A FREEBEE Brains Brewery Quiz night... and another chance to prove that attempting to answer questions after a Boozeday Tuesday session is a surefire recipe for disaster.
Yet there was no hint of the mayhem to follow when I set off for the Maindy swimming pool that morning. It being half term there were very few people in the pool and I managed to fit in 66 lengths, making me feel very proud of myself.
An exercise of this nature has great spin offs because it wipes away all feelings of guilt when you later spend five hours sat outside The Yard with your WoS colleagues shooting the breeze about practically anything that qualifies as trite nonsense.
A roll call of the usual suspects: The Prince of Darkness, Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes), Smashy, Roberts, the Wonderful Withers, Wathanovski. But added to that there was a surprise appearance by Becks on a quick whistlestop from London. Interesting really because, in the Wonderful World of Withers, Becks and our other former colleague Rosey no longer exist. Withers refers to them these days as "my erstwhile friends".
I had every intention of returning home until persuaded by half the crew that the annual SA Brains Brewery quiz night was a reasonable alternative. The splinter group, the Prince and his forces of darkness, went off to see Arcade Fire (although "see" is probably being far too kind after the amount of alcohol sunk by the gig goers).
Of course when I turned up at the Brains do with Roberts, who was by that stage dragging around a 5 litre barrel of lager presented to him by those wonderful people who sponsor the Heineken Cup, the quiz had already started.
In fact they were on question 14 in the first round... but, of course, we thought that men of our calibre would be able to catch up in no time. We were wrong. I vaguely remember the answer artichoke being correct, but other than that we had given up long before the end.
Elsewhere, Withers had somehow managed to find himself in the team captained by Raffles, the honorable thief, and containing two blond vixens I had never encountered before. The wonderful one had, not for the first time, found himself the odd one out when the coke-sipping Shutts began selecting the team mates more likely to be impressed by his amazingly egotistical acts of Bon Viveur.
His preferred entourage included the obligatory female "mate" and he ponced around as if he were Russell Crowe organising his crew in Master and Commander.
Unfortunately, Shutts' crew won the trophy, probably helped by the fact that they were all sober. Apparently Withers' response to having missed out on the glory was to bustle up to Wathanovski as if spoiling for a "gay" fight (Wathanovski's words, not mine).
Shutts, meanwhile, accused me of being drunk, proving himself not only brave but, some would say, foolhardy. People have had ashtrays emptied over their heads for less.
Poor old Wren took a phone call from me during one of the cigarette breaks in which I proceded to hiccup down the phone for a good five minutes while trying to conduct some semblance of sensible and erudite conversation. Failing miserably I gave up, then stumbled home soon afterwards in a pretty sorry state, I must admit. Ever tried to watch Spooks out of one eye with blurred vision? Not recommended, I can assure you.
Wales on Sunday is doing a green edition this week. By a strange coincidence there were plenty of green faces on view this morning.
Wren paid me a visit on Friday night.
The phone call went like this:
Wren: "Where are you?"
Me: "Outside the Yard. Where are you?"
Wren: "Outside your house, waiting for you to let me in."
Doh! I get the feeling she wasn't best pleased when she picked me up, but don't let anyone tell you I don't know the way to a woman's heart. Domino's pizza. Works every time.
On Saturday night, after spending half an hour trying to escape a gridlocked Cardiff because of a Monster Trucks event at the Millennium Stadium and some stupid police decision to close down St Mary's Street to traffic, I persuaded Wren that the best way to finish the day was by watching the third game of the World Series between the Boston Red Sox and the Colorado Rockies. She didn't even last past the programme's opening credits, while I was still watching when the Sox wrapped up victory just before 5am. Go Sox.
Sunday afternoon was spent enjoying a belly-busting, as-much-as-you-can-get-on-your-plate Toby Carvery. Mind you, it wasn't surprising we were hungry. Having found a place in Pontprennau on the website we then spent 45 minutes driving around the area before realising we were in the wrong place. When we did arrive there was a queue a mile long. Still, all in all it was worth it.
More baseball to round off the perfect day, as the Sox completed a 4-0 series clean sweep.
On Monday we went to Cineworld to see Rendition. A terrific film, starring Reece Witherspoon, I would recommend anyone to see it. It gets you thinking.
Afterwards we paid a visit to Wally's, the delicatessen that has anything a foodie's heart could desire. It's situated in one of the arcades off St Mary's Street, Cardiff. I bought some Italian sausages, a huge bag of dried chillis, some venison pate and some lovely peppered Pastrami.
On Tuesday lunchtime, after swimming and before boozeday, I made a triple decker sandwich with some lovely gammon I had cooked on Sunday and the pastrami, topping it off with horse radish. It set me up for the shenanighans to follow.
ps. for those who read my useless info about Withers' Good Morning Wales radio appearance, I apologise. The wonderful one will, in fact, be resuming his broadcasting career NEXT Tuesday, 6.35am. Be there or be sensible, and have a lie in.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Friday, October 26, 2007
Stewed beef northern style
AFTER months of agony, and fears that his chosen career as a writer and broadcaster have been thrown onto the scrapheap, the Wonderful Withers of WoS is back in the big time. Well, more to the point, he has been asked back to do the newspaper review on Good Morning, Wales at the God-awful time of 6.30 in the morning. Good luck to him and his three listeners.To be fair, I think the wonderful one sees it as some form of redemption.
A couple of years ago when he first decided that he wanted to enter the wacky world of broadcasting I managed to land him his first gig with the Beeb via Nickers, one of our former casual subs. She always told me how DESPERATE they were to get people in at that ridiculous time to do the job, so when she mentioned desperate it was a short leap to Withers.
