic, wrapped his cloak around him and shot off home. He was on the 7am shift for t'echo the following day. I honestly don't know how he manages it sometimes.
On Tuesday we had a visit from Rosey, down in Cardiff to interview one of their FA Cup final-bound players. He was looking pretty sharp and is obviously finding the London life suits him greatly.
The Fugitive, meanwhile, seems to be cracking up. He arrived back from the States just about the same time as his postcard, which contained what can only be described as the ramblings of a lunatic. Containing a picture of four people bending over showing their rather pert backsides to the camera, the Fugitive claimed to have got them to pose on the basis of being an artist. They then found out he worked for Media Wales and described him as a "dirty b**tard". Hmmm, strange indeed. Though, pretty correct as it happens.
Tuesday night I got away a bit early and watched Manchester United reach the European Champions League final with a 1-0 win over Barcelona thanks to a sensational Paul Scholes goal. And on Wednesday I joined the Prince for beers in Dempseys, where the hordes of Liverpool fans who have chosen it as their Cardiff venue were left distraught by their 3-2 European defeat to Chelsea. Cracking game though, Gromit.
Unfortunately on Wednesday I also fell victim of the Style Nazi. I was designing a page about a piece of Welsh slate found in a garden which, according to some, bares the image of Elvis Pressley. Hence we dubbed it Elvis Presili, because that was where it was discovered. Ho hum.
I was quite happy with my design only to find the Style Nazi changing the headline. "You can't have a headline that size," he insisted, "you are going against Western Snail style." Oh, heaven forbid.
On Tuesday night I had some Sea Bream to cook and even though it was gone 10pm I set about it with gusto.
You can buy readily prepared Sea Bream at Morrisons complete with parsley - an excellent buy.
So I did Sea Bream baked with garlic, parsley and white wine vinegar.
INGREDIENTS
Sea Bream
1 large potato, sliced
250ml olive oil
2-3 sprigs of fresh fennel (unfortunately I didn't have any so left it out)
3 tbs white wine vinegar
3 cloves garlic, chopped
1 tbs chopped fresh parsley
sea salt
TO DO
Heat the oven to 180 degrees/gas mark 4.
Heat the oil in a frying pan then add the potatoes and cook, turning regularly, but don't brown (10 mins). Lightly season with salt, remove and put in bottom of ovenproof dish.
Season fish in and out with salt (not too much). Put fennel sprigs in cavity and place fish on top of potatoes. Place fennel on top and underneath.
Pour the reserved oil over the fish and bake for 10 mins.
Remove dish and increase oven temp to 220 degrees/gas mark 7.
Discard fennel, then pour half the vinegar inside the cavity of the fish and sprinkle half the garlic and half the parsley inside (you may not need the parsley if it is already the prepared version from Morrisons).
Close fish and pour remaining vinegar on top with the rest of the garlic and parsley. Return to oven for 8 minutes or so until the flesh flakes easily.
Serve. I did it with spinach fried with sliced garlic in a frying pan until it wilts.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Perfect roast potatoes
The trouble with having a girlfriend is that you get into the habit of putting kisses on everything. It shouldn't be a big problem, but it is when you send a text message to the Wonderful Withers of WoS inquiring about that night's boozing activities and he sends one back asking: "Why did you put kisses on the end of my text message?"
Now I have always been a bit sceptical about Withers' preferences anyway, as has his family I understand, so now I am afraid to make eye contact in case he thinks it's a come on. Not too afraid to go drinking with him every night of last week, though. That's mainly because he is the only person who finishes at roughly the same time as me when I'm working on t'South Wales Echo.
It was pretty hard-core last week, working at least 10 hours a day on the new hub, getting up at six, walking comatosed into work and not finishing until around 5.30 that evening.
It meant the ritual cooking of tea fell by the wayside, too. In fact I seem to recall heating up popcorn for my supper twice last week, then having a can of soup and finally falling back on that old staple diet, the pork scratchings. Mmm, healthy.
On Friday night there was a bit of a do and I ended up in the Yard with Withers and David (not the goalkeeper) James, the Prince of Darkness and his mate, photographer Andy. But after a few pints I hit the wall and struggled home.
Good thing, too, because Wren came over on Saturday and after letting me get over the remains of my hangover by watching Chelsea beat Manchester United and close the title race to nil points we then went to the cinema to watch a film called In Bruges. I've got to say it was excellent. Colin Farrell and Brendon Gleeson are superb as Irishmen on the run after a shooting in London. It was darkly comic and the hidden treat of the year as far as cinema goes.
That evening we went to the Thai Garden in City Road for a Chinese meal and I must admit I had to suffer the embarrassment of falling through my chair half the way through - and I hadn't even eaten that much! I had some kind of seafood mixture with Singapore Fried Rice. In truth, it was all a bit bland and with the furniture fiasco, too, I'm not sure I'll be going back.