So fast forward a few weeks and he finally gets the call. "Is that Matt? Yeh, we will send a taxi for you and then wheel you into the studio and you can give your verdict on the stories in the papers that day." Quite easy, you would think. But this is Withers we are talking about.
Now I am in the dark here. I have no idea what he could have done to queer his pitch with the Beeb but he has not been invited back since. Instead a number of weird and wonderful people have joined presenters Reeeeeeen and Sarah (or whoever) on the show to demonstrate their political and current affairs knowledge to the listeners. People like Mr Bill Smith, the owner of the local chip shop just outside Knighton, or Mrs Jemima Buttleworth, the president elect of the Dolgellau Mothers Union (the names have been changed to protect the guilty). Withers' big political journalistic rivals (he sneers at the very mention of their names) have also appeared on a number of occasions. But he has sat by the phone waiting for the call and... zip, nowt.
I don't know how things have changed, though rumour has it the Wonderful One has gone out of his way to make Best Friends with one of the Beeb's Commissioning Editors, going out on the lash, and even to a gay club, in an effort to chat up his new buddy. He has, no doubt, been regaling him of tales, too, of his "triumph" on delivering his speech to the Poor old students of Sheffield who, he claims, hung on his every word (that's if they didn't hang themselves earlier, I guess.
So Tuesday 6.35 it is then. BBC Wales. Listen out. Judging by last time, it may be an awful long time before we hear the Wonderful One on the wireless again.
Last night I cooked a very tasty stew from my Ken Hom cookbook having bought myself a Mooli, which is commonly known as a white radish and looks like a giant parsnip which has been genetically modified to the size of Shutts.
When cooked it's very tasty because it soaks up all the juices from casseroles etc, but this is the only genuine recipe I have known to make use of it.
You need:
1lb beef chopped into 2 inch pieces
2 spring onions cut into two inch diagonal pieces
2 tbsp peanut oil
6 slices fresh ginger
4 cloves of garlic
4 dried red chillis
A large mooli
Braising sauce
1 pint chicken stock
2oz sugar
1 and a half tbsp light soy sauce
2 tablespoons dark soy sauce
3 tbsp chinese rice wine
4 star anise
2 tsp five spice powder
5 tablespoons hoisin sauce
1 tablespoon yellow-bean sauce
Heat a deep non-stick, thick-bottomed saucepan until hot
Add peanut oil and heat until smoking
Add the meat and brown all over, then add spring onions, stir for five minutes, then add the ginger, garlic and dried chillis and stir fry for five minutes.
Add all the braising ingredients and cook for 1+1/2 hours.
Then add mooli and cook for 30 minutes, then put on high heat for 15 minutes to thicken sauce. Serve with boiled rice.
A couple of years ago when he first decided that he wanted to enter the wacky world of broadcasting I managed to land him his first gig with the Beeb via Nickers, one of our former casual subs. She always told me how DESPERATE they were to get people in at that ridiculous time to do the job, so when she mentioned desperate it was a short leap to Withers.
So fast forward a few weeks and he finally gets the call. "Is that Matt? Yeh, we will send a taxi for you and then wheel you into the studio and you can give your verdict on the stories in the papers that day." Quite easy, you would think. But this is Withers we are talking about.
Now I am in the dark here. I have no idea what he could have done to queer his pitch with the Beeb but he has not been invited back since. Instead a number of weird and wonderful people have joined presenters Reeeeeeen and Sarah (or whoever) on the show to demonstrate their political and current affairs knowledge to the listeners. People like Mr Bill Smith, the owner of the local chip shop just outside Knighton, or Mrs Jemima Buttleworth, the president elect of the Dolgellau Mothers Union (the names have been changed to protect the guilty). Withers' big political journalistic rivals (he sneers at the very mention of their names) have also appeared on a number of occasions. But he has sat by the phone waiting for the call and... zip, nowt.
I don't know how things have changed, though rumour has it the Wonderful One has gone out of his way to make Best Friends with one of the Beeb's Commissioning Editors, going out on the lash, and even to a gay club, in an effort to chat up his new buddy. He has, no doubt, been regaling him of tales, too, of his "triumph" on delivering his speech to the Poor old students of Sheffield who, he claims, hung on his every word (that's if they didn't hang themselves earlier, I guess.
So Tuesday 6.35 it is then. BBC Wales. Listen out. Judging by last time, it may be an awful long time before we hear the Wonderful One on the wireless again.
Last night I cooked a very tasty stew from my Ken Hom cookbook having bought myself a Mooli, which is commonly known as a white radish and looks like a giant parsnip which has been genetically modified to the size of Shutts.
When cooked it's very tasty because it soaks up all the juices from casseroles etc, but this is the only genuine recipe I have known to make use of it.
You need:
1lb beef chopped into 2 inch pieces
2 spring onions cut into two inch diagonal pieces
2 tbsp peanut oil
6 slices fresh ginger
4 cloves of garlic
4 dried red chillis
A large mooli
Braising sauce
1 pint chicken stock
2oz sugar
1 and a half tbsp light soy sauce
2 tablespoons dark soy sauce
3 tbsp chinese rice wine
4 star anise
2 tsp five spice powder
5 tablespoons hoisin sauce
1 tablespoon yellow-bean sauce
Heat a deep non-stick, thick-bottomed saucepan until hot
Add peanut oil and heat until smoking
Add the meat and brown all over, then add spring onions, stir for five minutes, then add the ginger, garlic and dried chillis and stir fry for five minutes.
Add all the braising ingredients and cook for 1+1/2 hours.
Then add mooli and cook for 30 minutes, then put on high heat for 15 minutes to thicken sauce. Serve with boiled rice.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
24-hour party people
I'VE got a new project for Keifer Sutherland - that's if he needs something to occupy his mind after he's served his debt to society and put distance between himself and his drink-drive conviction. It's kind of a Welsh version of his hit TV series 24 and it involves the staff of WoS, at least those who put their neck on the line throughout the week at such stamina-sapping events as Boozeday Tuesday, Wednesday Club and Thirsty Thursday.
This idea came about when we held an impromptu conference in our own version of CTU, that's The Yard public house for the uninitiated. What with the Prince of Darkness now pursuing an entirely nocturnal existence, and with the daring escapades of the Fabulous Baker Boy reaching my ears, I reckon it will go like this...
(Baggsy doing the Jack Bauer voiceover)
The following takes place between 5am and 6am on Sunday morning...
The Fabulous BB, hideously outnumbered by the air stewards from a Cardiff flight inside one of his all-day drinking establishments, finally manages to extricate himself and stumble home. On arriving he reckons he can handle a few hours sleep and will rise nice and early in time for lunch. In fact when he wakes it is dark and he believes he has only been asleep for a few minutes. In fact it is 5pm in the afternoon. The Fab BB, undeterred, goes out again, not to return until 4am the following morning.
The following takes place between 6am and 7am...
The Prince of Darkness stirs in his coffin, opens a bleary eye in the semi-light and immediately considers calling the police. He believes his place has been vandalised during the night by a secret cheese sandwich eater who has left bread crumbs, flaky bits of cheese, tomato ketchup and all manner of other things all over the floor, the work tops etc.
The following takes place between 7am and 8am...
Brammy waits in vain at a bus stop, forgetting that the clocks have actually gone back and it is in fact an hour earlier. The wonderful Withers, meanwhile, is already playing the martyr and wants to go into work two days early just so that he can say: "Well, I went into work two days early."
The following takes place between 8am and 9am...
Roberts flicks on Sky Sports and watches the first of many nob-end rugby games from the other side of the world.
The following takes place between 9am and 10am...
Smashy turns over, snores and goes back to sleep.
Meanwhile, Monsieur de Lebussier rings mama from his luxury pad in the bay and asks if she can forward him another slice of his enormous inheritance so that he can lord it around Cardiff a bit longer.
The following... Oh, that's enough of this nonsense. How Bauer does it I don't know, but I am sure that we would lose a few hours of the tale, particularly during boozeday Tuesday. It wouldn't help my voiceover either... Previoushly on twenny fur... I'm sure you must have had days like it, Keifer.
This idea came about when we held an impromptu conference in our own version of CTU, that's The Yard public house for the uninitiated. What with the Prince of Darkness now pursuing an entirely nocturnal existence, and with the daring escapades of the Fabulous Baker Boy reaching my ears, I reckon it will go like this...
(Baggsy doing the Jack Bauer voiceover)
The following takes place between 5am and 6am on Sunday morning...
The Fabulous BB, hideously outnumbered by the air stewards from a Cardiff flight inside one of his all-day drinking establishments, finally manages to extricate himself and stumble home. On arriving he reckons he can handle a few hours sleep and will rise nice and early in time for lunch. In fact when he wakes it is dark and he believes he has only been asleep for a few minutes. In fact it is 5pm in the afternoon. The Fab BB, undeterred, goes out again, not to return until 4am the following morning.
The following takes place between 6am and 7am...
The Prince of Darkness stirs in his coffin, opens a bleary eye in the semi-light and immediately considers calling the police. He believes his place has been vandalised during the night by a secret cheese sandwich eater who has left bread crumbs, flaky bits of cheese, tomato ketchup and all manner of other things all over the floor, the work tops etc.
The following takes place between 7am and 8am...
Brammy waits in vain at a bus stop, forgetting that the clocks have actually gone back and it is in fact an hour earlier. The wonderful Withers, meanwhile, is already playing the martyr and wants to go into work two days early just so that he can say: "Well, I went into work two days early."
The following takes place between 8am and 9am...
Roberts flicks on Sky Sports and watches the first of many nob-end rugby games from the other side of the world.
The following takes place between 9am and 10am...
Smashy turns over, snores and goes back to sleep.
Meanwhile, Monsieur de Lebussier rings mama from his luxury pad in the bay and asks if she can forward him another slice of his enormous inheritance so that he can lord it around Cardiff a bit longer.
The following... Oh, that's enough of this nonsense. How Bauer does it I don't know, but I am sure that we would lose a few hours of the tale, particularly during boozeday Tuesday. It wouldn't help my voiceover either... Previoushly on twenny fur... I'm sure you must have had days like it, Keifer.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Ham and cucumber sandwiches on brown
ANOTHER Saturday from hell in the WoS offices, and my mood wasn't made any better by the fact I must have left my mobile phone in my flat this morning. It seems strange that 10 years ago I didn't even possess one of these essential devices. If someone needed to get hold of me they would ring me at the office, or on my BT landline, or just send a carrier pigeon. In those days you actually possessed a phone book, with phone numbers in, so that you could look up someone's number when you wanted to speak to them.
Not any more. Nowadays my phone is my life. It is the only place where I keep my numbers, it is the main place where people contact me, whether it be by text message or a straight call, and without it I feel like I have travelled half way down the Amazon in a canoe wearing only a loincloth and armed with just a paddle.
It put me in a grumpy mood all day because I couldn't text Wren for any aimless chitter, chatter, or maybe just a moan about... well, leaving my mobile phone at home, for starters! It's pretty bad that I cannot even recall my girlfriend's number because all I do these days is look up her name on my phone then press a button. It rings her automatically.
I went through a silly spell a while back when I kept leaving my phone in pubs. There would then be the cry of anguish and the trip out to a nearby kiosk to ring the damn thing. If my luck was in someone would answer and I would then arrange to pick it up or, in some cases, arrange for the taxi driver who suddenly found this awful din going on in the back of his car (possibly a Goodnight Irene ringtone or even my most recent, Kenny Rogers' "What condition my condition was in" or some such) to bring it back to me at a reasonable price.