Anyway, Sunday was spent doing a bit of shopping in town. Wren bought new jeans and I bought the third series of the West Wing and the first series of Spooks. Oh, and a double ice cream: Toffee and caramel with a fudge stick and chocolate sprayed over the top. From Thayers.
Shows the embarrassment of breaking furniture didn't last long.
When we finally got home we were pretty bushed but it was time to cook my favourite roast beef in Madeira Sauce. Having given the recipe on this blog before I'll just tell you about the roast potatoes, following Nigel Slater's perfect recipe.
I cut them into fairly sizeable chunks, then boiled them in salted water for 10-15 minutes. Removing them from the heat I then drained off the hot water, returned them over the flame for a few seconds and shook them around the pan to rough up the edges.
I then placed them in a 180 degree oven and brushed them with goose fat then added more sea salt. I cooked them for just over an hour until they browned and crisped nicely. Yum!
Now I have always been a bit sceptical about Withers' preferences anyway, as has his family I understand, so now I am afraid to make eye contact in case he thinks it's a come on. Not too afraid to go drinking with him every night of last week, though. That's mainly because he is the only person who finishes at roughly the same time as me when I'm working on t'South Wales Echo.
It was pretty hard-core last week, working at least 10 hours a day on the new hub, getting up at six, walking comatosed into work and not finishing until around 5.30 that evening.
It meant the ritual cooking of tea fell by the wayside, too. In fact I seem to recall heating up popcorn for my supper twice last week, then having a can of soup and finally falling back on that old staple diet, the pork scratchings. Mmm, healthy.
On Friday night there was a bit of a do and I ended up in the Yard with Withers and David (not the goalkeeper) James, the Prince of Darkness and his mate, photographer Andy. But after a few pints I hit the wall and struggled home.
Good thing, too, because Wren came over on Saturday and after letting me get over the remains of my hangover by watching Chelsea beat Manchester United and close the title race to nil points we then went to the cinema to watch a film called In Bruges. I've got to say it was excellent. Colin Farrell and Brendon Gleeson are superb as Irishmen on the run after a shooting in London. It was darkly comic and the hidden treat of the year as far as cinema goes.
That evening we went to the Thai Garden in City Road for a Chinese meal and I must admit I had to suffer the embarrassment of falling through my chair half the way through - and I hadn't even eaten that much! I had some kind of seafood mixture with Singapore Fried Rice. In truth, it was all a bit bland and with the furniture fiasco, too, I'm not sure I'll be going back.
Anyway, Sunday was spent doing a bit of shopping in town. Wren bought new jeans and I bought the third series of the West Wing and the first series of Spooks. Oh, and a double ice cream: Toffee and caramel with a fudge stick and chocolate sprayed over the top. From Thayers.
Shows the embarrassment of breaking furniture didn't last long.
When we finally got home we were pretty bushed but it was time to cook my favourite roast beef in Madeira Sauce. Having given the recipe on this blog before I'll just tell you about the roast potatoes, following Nigel Slater's perfect recipe.
I cut them into fairly sizeable chunks, then boiled them in salted water for 10-15 minutes. Removing them from the heat I then drained off the hot water, returned them over the flame for a few seconds and shook them around the pan to rough up the edges.
I then placed them in a 180 degree oven and brushed them with goose fat then added more sea salt. I cooked them for just over an hour until they browned and crisped nicely. Yum!
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
picnic
NEWS from the Smoke and it's a salient message for go-getting, exclusive breaking, byline bandits everywhere. Yesterday I had a message on my e-mail that simply read:
"Hello everyone, I lost my mobile at the weekend, it has been a complete nightmare. Lost all my contacts and London friends! Anyhow, can you send me your mob numbers as I begin to rebuild my life."
So it seems that the Fabulous Baker Boy is stumbling from one catastrophe to another as he tries to make his way in the hard-nosed world of what used to be called Fleet Street.
I have nothing but sympathy for the lad, personally. Having lost my mobile phone on too numerous occasions to mention - normally after an extended session on the ale - I can vouch for the fact it throws your life into turmoil. Many a time I have spent going through my itemised calls bill trying to work out which number belongs to which person. It has been accompanied by rather extended sessions of ranting and raving, as my patient girlfriend Wren can vouch.
One such occasion happened last year at a retail park outside Braintree. Having returned to the car I was alarmed to find that the mobile phone which had been nestling safely in my pocket was no longer there.
There followed a period of door slamming, shouting and self-flagellation before I finally settled down to go and search for the bloody thing. Luckily it had turned up in the security hut at the site. Phew!
So what of the Baker Boy's phone? Well, judging by his hectic social life it could be anywhere between SW1 and NE10. His only response to my inquiry: "I guess I must have left it in a taxi." If that's the case the London Cabbie has probably got a bit more knowledge than he has need for right now.
And the alternative doesn't bare thinking about. Right now there could be some rather shady characters trying to get in touch with his No 1 contact, Charlotte Church's Voice Coach.
Otherwise, it was another boozeday Tuesday on the hub, which doesn't have quite the same ring as when it was part of the WoS routine. I managed to extricate myself from working on the South Wales Ego at around 4.45 having been up since six in the morning and working hard from seven.
I effected my escape with the Wonderful Withers, who was sitting, cleaning his nails and looking particularly bored. We made straight for the Yard and waited for the usual suspects, who timed their arrivals perfectly.
Every time we got to the dregs of our pints another would turn up to replenish the round. First came Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes), then Smashy. But while the others waited for the arrival of the Prince of Darkness I made sharply for the exit.
Now, I'm not saying the Prince had a thirst on by the time he left the office but rumour has it that he was still going strong at 2 in the morning. Apparently he managed to empty the contents of his wallet in a den of iniquity where no self-respecting creature of the night Should ever venture.
I didn't get much sleep this weekend. It was all down to the big fight in Vegas between that fantastic Welsh sporting icon Joe Calzaghe and the legendary Executioner Bernard Hopkins. Shutts and the Fugitive both ventured out to the States to see their hero perform while I had to settle for booking it through Setanta (not something I really wanted to do, particularly as the Boss was quick to chime in: "Eh, Wee man yous got Setanta eh. That means yous can watch the Glasgi derby between the Bhoys and Rangers, the noo." Um, the no, as it happens. I would rather watch a Take That tribute band singing Boney M covers, as it happens.
Anyway, it was at about 11.30 when I decided to take the plunge and book the fight. The original plan was to go and watch it at Chez Withers but I learned by 7pm that he had already headed off to bed, having got blindingly drunk on Friday playing Man About The House to Amazing Grace and his other new flatmate, who I have yet to meet.
Strange boy, Withers. He jogged off home early on Thursday to buy provisions and did not even accompany us for a pint in the Yard on Friday. We think he is becoming a kind of Richard O'Sullivan character from the 1970s sitcom, co-incidentally called Man About The House. Personally, I think this rather second-rate remake should be called Two women and a Twat.
Still, I digress. Having finally signed up to Setanta and having heard from the radio that the fight wouldn't start until four I set my alarm for 3.30. When I woke a few hours later I zipped into the front room, turned on the TV and, to my horror, discovered four rounds had gone and that Calzaghe had been dumped on his bum in the first. I wasn't thrilled.
Still, I managed to watch the rest of the fight and was delighted when Joe got the verdict, even though the commentary had hinted he was losing. What do these boxing experts know?
Just to make sure that he had, indeed, deserved victory I watched the fight twice more on Sunday and was convinced by the end that the judges' verdict was right.
I got to sleep at 5.20am, only to be woken on the dot of six by a text message bleeping in my ear.
"In Joe we trust," announced the Fugitive, obviously by now totally oblivious to everything, including the time difference between Vegas and Wales.
Wren came over to visit on Sunday and we spent a good hour touring around Morrisons, buying food for a nice indoor picnic. We had green olives, chicken pakoras, chicken legs, coleslaw and some nice crusty bread. Great.
"Hello everyone, I lost my mobile at the weekend, it has been a complete nightmare. Lost all my contacts and London friends! Anyhow, can you send me your mob numbers as I begin to rebuild my life."
So it seems that the Fabulous Baker Boy is stumbling from one catastrophe to another as he tries to make his way in the hard-nosed world of what used to be called Fleet Street.
I have nothing but sympathy for the lad, personally. Having lost my mobile phone on too numerous occasions to mention - normally after an extended session on the ale - I can vouch for the fact it throws your life into turmoil. Many a time I have spent going through my itemised calls bill trying to work out which number belongs to which person. It has been accompanied by rather extended sessions of ranting and raving, as my patient girlfriend Wren can vouch.
One such occasion happened last year at a retail park outside Braintree. Having returned to the car I was alarmed to find that the mobile phone which had been nestling safely in my pocket was no longer there.
There followed a period of door slamming, shouting and self-flagellation before I finally settled down to go and search for the bloody thing. Luckily it had turned up in the security hut at the site. Phew!
So what of the Baker Boy's phone? Well, judging by his hectic social life it could be anywhere between SW1 and NE10. His only response to my inquiry: "I guess I must have left it in a taxi." If that's the case the London Cabbie has probably got a bit more knowledge than he has need for right now.
And the alternative doesn't bare thinking about. Right now there could be some rather shady characters trying to get in touch with his No 1 contact, Charlotte Church's Voice Coach.
Otherwise, it was another boozeday Tuesday on the hub, which doesn't have quite the same ring as when it was part of the WoS routine. I managed to extricate myself from working on the South Wales Ego at around 4.45 having been up since six in the morning and working hard from seven.
I effected my escape with the Wonderful Withers, who was sitting, cleaning his nails and looking particularly bored. We made straight for the Yard and waited for the usual suspects, who timed their arrivals perfectly.
Every time we got to the dregs of our pints another would turn up to replenish the round. First came Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes), then Smashy. But while the others waited for the arrival of the Prince of Darkness I made sharply for the exit.