And every time it happened I promised myself that in future I would write all my numbers down, particularly after losing the odd mobile and having to piece together my life from my most recent itemised phone bill.
Anyway, it never did happen and today I have spent minutes just wondering who has rung my phone during the day. Ironic, really, because when I get home I will almost certainly find I have no missed calls. It's like facebook really. You think you have friends, but in reality you're Norman No Mates.
The rest of the day was pretty dire. England lost the rugby World Cup, work was a pain and the only saving grace was the two surprisingly tasty Ham and Cucumber Sandwiches that Brammy very generously left me as he sloped off into the night at half past 11.
Still, not long to go now and I'll be re-united with my phone. It must be love.
Not any more. Nowadays my phone is my life. It is the only place where I keep my numbers, it is the main place where people contact me, whether it be by text message or a straight call, and without it I feel like I have travelled half way down the Amazon in a canoe wearing only a loincloth and armed with just a paddle.
It put me in a grumpy mood all day because I couldn't text Wren for any aimless chitter, chatter, or maybe just a moan about... well, leaving my mobile phone at home, for starters! It's pretty bad that I cannot even recall my girlfriend's number because all I do these days is look up her name on my phone then press a button. It rings her automatically.
I went through a silly spell a while back when I kept leaving my phone in pubs. There would then be the cry of anguish and the trip out to a nearby kiosk to ring the damn thing. If my luck was in someone would answer and I would then arrange to pick it up or, in some cases, arrange for the taxi driver who suddenly found this awful din going on in the back of his car (possibly a Goodnight Irene ringtone or even my most recent, Kenny Rogers' "What condition my condition was in" or some such) to bring it back to me at a reasonable price.
And every time it happened I promised myself that in future I would write all my numbers down, particularly after losing the odd mobile and having to piece together my life from my most recent itemised phone bill.
Anyway, it never did happen and today I have spent minutes just wondering who has rung my phone during the day. Ironic, really, because when I get home I will almost certainly find I have no missed calls. It's like facebook really. You think you have friends, but in reality you're Norman No Mates.
The rest of the day was pretty dire. England lost the rugby World Cup, work was a pain and the only saving grace was the two surprisingly tasty Ham and Cucumber Sandwiches that Brammy very generously left me as he sloped off into the night at half past 11.
Still, not long to go now and I'll be re-united with my phone. It must be love.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Greek salad
IT seems my opposite number on our sister paper The Daily Snail has engulfed himself in another Greek tragedy. The curly-haired one set off for the tiny outpost of San Marino this week to cover Wales playing football. I'm not sure what he did in an earlier life to suffer such an indignity but I'm sure Glenn Hoddle would be able to tell him.
Anyway, having booked at the last minute the Greek had to travel via Amsterdam, arriving in San Marino in good time for the game. Unfortunately his suitcase remained in Holland.
Now, having regaled you already of his quick-fix solution when he was suffering a busted flush, you might expect him to ring up his right-hand man Owenov and order him: "Get on the next plane to Amsterdam, mate, pick up my suitcase and then bring it out to me."
But no. Instead the Greek, who has an almost teenage girl-like crush on the Wales football manager John Toshack, approached his fave man in the game and told him of the tragic tale. Hours later, I am reliably informed, the Greek one was walking around, pleased as punch, wearing a spare pair of jogging bottoms donated by Tosh.
Just goes to prove what most of us have believed for a long time: That the Greek has been desperately trying to get into the big man's trousers for ages.
Anyway, having booked at the last minute the Greek had to travel via Amsterdam, arriving in San Marino in good time for the game. Unfortunately his suitcase remained in Holland.
Now, having regaled you already of his quick-fix solution when he was suffering a busted flush, you might expect him to ring up his right-hand man Owenov and order him: "Get on the next plane to Amsterdam, mate, pick up my suitcase and then bring it out to me."
But no. Instead the Greek, who has an almost teenage girl-like crush on the Wales football manager John Toshack, approached his fave man in the game and told him of the tragic tale. Hours later, I am reliably informed, the Greek one was walking around, pleased as punch, wearing a spare pair of jogging bottoms donated by Tosh.
Just goes to prove what most of us have believed for a long time: That the Greek has been desperately trying to get into the big man's trousers for ages.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Italian Sunday Gravy and assorted meats
LONG after I had retired to my bed following an extensive boozeday Tuesday, it appears the Prince of Darkness and his hordes were out and about in the wilds of Roath, feasting on young students.
The story reaches me that Roberts, a stranger to these late-night excursions, was dragged along by that ne'er-do-well trio the Prince, the wonderful Withers and Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes).
In fact, the latter mentioned reprobate is beginning to resemble the kind of creature of the night you would expect to be in the company of his Royal Darkness. Danny Boy's sideburns seem to be creeping ever further down his face. He is looking a bit like Jack Nicholson in Wolf and I fear it won't be long before his face is hidden behind a mass of black, curling hair.
Anyway, apparently Roberts and the vagrants, all far well dressed for the Royal George, were accosted by a number of young females. Danny Boy even managed to scrounge a student card off one of them to take advantage of the cheaper beer deals.
It was Roberts, though, who scooped the jackpot with two students hanging on his every word. I'm not sure how many times he told them that he was "Wales No 1 rugby writer" but according to witnesses it had the desired affect. As far as he could remember, there names were Mel and Kim. It was left to me to remind him that Mel and Kim were actually a pop duo from the 80s who released such classic hits as "Aint never gonna be respectable". Sums up Roberts to a t, I think you'll find.