Now, I'm not saying the Prince had a thirst on by the time he left the office but rumour has it that he was still going strong at 2 in the morning. Apparently he managed to empty the contents of his wallet in a den of iniquity where no self-respecting creature of the night Should ever venture.
I didn't get much sleep this weekend. It was all down to the big fight in Vegas between that fantastic Welsh sporting icon Joe Calzaghe and the legendary Executioner Bernard Hopkins. Shutts and the Fugitive both ventured out to the States to see their hero perform while I had to settle for booking it through Setanta (not something I really wanted to do, particularly as the Boss was quick to chime in: "Eh, Wee man yous got Setanta eh. That means yous can watch the Glasgi derby between the Bhoys and Rangers, the noo." Um, the no, as it happens. I would rather watch a Take That tribute band singing Boney M covers, as it happens.
Anyway, it was at about 11.30 when I decided to take the plunge and book the fight. The original plan was to go and watch it at Chez Withers but I learned by 7pm that he had already headed off to bed, having got blindingly drunk on Friday playing Man About The House to Amazing Grace and his other new flatmate, who I have yet to meet.
Strange boy, Withers. He jogged off home early on Thursday to buy provisions and did not even accompany us for a pint in the Yard on Friday. We think he is becoming a kind of Richard O'Sullivan character from the 1970s sitcom, co-incidentally called Man About The House. Personally, I think this rather second-rate remake should be called Two women and a Twat.
Still, I digress. Having finally signed up to Setanta and having heard from the radio that the fight wouldn't start until four I set my alarm for 3.30. When I woke a few hours later I zipped into the front room, turned on the TV and, to my horror, discovered four rounds had gone and that Calzaghe had been dumped on his bum in the first. I wasn't thrilled.
Still, I managed to watch the rest of the fight and was delighted when Joe got the verdict, even though the commentary had hinted he was losing. What do these boxing experts know?
Just to make sure that he had, indeed, deserved victory I watched the fight twice more on Sunday and was convinced by the end that the judges' verdict was right.
I got to sleep at 5.20am, only to be woken on the dot of six by a text message bleeping in my ear.
"In Joe we trust," announced the Fugitive, obviously by now totally oblivious to everything, including the time difference between Vegas and Wales.
Wren came over to visit on Sunday and we spent a good hour touring around Morrisons, buying food for a nice indoor picnic. We had green olives, chicken pakoras, chicken legs, coleslaw and some nice crusty bread. Great.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Tuna and tomato noodles
Pap, the p*ss artist formerly known as Nicey, nudged me the other day and said: "Hey, you haven't updated your blog for a week now."
Well, my mind has been so befuddled by the new happy hub that I nearly answered: "What blog?"
So what's been happening? Well, at last I have got the recognition I deserve and have been elevated to God-like status in the eyes of the good people of Cardiff. In other words, my face now appears on Viewpoints, the letters page of the South Wales Echo. It means that every sad sod with something to moan about seems to get in touch with me. I must admit I always envisaged this role when I was slaving away planning award-winning sports pages for Wales on Sunday or designing 16-page supplements for the Irish Sunday Mirror.
Amazingly, it does make a bigger impression on the public, too. I have been using my laundrette for as long as I can remember and have quite often waltzed in, dropping the odd hint to Cardiff's version of Dot Cotton that "I'm in the papers".
Until now, I think she thought I had been up in Cardiff Magistrates Court on a charge of drunk and dishevelled and that it had been reported in the local rag.
This Sunday was different, however. "Hey, I see you're working for the Echo now. Editing the letters." Fame at bloody last.
I am also now readers champion, so anyone with a complaint seems to be shown straight to my door. I hope to God they spell world champion boxer Joe Calzaghe's name right when he appears in Las Vegas in the early hours of tomorrow morning.
Meanwhile, I am now sitting here on a Friday night, at least one-and-a-half hours after my normal boozing time, working away on the Western Mail. Well, not working I suppose, just blogging. But being on the happy hub, which sits just behind the editor's office, I have to keep closing down my blog every time he wanders past and pretending to be busy.
At the same time I keep getting assorted texts from the Prince of Darkness, Smashy, Pap and Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes) who are all getting steadily merry in Sh**ty O'Grim's. The swines!
Still, I have Boston to look forward to. Boston? Well, sitting around messing about on Wren's computer on Sunday morning I decided to book a B and B there, then hope we can get some Red Sox tickets for one of the September games. We've still to book flights, too.
That followed a very enjoyable Saturday night in Bristol walking across the suspension bridge then having a pint in the pub next to the Avon Gorge Hotel followed by a yummy takeaway curry. Unfortunately, due to working hours we haven't seen each other much, but are hoping to rectify that in the near future.
As for cooking, I just don't feel up to it these days. Last week I put in more than 50 hours and this week must be closing in on the same figure. I did rustle up a quick meal the other day, though, and very nice it was, too.
It involved quickly whisking two cloves of chopped garlic and two dried red chillis around a hot wok, then adding half a red onion after about 10 seconds. Turning the heat down, I cooked the onion until it was fairly soft then added a drained tin of tuna and some parsley and cooked for a short while. In the recipe it said to add black olives but as I had none I settled instead for mushrooms.
When they started to cook well I added a tin of tomatoes and seasoned with plenty of salt and pepper. Leaving on a low heat for 15 minutes I then cooked up some egg noodles in a pan of salted water, boiling them for four minutes before dunking them in cold water and then adding to the tuna and tomatoes. Nice and simple and pretty tasty.
Well, my mind has been so befuddled by the new happy hub that I nearly answered: "What blog?"
So what's been happening? Well, at last I have got the recognition I deserve and have been elevated to God-like status in the eyes of the good people of Cardiff. In other words, my face now appears on Viewpoints, the letters page of the South Wales Echo. It means that every sad sod with something to moan about seems to get in touch with me. I must admit I always envisaged this role when I was slaving away planning award-winning sports pages for Wales on Sunday or designing 16-page supplements for the Irish Sunday Mirror.
Amazingly, it does make a bigger impression on the public, too. I have been using my laundrette for as long as I can remember and have quite often waltzed in, dropping the odd hint to Cardiff's version of Dot Cotton that "I'm in the papers".
Until now, I think she thought I had been up in Cardiff Magistrates Court on a charge of drunk and dishevelled and that it had been reported in the local rag.
This Sunday was different, however. "Hey, I see you're working for the Echo now. Editing the letters." Fame at bloody last.
I am also now readers champion, so anyone with a complaint seems to be shown straight to my door. I hope to God they spell world champion boxer Joe Calzaghe's name right when he appears in Las Vegas in the early hours of tomorrow morning.
Meanwhile, I am now sitting here on a Friday night, at least one-and-a-half hours after my normal boozing time, working away on the Western Mail. Well, not working I suppose, just blogging. But being on the happy hub, which sits just behind the editor's office, I have to keep closing down my blog every time he wanders past and pretending to be busy.
At the same time I keep getting assorted texts from the Prince of Darkness, Smashy, Pap and Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes) who are all getting steadily merry in Sh**ty O'Grim's. The swines!
Still, I have Boston to look forward to. Boston? Well, sitting around messing about on Wren's computer on Sunday morning I decided to book a B and B there, then hope we can get some Red Sox tickets for one of the September games. We've still to book flights, too.
That followed a very enjoyable Saturday night in Bristol walking across the suspension bridge then having a pint in the pub next to the Avon Gorge Hotel followed by a yummy takeaway curry. Unfortunately, due to working hours we haven't seen each other much, but are hoping to rectify that in the near future.
As for cooking, I just don't feel up to it these days. Last week I put in more than 50 hours and this week must be closing in on the same figure. I did rustle up a quick meal the other day, though, and very nice it was, too.
It involved quickly whisking two cloves of chopped garlic and two dried red chillis around a hot wok, then adding half a red onion after about 10 seconds. Turning the heat down, I cooked the onion until it was fairly soft then added a drained tin of tuna and some parsley and cooked for a short while. In the recipe it said to add black olives but as I had none I settled instead for mushrooms.
When they started to cook well I added a tin of tomatoes and seasoned with plenty of salt and pepper. Leaving on a low heat for 15 minutes I then cooked up some egg noodles in a pan of salted water, boiling them for four minutes before dunking them in cold water and then adding to the tuna and tomatoes. Nice and simple and pretty tasty.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
A broken record
Well, life is going pretty well on the happy hub, apart from the fact I am getting into work at half past sparrow fart and leaving at about midnight. Even my exertions are beaten by Nicey, however, who is a walking zombie at the moment, has forgotten where he lives and doesn't even know how to get out of the office any more.
But the website seems to be working wonderfully well with the cast of thousands now ploughing stuff onto it. We've got videos, picture galleries and lots of stories to entertain the readers. Perhaps the best one, though, is the tale that will never see the light of day in any of the Meeja Wales outlets.
On Wednesday we sent out our intrepid video guru Jamie "Lee" Cuff to visit a Cardiff City fan of indeterminate age who had told us of an old 78 record he owned which marked the 1927 cup final, which all Bluebirds fans will tell you was the time they won the FA Cup.
It was the first time, also, that Abide With Me was sung at a Wembley final and, shock of shocks, this old gent owned a recording of the very moment when the thousands of fans at the game broke into the famous hymn.
The kindly old guy lent us his disk on the basis that we could play it over the web. Unfortunately things didn't quite go to plan.
Having handed Jamie Lee his treasured possession, the keen upstart held it gingerly in his hand and walked away. Unfortunately he was holding the sleeve upside down. The record slipped out and, on contact with the pavement, received a rather large dent. Poor Jamie Lee was in torment.
Unfortunately, he didn't receive the same kind of sympathy from his colleagues.
Picture Editor Rob "a job?" Norman told a packed conference with a glint in his eye: "We've changed all our ring tones to the theme tune from record breakers."
The swines!