Next day there is an e mail from this student double act, claiming that Roberts can get them free publicity for a sporting project they are launching, sponsorship and a one-on-one discussion with the Welsh Rugby Union's chief executive. Oh, what some people will do for a bit of female attention.
Withers, meanwhile, is having what Sir Alex Ferguson once described as "Squeeky Bum time". He now realises that his decision to volunteer to give a seminar on journalism and politics to a bunch of Sheffield University students was a wee bit optimistic. The Wonderful One's writer and broadcaster label, which he has given himself, is sure to be tested to the limit.
He has discovered that not only will he be appearing with such luminaries as Radio Five's head of talent and a top bod from the Associated Press and Reuters, but he will also have to speak for one whole hour! Not only that but he has discovered that what he thought would be a cosy little classroom tutorial will be in the main Sheffield lecture auditorium, with podium and all, in front of a crowd of 200.
Knowing how he pulled out of a five-minute stand-up comedy routine one wonders what excuse he can find to dig himself out of this hole.
On Monday I cooked the famous Italian Sunday Gravy from my Sopranos cookbook, and had the various meats with some wholemeal pasta and sauce. I make this in the biggest saucepan I can find because any leftover gravy can be used for Lasagne or baked ziti recipes.
To make the gravy you first brown two spare rib chops in olive oil, remove them and then brown two veal steaks, remove them and then brown four Italian sausages. Finally remove them then put in four squashed cloves of garlic until they go brown, discarding them after that. Add a 1/2 cup of tomato puree and stir around for a minute. When that has mixed with the olive oil and meat juices, add a giant tin of tomatoes and two smaller ones and a cup of water, return the meats to the pan, add six ripped up basil leaves then bring to the boil. Cover and simmer for two hours then take some of the sauce, mix with the pasta and some grated Parmisan, then put on a plate and serve with the spare ribs and the veal. Top off with more Parmisan and some chilli flakes. Lovely.
The story reaches me that Roberts, a stranger to these late-night excursions, was dragged along by that ne'er-do-well trio the Prince, the wonderful Withers and Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes).
In fact, the latter mentioned reprobate is beginning to resemble the kind of creature of the night you would expect to be in the company of his Royal Darkness. Danny Boy's sideburns seem to be creeping ever further down his face. He is looking a bit like Jack Nicholson in Wolf and I fear it won't be long before his face is hidden behind a mass of black, curling hair.
Anyway, apparently Roberts and the vagrants, all far well dressed for the Royal George, were accosted by a number of young females. Danny Boy even managed to scrounge a student card off one of them to take advantage of the cheaper beer deals.
It was Roberts, though, who scooped the jackpot with two students hanging on his every word. I'm not sure how many times he told them that he was "Wales No 1 rugby writer" but according to witnesses it had the desired affect. As far as he could remember, there names were Mel and Kim. It was left to me to remind him that Mel and Kim were actually a pop duo from the 80s who released such classic hits as "Aint never gonna be respectable". Sums up Roberts to a t, I think you'll find.
Next day there is an e mail from this student double act, claiming that Roberts can get them free publicity for a sporting project they are launching, sponsorship and a one-on-one discussion with the Welsh Rugby Union's chief executive. Oh, what some people will do for a bit of female attention.
Withers, meanwhile, is having what Sir Alex Ferguson once described as "Squeeky Bum time". He now realises that his decision to volunteer to give a seminar on journalism and politics to a bunch of Sheffield University students was a wee bit optimistic. The Wonderful One's writer and broadcaster label, which he has given himself, is sure to be tested to the limit.
He has discovered that not only will he be appearing with such luminaries as Radio Five's head of talent and a top bod from the Associated Press and Reuters, but he will also have to speak for one whole hour! Not only that but he has discovered that what he thought would be a cosy little classroom tutorial will be in the main Sheffield lecture auditorium, with podium and all, in front of a crowd of 200.
Knowing how he pulled out of a five-minute stand-up comedy routine one wonders what excuse he can find to dig himself out of this hole.
On Monday I cooked the famous Italian Sunday Gravy from my Sopranos cookbook, and had the various meats with some wholemeal pasta and sauce. I make this in the biggest saucepan I can find because any leftover gravy can be used for Lasagne or baked ziti recipes.
To make the gravy you first brown two spare rib chops in olive oil, remove them and then brown two veal steaks, remove them and then brown four Italian sausages. Finally remove them then put in four squashed cloves of garlic until they go brown, discarding them after that. Add a 1/2 cup of tomato puree and stir around for a minute. When that has mixed with the olive oil and meat juices, add a giant tin of tomatoes and two smaller ones and a cup of water, return the meats to the pan, add six ripped up basil leaves then bring to the boil. Cover and simmer for two hours then take some of the sauce, mix with the pasta and some grated Parmisan, then put on a plate and serve with the spare ribs and the veal. Top off with more Parmisan and some chilli flakes. Lovely.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
It's a party (and Bram can cry if he wants to...)
THE little bowling ball was getting terribly excited all day. "You coming down the Scroat Minor tonight old chum?" said Brammy on Friday. "It's that little girl... what's her name, pretty little thing... she's leaving the Echo to join the police press office and is having a bit of a do. Should be good."
We all nodded at his excitement, knowing exactly what he was thinking. The old bloke fancies the pants off someone who was born at least two decades after him. Nothing strange there and none of us had the heart to spoil his fun.
Instead, of course, we went off to the Hard Knob Cafe to enjoy £2 pints of lager and take advantage of happy hour. The Fab BB was moaning about the fact that his contract with the Peeps had still not turned up while Monsieur Le Debusier was secretly talking on his mobile, taking a call from his broker and trying to decide which luxury yacht to buy next with Daddy's hard earned.
The Wonderful One was determined not to stay out long. "I can't afford to get drunk, I've got to drive to the Lib Dems conference in Aberystwyth at 5am tomorrow."
Well, stranger things have happened, I guess, but I didn't believe it for a moment.
As soon as the clock hit seven and the prices escalated accordingly, however, the Scroat Minor didn't seem a bad idea after all. Even I decided to pop in, though I had pledged to have an early night because of the prospect of a busy day on Saturday.
Off we toddled then, the Prince of Darkness emerging for the Witching Hour after feeding himself on babies (well he claimed to be designing our annual Cutest Kids supplement but I'm sure he had pilfered one away in a sandwich somewhere) while Smashy was up for rubbing shoulders with former colleagues and telling them how much better his life is now he's joined the winning WoS team. Not sure whether they believe him, though, especially old sparring partner Nicey.
On entering the Scroat we came across a number of the usual suspects from our rival paper, and I had a good old natter with party-girl Lyds, who seemed to be well into the spirit by the time we marched through the door.
Then the Prince decided to hone in on the girl for whom the shindig was being held - PC Anna. He had obviously noticed there was a juicy white neck on display to sink his fangs into under her long brown hair.
Before he could pounce, though, she began to regale us of a strange tale.
"Some little old bloke came in, don't know for the life of me who he was, and wished me good luck."
"Wearing a flat cap and shaped rather spherically. Probably about 2 foot shorter than you?"
"Yeh, that's the one."
"What happened?"
"Well, when I looked totally puzzled and let him know I didn't have a clue who he was, he just turned and walked out of the door."
That would be Brammy, then. We never did see him again.
I departed shortly after this conversation to go home and order a pizza and settle in for the night.
Lucky I did. Today was the day from hell. Kempy's computer is already the slowest piece of technology on the planet, but of all the days to decide to contract a virus. B**tard thing. IT came out. "Turned it off? turned it back on again?" Cheers, boys.
Then they ran a diagnostic. "Yep, definitely a virus. Don't know what we can do about it."
Then he turned it off and turned it back on again. Three hours later, fed up with being mauled, it decided to wake up and work.
This wasn't the first "excitement" of the morning. I arrived early to survey the morning papers, an important part of my job, only to find they hadn't turned up. The female version of Len was doing security. She spent most of the time ignoring everyone and talking on her mobile phone. Ooh, I was angry. I ended up going to buy all the papers myself and asked the Boss whether he knew why they hadn't turned up.
He made a few calls. "Apparently, the bloke who normally delivers them has gone away and arranged for someone else to deliver them."
Well, that didn't happen. Only it did. At 3.30 in the afternoon. Great!
Anyway, somehow we managed to fill the paper despite all the barriers put in our way. Then it was down to the press. Which went wrong. For the second successive week. Lummy days.
The only joy of the evening was rushing around to see how our Powys Popular Front terrorist managed to cope with England beating France to reach the World Cup final, a feat which was supposed to be that of Wales if you listened to this nation of rugby optimists.
"What a crap game of rugby," stormed the little bowling ball with his best "Steptoe Senior" scowl. "Humbug! They don't deserve to win anything."
Poor Brammy, the Gods just aren't being kind these days, are they?
We all nodded at his excitement, knowing exactly what he was thinking. The old bloke fancies the pants off someone who was born at least two decades after him. Nothing strange there and none of us had the heart to spoil his fun.
Instead, of course, we went off to the Hard Knob Cafe to enjoy £2 pints of lager and take advantage of happy hour. The Fab BB was moaning about the fact that his contract with the Peeps had still not turned up while Monsieur Le Debusier was secretly talking on his mobile, taking a call from his broker and trying to decide which luxury yacht to buy next with Daddy's hard earned.
The Wonderful One was determined not to stay out long. "I can't afford to get drunk, I've got to drive to the Lib Dems conference in Aberystwyth at 5am tomorrow."
Well, stranger things have happened, I guess, but I didn't believe it for a moment.
As soon as the clock hit seven and the prices escalated accordingly, however, the Scroat Minor didn't seem a bad idea after all. Even I decided to pop in, though I had pledged to have an early night because of the prospect of a busy day on Saturday.
Off we toddled then, the Prince of Darkness emerging for the Witching Hour after feeding himself on babies (well he claimed to be designing our annual Cutest Kids supplement but I'm sure he had pilfered one away in a sandwich somewhere) while Smashy was up for rubbing shoulders with former colleagues and telling them how much better his life is now he's joined the winning WoS team. Not sure whether they believe him, though, especially old sparring partner Nicey.
On entering the Scroat we came across a number of the usual suspects from our rival paper, and I had a good old natter with party-girl Lyds, who seemed to be well into the spirit by the time we marched through the door.
Then the Prince decided to hone in on the girl for whom the shindig was being held - PC Anna. He had obviously noticed there was a juicy white neck on display to sink his fangs into under her long brown hair.
Before he could pounce, though, she began to regale us of a strange tale.
"Some little old bloke came in, don't know for the life of me who he was, and wished me good luck."
"Wearing a flat cap and shaped rather spherically. Probably about 2 foot shorter than you?"
"Yeh, that's the one."
"What happened?"
"Well, when I looked totally puzzled and let him know I didn't have a clue who he was, he just turned and walked out of the door."
That would be Brammy, then. We never did see him again.
I departed shortly after this conversation to go home and order a pizza and settle in for the night.
Lucky I did. Today was the day from hell. Kempy's computer is already the slowest piece of technology on the planet, but of all the days to decide to contract a virus. B**tard thing. IT came out. "Turned it off? turned it back on again?" Cheers, boys.
Then they ran a diagnostic. "Yep, definitely a virus. Don't know what we can do about it."
Then he turned it off and turned it back on again. Three hours later, fed up with being mauled, it decided to wake up and work.