But the website seems to be working wonderfully well with the cast of thousands now ploughing stuff onto it. We've got videos, picture galleries and lots of stories to entertain the readers. Perhaps the best one, though, is the tale that will never see the light of day in any of the Meeja Wales outlets.
On Wednesday we sent out our intrepid video guru Jamie "Lee" Cuff to visit a Cardiff City fan of indeterminate age who had told us of an old 78 record he owned which marked the 1927 cup final, which all Bluebirds fans will tell you was the time they won the FA Cup.
It was the first time, also, that Abide With Me was sung at a Wembley final and, shock of shocks, this old gent owned a recording of the very moment when the thousands of fans at the game broke into the famous hymn.
The kindly old guy lent us his disk on the basis that we could play it over the web. Unfortunately things didn't quite go to plan.
Having handed Jamie Lee his treasured possession, the keen upstart held it gingerly in his hand and walked away. Unfortunately he was holding the sleeve upside down. The record slipped out and, on contact with the pavement, received a rather large dent. Poor Jamie Lee was in torment.
Unfortunately, he didn't receive the same kind of sympathy from his colleagues.
Picture Editor Rob "a job?" Norman told a packed conference with a glint in his eye: "We've changed all our ring tones to the theme tune from record breakers."
The swines!
Monday, April 07, 2008
A Cadbury's Creme Egg
SO the new hubba bubba has begun at Meeja Wales and, as had been predicted, it was pretty chaotic, though perhaps not as chaotic as was first anticipated. The main problem has been with people's phones being moved. Others have been unable to pick up calls coming to different numbers. Still, the Echo's special "Cardiff City reach the FA Cup final (I NEVER thought I would write those words)" special came out as planned. I also never considered my immense talents and skills would be utilised in collating the Echo letters page. Ow!
With things changing so rapidly, Friday night was the chance for everyone to get together for a "ring out the old, ring in the new" party. Kempy and the Robot had a joint leaving do and there was a huge gathering of past and future colleagues. It gave the Wonderful Withers the chance to whip out his camera and become Pap for the night, clicking off a number of pictures of the great and the good. Included in the rogues gallery was the Fabulous Baker Boy, who regaled us of wonderful tales from the crypt (or should I say the Sunday Peeps).
One of them included how he had to engage Brucie Forsythe in a 30-minute conversation as he tried to present the bon viveur with a mock front page to celebrate his 80th birthday. The problem came about because the photographer taking the pics couldn't get his camera to work. Sound familiar?
In the end Brucie could wait no longer. "Nice to see you... now f*** off!"
The Great Peter Corrigan, father of Coggsy, was also there in all his glory, telling stories of past days of greatness on the South Wales Eggo.
Wren came over for the night and I was told afterwards by all in sundry what a wonderful person she was, while others asked: what the hell is she doing with you? Nice.
Sunday was a lazy pre-hub day but at least I got a chance to throw the plastic around, buying numerous dvd's like the first series of Gavin and Stacey - a masterpiece - the fourth series of 24 and some other films that came highly recommended. I could be spending a few nights in - particularly as I have to get up by half past sparrow's fart every morning to work on the Evening rag.
At least on arrival this morning I was greeted with the sight of a Cadbury's Creme egg - a present from the editors to all our journos. It's all gone now.
With things changing so rapidly, Friday night was the chance for everyone to get together for a "ring out the old, ring in the new" party. Kempy and the Robot had a joint leaving do and there was a huge gathering of past and future colleagues. It gave the Wonderful Withers the chance to whip out his camera and become Pap for the night, clicking off a number of pictures of the great and the good. Included in the rogues gallery was the Fabulous Baker Boy, who regaled us of wonderful tales from the crypt (or should I say the Sunday Peeps).
One of them included how he had to engage Brucie Forsythe in a 30-minute conversation as he tried to present the bon viveur with a mock front page to celebrate his 80th birthday. The problem came about because the photographer taking the pics couldn't get his camera to work. Sound familiar?
In the end Brucie could wait no longer. "Nice to see you... now f*** off!"
The Great Peter Corrigan, father of Coggsy, was also there in all his glory, telling stories of past days of greatness on the South Wales Eggo.
Wren came over for the night and I was told afterwards by all in sundry what a wonderful person she was, while others asked: what the hell is she doing with you? Nice.
Sunday was a lazy pre-hub day but at least I got a chance to throw the plastic around, buying numerous dvd's like the first series of Gavin and Stacey - a masterpiece - the fourth series of 24 and some other films that came highly recommended. I could be spending a few nights in - particularly as I have to get up by half past sparrow's fart every morning to work on the Evening rag.
At least on arrival this morning I was greeted with the sight of a Cadbury's Creme egg - a present from the editors to all our journos. It's all gone now.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Creole Seafood Risotto
THAT'S it. The end of Boozeday Tuesday as we know it. On Monday the new hub at Meeja Wales comes into operation and all the fun and frivolities will be over for good... well, maybe.