This wasn't the first "excitement" of the morning. I arrived early to survey the morning papers, an important part of my job, only to find they hadn't turned up. The female version of Len was doing security. She spent most of the time ignoring everyone and talking on her mobile phone. Ooh, I was angry. I ended up going to buy all the papers myself and asked the Boss whether he knew why they hadn't turned up.
He made a few calls. "Apparently, the bloke who normally delivers them has gone away and arranged for someone else to deliver them."
Well, that didn't happen. Only it did. At 3.30 in the afternoon. Great!
Anyway, somehow we managed to fill the paper despite all the barriers put in our way. Then it was down to the press. Which went wrong. For the second successive week. Lummy days.
The only joy of the evening was rushing around to see how our Powys Popular Front terrorist managed to cope with England beating France to reach the World Cup final, a feat which was supposed to be that of Wales if you listened to this nation of rugby optimists.
"What a crap game of rugby," stormed the little bowling ball with his best "Steptoe Senior" scowl. "Humbug! They don't deserve to win anything."
Poor Brammy, the Gods just aren't being kind these days, are they?
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
new joe's special (whoever joe is)
NOT only do I have extraordinarily pert buttocks but they now have to be registered with the appropriate authorities as a lethal weapon. What on earth is he on about, you may ask? Well, like most stories on this blog it is one that originates at that well-frequented watering hole known as The Yard.
Last Wednesday there was a good quorum of the usual suspects gathered around one of the tables discussing what they would be doing later. The Prince of Darkness was looking decidedly ropey after a long weekend and was bemoaning the fact that he had been summoned by the Boss to Dempseys, the Irish bar which is treated as home by the disparate group of people that make up the Celtic Supporters Club, Cardiff Branch.
Now I have been there before and must say it is a bit of a surreal experience. The wonderful Withers has also experienced this rare phenomenon. It is a bit like going to some out of the way wildlife park and seeing the monkeys climbing all over your car and breaking off the windscreen wipers.
To demonstrate this to those who haven’t been so lucky to visit the Dempsey’s menagerie I decided to give a demonstration of what they might expect.
Bouncing up and down and singing a quick rendition of “Hey, hey the Celts are here nah nah nah nah nah…” there was suddenly a loud crack and I looked down to see I had broken one of the wooden slats in my chair perfectly in two. Oh the humiliation. I felt like one of those kung fu guys who shouts "Ar... shole!" as he splits wooden planks with his fist.
The rest of the gang were falling around laughing, which wouldn’t be so bad if it was a one off but…
Move forward to Sunday afternoon. We are sitting in exactly the same place, enjoying getting sloshed Sunday, which is a new version of More Beer Monday, Boozeday Tuesday, Thirsty Thursday etc. There is a reason for this gathering of the clans. We are celebrating the joint birithdays of the Wonderful Withers and the Fabulous Baker Boy. They are moaning that the previous night we were so busy in the office that they couldn’t actually get out and enjoy the evening among the thousands of kiwis, French and, for some reason, Irish who have invaded the Welsh capital.
Extraordinary day, by the way. The two southern hemisphere giants went out of the rugby World Cup at the quarter finals stage – Australia beaten by England and the French notching an amazing win over New Zealand. Kiwis are miserable even when they are winning, so when they lose it’s a wake of huge proporitions. It didn’t help that most of them had been convinced they would be staying until the final stages and were now left kicking their heels around Cardiff, not knowing how to hide their disappointment and embarrassment.
But, not for the first time, I’ve veered off the subject. On this occasion the broken chair which was the handiwork of my bum cheeks is still plainly visible, so I go and get a new, fresh seat to sit on. At one stage I jump up – don’t know why to be exact – and sit down rather hastily. Crack! It’s happened again. Cue more outrageous laughter.
… But that’s not the end of the story (stop yawning at the back!} Shift forward again to Boozeday and the Prince of Darkness, the wraith-thin overlord of the night, is discussing his rather underground taste in music – bonny Prince Billie, Seasick Steve and the like - when, lo and behold, he slumps back into his chair and crack! He’s done the same thing. Well, we could have laughed for weeks.
There’s no doubt that we are both black belts in the Marshall Arse. More importantly, it seems to me that Brains brewery have bought a faulty batch of chairs. It’s time they sorted it out because I don’t think I can stand much more of this embarrassment.
Back to Sunday and a fun day was had by all. At about 11 we adjourned to the lava lounge where our photographer Mad Liz, all 4st of her in dripping wet clothes, is thrown around the room by some giant Frenchman keen to show off his jiving skills. The poor thing looked like a rag doll by the end of it.
The wonderful one, meanwhile, was in that kind of drunken state which inevitably brings on a strop. “Where’s my jacket, someone’s stolen my jacket, I’m going home!”
I walk 10 yards to the next table, lift a pile of coats lying beneath it and inquire: “This jacket you mean?”
What’s worse than the wonderful one in a strop? The wonderful one swearing undying gratitude and hugging you. Oh Lordy.
On Sunday I needed a quick meal before popping out so consulted the Observer Food Magazine’s 101 summer recipes and came up with an easy option… they call it the New Joe’s Special.
All you do is brown minced meat with crushed garlic and chopped onion. (I added some mushrooms when the mince was brown). When almost cooked add chopped spinach and stir until wilted. At the last minute stir in two eggs, grated parmesan cheese, salt and pepper. Serve with spaghetti. Good fuel for a boozy day and remarkably quick, too.
Last Wednesday there was a good quorum of the usual suspects gathered around one of the tables discussing what they would be doing later. The Prince of Darkness was looking decidedly ropey after a long weekend and was bemoaning the fact that he had been summoned by the Boss to Dempseys, the Irish bar which is treated as home by the disparate group of people that make up the Celtic Supporters Club, Cardiff Branch.