There was a good turnout for the Boozeday session. Even the Robot turned up belatedly to say his goodbyes (before his official goodbye on Friday - anyone realise he was leaving?).
He was mortified to discover that the big boss man at our old drinking den The Yard was so grateful for our custom over the last year or so that he furnished the usual suspects with a free meal. Not ones to take advantage, Wathanovski, the Fugitive, the Prince of Darkness, Shutts and Smashy all had burger and chips. But there's always one who is apt to bite the hand that feeds them.
Step forward the glutinous Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes). "I'm gonna have the ribeye steak," he announced without a blush of embarrassment. He then proceeded to wolf it down in a mere few seconds.
The Prince, meanwhile, needed something to wash it down with. So out came the double voddies. At that stage I made my excuses and left, but I hear the festivities went on until well into the early hours with the usual suspects ending up amid a throng of whippersnappers at Barfly. The Poipes was left holding his cape as the Prince, not one to be put off by dancing amid youngsters old enough to be his grandchildren, decided to weave his magic on the dancefloor. Wowie, wowie as he is known to say.
Wathanovski, meantime, is in the last week of singledom before tying the knot with his girlfriend, the teacher. He is still having a battle with his clothing for the big day, however. Remember this is the guy who walked all the way home in a shrink-wrapped jacket once, only to realise that he was actually in possession of one belonging to the Wonderful Withers of WoS.
Well, the other day he took delivery of a new pair of shoes and decided a trip to the cobblers was in order so that he could have the heels elevated slightly, to save him the humiliation of being shorter than his good lady on the big day.
What he forgot to check, though, was whether the shoes were fit for purpose. Too late, he realised that they were for a person with two right feet. Doh!
Mind you, I've encountered a similar problem before. I once bought a glamorous new pair of trainers down at Bessemer Road market in Cardiff. I had taken the fat kid there to buy a new school uniform and when I saw the all-singing, all-dancing daps I knew I just had to have them. I tried on one of the ones on display and quickly agreed to buy them, handing over my £50 as the salesman went to put them in the box.
I whistled all the way home with a smile on my face.. until I went to put them on and found out that not only were they different sizes but different patterns, too. By then the market trader from whom I had made my purchase was long gone.
On Friday my good lady Wren came to meet me in The Yard as Wathanovski had his latest "I'm getting married" celebration drink. By the time she arrived I was already three pints down the road to oblivion, and everyone else seemed full of high spirits too.
Wathanovski was so happy that he burst into song in the middle of the pub, treating us to some boy band medleys and his warmingly Welsh imitation of Tom Jones. You can take the boy out of Neath but you cannot take Neath out of the boy.
At least I have a new nickname for him... Wathanovski is now known as Take Twat.
As for myself I think Wren decided it was time for me to leave when I hoisted myself onto a stool to dance away to Cockney Rebels Come up and See Me. I think her exact words were: "No, you come down here and see me.. now!"
Saturday was a hard day in the office, with many grey faces around. Thankfully Sunday was a beautiful day and Wren and I travelled out to a little place to Skenfrith near Monmouth. There is a lovely old church there and the ruins of a 13th century castle. The Bell pub is a popular watering hole, too, and seems to have moved upmarket with some very interesting meals on the menu, with much of the produce sourced locally.
After that we moved on to Ross on Wye for a walk along the river, getting much needed air into our lungs after a heavy weekend.
On Monday I decided to visit the international swimming pool, only to find that my best kept secret was out. Mums and their kids were queueing out of the door, with it still somehow being the Easter holidays. I gave it up as a bad job, not wanting to be surrounded by ankle-biters in the pool. Surely if you have a facility this good it shouldn't be wasted on terrible tots.
Recently I bought some fresh squid from Morristons then looked back through my Observer mags to find a recipe. I came up with a very tasty dish called Creole Seafood Risotto.
WHAT YOU NEED:
1 tbsp olive oil
2 spring onions, finely chopped
6 basil leaves, finely chopped
3 garlic cloves, finely chopped
8 shallots, finely chopped
2 red chillis or 1/2 Scotch bonnet chilli, finely chopped
Seafood like cockles, mussels, squid etc. I used cooked mussels and raw squid
8 raw prawns
1/2 tsp saffron threads
salt and black pepper
1.5 litres vegetable stock (with added fish sauce) or fish stock
200 gms arborio rice
Juice of one lime
2 tbsp creme fraiche
100gms parmesan
WHAT I DID:
Heated the oil in a wok
Fried the onion, basil, garlic, shallots and chilli for 2/3 minutes
Mixed in the seafood and prawns
added saffron, mixed well
seasoned
Covered the mixture with the stock and cooked for two minutes
Rinsed the rice then added it a bit of the time, stirring it until it soaked up juices.
Cooked gently on a low heat, adding stock if it evaporated away and stirred until the rice absorbed the stock and took on a creamy appearance.
Removed from the heat then added the lime juice and creme fraiche.
Mixed well, then served immediately with a sprinkling of parmesan and garlic bread.
There was a good turnout for the Boozeday session. Even the Robot turned up belatedly to say his goodbyes (before his official goodbye on Friday - anyone realise he was leaving?).
He was mortified to discover that the big boss man at our old drinking den The Yard was so grateful for our custom over the last year or so that he furnished the usual suspects with a free meal. Not ones to take advantage, Wathanovski, the Fugitive, the Prince of Darkness, Shutts and Smashy all had burger and chips. But there's always one who is apt to bite the hand that feeds them.
Step forward the glutinous Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes). "I'm gonna have the ribeye steak," he announced without a blush of embarrassment. He then proceeded to wolf it down in a mere few seconds.
The Prince, meanwhile, needed something to wash it down with. So out came the double voddies. At that stage I made my excuses and left, but I hear the festivities went on until well into the early hours with the usual suspects ending up amid a throng of whippersnappers at Barfly. The Poipes was left holding his cape as the Prince, not one to be put off by dancing amid youngsters old enough to be his grandchildren, decided to weave his magic on the dancefloor. Wowie, wowie as he is known to say.
Wathanovski, meantime, is in the last week of singledom before tying the knot with his girlfriend, the teacher. He is still having a battle with his clothing for the big day, however. Remember this is the guy who walked all the way home in a shrink-wrapped jacket once, only to realise that he was actually in possession of one belonging to the Wonderful Withers of WoS.
Well, the other day he took delivery of a new pair of shoes and decided a trip to the cobblers was in order so that he could have the heels elevated slightly, to save him the humiliation of being shorter than his good lady on the big day.
What he forgot to check, though, was whether the shoes were fit for purpose. Too late, he realised that they were for a person with two right feet. Doh!
Mind you, I've encountered a similar problem before. I once bought a glamorous new pair of trainers down at Bessemer Road market in Cardiff. I had taken the fat kid there to buy a new school uniform and when I saw the all-singing, all-dancing daps I knew I just had to have them. I tried on one of the ones on display and quickly agreed to buy them, handing over my £50 as the salesman went to put them in the box.
I whistled all the way home with a smile on my face.. until I went to put them on and found out that not only were they different sizes but different patterns, too. By then the market trader from whom I had made my purchase was long gone.
On Friday my good lady Wren came to meet me in The Yard as Wathanovski had his latest "I'm getting married" celebration drink. By the time she arrived I was already three pints down the road to oblivion, and everyone else seemed full of high spirits too.
Wathanovski was so happy that he burst into song in the middle of the pub, treating us to some boy band medleys and his warmingly Welsh imitation of Tom Jones. You can take the boy out of Neath but you cannot take Neath out of the boy.
At least I have a new nickname for him... Wathanovski is now known as Take Twat.
As for myself I think Wren decided it was time for me to leave when I hoisted myself onto a stool to dance away to Cockney Rebels Come up and See Me. I think her exact words were: "No, you come down here and see me.. now!"
Saturday was a hard day in the office, with many grey faces around. Thankfully Sunday was a beautiful day and Wren and I travelled out to a little place to Skenfrith near Monmouth. There is a lovely old church there and the ruins of a 13th century castle. The Bell pub is a popular watering hole, too, and seems to have moved upmarket with some very interesting meals on the menu, with much of the produce sourced locally.
After that we moved on to Ross on Wye for a walk along the river, getting much needed air into our lungs after a heavy weekend.
On Monday I decided to visit the international swimming pool, only to find that my best kept secret was out. Mums and their kids were queueing out of the door, with it still somehow being the Easter holidays. I gave it up as a bad job, not wanting to be surrounded by ankle-biters in the pool. Surely if you have a facility this good it shouldn't be wasted on terrible tots.
Recently I bought some fresh squid from Morristons then looked back through my Observer mags to find a recipe. I came up with a very tasty dish called Creole Seafood Risotto.
WHAT YOU NEED:
1 tbsp olive oil
2 spring onions, finely chopped
6 basil leaves, finely chopped
3 garlic cloves, finely chopped
8 shallots, finely chopped
2 red chillis or 1/2 Scotch bonnet chilli, finely chopped
Seafood like cockles, mussels, squid etc. I used cooked mussels and raw squid
8 raw prawns
1/2 tsp saffron threads
salt and black pepper
1.5 litres vegetable stock (with added fish sauce) or fish stock
200 gms arborio rice
Juice of one lime
2 tbsp creme fraiche
100gms parmesan
WHAT I DID:
Heated the oil in a wok
Fried the onion, basil, garlic, shallots and chilli for 2/3 minutes
Mixed in the seafood and prawns
added saffron, mixed well
seasoned
Covered the mixture with the stock and cooked for two minutes
Rinsed the rice then added it a bit of the time, stirring it until it soaked up juices.
Cooked gently on a low heat, adding stock if it evaporated away and stirred until the rice absorbed the stock and took on a creamy appearance.
Removed from the heat then added the lime juice and creme fraiche.
Mixed well, then served immediately with a sprinkling of parmesan and garlic bread.
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