Now I have been there before and must say it is a bit of a surreal experience. The wonderful Withers has also experienced this rare phenomenon. It is a bit like going to some out of the way wildlife park and seeing the monkeys climbing all over your car and breaking off the windscreen wipers.
To demonstrate this to those who haven’t been so lucky to visit the Dempsey’s menagerie I decided to give a demonstration of what they might expect.
Bouncing up and down and singing a quick rendition of “Hey, hey the Celts are here nah nah nah nah nah…” there was suddenly a loud crack and I looked down to see I had broken one of the wooden slats in my chair perfectly in two. Oh the humiliation. I felt like one of those kung fu guys who shouts "Ar... shole!" as he splits wooden planks with his fist.
The rest of the gang were falling around laughing, which wouldn’t be so bad if it was a one off but…
Move forward to Sunday afternoon. We are sitting in exactly the same place, enjoying getting sloshed Sunday, which is a new version of More Beer Monday, Boozeday Tuesday, Thirsty Thursday etc. There is a reason for this gathering of the clans. We are celebrating the joint birithdays of the Wonderful Withers and the Fabulous Baker Boy. They are moaning that the previous night we were so busy in the office that they couldn’t actually get out and enjoy the evening among the thousands of kiwis, French and, for some reason, Irish who have invaded the Welsh capital.
Extraordinary day, by the way. The two southern hemisphere giants went out of the rugby World Cup at the quarter finals stage – Australia beaten by England and the French notching an amazing win over New Zealand. Kiwis are miserable even when they are winning, so when they lose it’s a wake of huge proporitions. It didn’t help that most of them had been convinced they would be staying until the final stages and were now left kicking their heels around Cardiff, not knowing how to hide their disappointment and embarrassment.
But, not for the first time, I’ve veered off the subject. On this occasion the broken chair which was the handiwork of my bum cheeks is still plainly visible, so I go and get a new, fresh seat to sit on. At one stage I jump up – don’t know why to be exact – and sit down rather hastily. Crack! It’s happened again. Cue more outrageous laughter.
… But that’s not the end of the story (stop yawning at the back!} Shift forward again to Boozeday and the Prince of Darkness, the wraith-thin overlord of the night, is discussing his rather underground taste in music – bonny Prince Billie, Seasick Steve and the like - when, lo and behold, he slumps back into his chair and crack! He’s done the same thing. Well, we could have laughed for weeks.
There’s no doubt that we are both black belts in the Marshall Arse. More importantly, it seems to me that Brains brewery have bought a faulty batch of chairs. It’s time they sorted it out because I don’t think I can stand much more of this embarrassment.
Back to Sunday and a fun day was had by all. At about 11 we adjourned to the lava lounge where our photographer Mad Liz, all 4st of her in dripping wet clothes, is thrown around the room by some giant Frenchman keen to show off his jiving skills. The poor thing looked like a rag doll by the end of it.
The wonderful one, meanwhile, was in that kind of drunken state which inevitably brings on a strop. “Where’s my jacket, someone’s stolen my jacket, I’m going home!”
I walk 10 yards to the next table, lift a pile of coats lying beneath it and inquire: “This jacket you mean?”
What’s worse than the wonderful one in a strop? The wonderful one swearing undying gratitude and hugging you. Oh Lordy.
On Sunday I needed a quick meal before popping out so consulted the Observer Food Magazine’s 101 summer recipes and came up with an easy option… they call it the New Joe’s Special.
All you do is brown minced meat with crushed garlic and chopped onion. (I added some mushrooms when the mince was brown). When almost cooked add chopped spinach and stir until wilted. At the last minute stir in two eggs, grated parmesan cheese, salt and pepper. Serve with spaghetti. Good fuel for a boozy day and remarkably quick, too.
Saturday, October 06, 2007
Too many crooks...
THE cops are keeping a close eye on the inmates of Wales on Sunday these days. On Friday two of our number were being pursued by the Boys in Blue for their nefarious out-of-work activities. First, the Voice of God got a call from Plod - accused of speeding away in his far-too-big BMW without paying for his petrol.
It's fair to say the Voice was a bit taken aback by it all and vowed to return to the scene of the crime to sort it out. Fortunately he was able to find the receipt and only then did he realise he had been charged for a whole host of confectionary he had purchased - but not the petrol for which he was being pursued. It was all put down as a misunderstanding and the Voice sheepishly brushed aside the moths escaping from his wallet to hand over the relevant dinero.
Then it came to light that we had another crook in our midst. The Wonderful Withers answered the phone to be greeted by "ello, ello, ello, you've been a naughty boy my san". Apparently he was accused on disturbing the neighbours with one of his over-loud, over-long parties at home. Well, that would be if he had any parties - or any mates to invite.
Truth of the matter he was over 150 miles away, at home in Crewe, while his landlord Dirty Tim invited the cream of the Welsh glitterati around to make sweet music in the back garden. Apparently said party went on from mid evening until 4pm the following afternoon - no wonder the neighbours weren't best pleased.
The police obviously discovered Withers' name on the electoral roll and decided it was time he had his collar felt. Withers banged up in jail among rapists, sodomists and other ne'er-do-wells? Doesn't bare thinking about, really.
This weekend the Wonderful One and the Fabulous BB are both celebrating their birthdays. On Friday, we took the chance to have an early celebration and were soon in full swing. With Cardiff inundated by New Zealand and French rugby fans here for there World Cup quarter final (sadly, Wales didn't get this far) it made for a good backdrop for a knees-up. And where better to go than the City Arms, where my own personal resident DJ Jase was on hand to provide us with the music.
Once again I felt it was only right that I request the loathsome ELO song Mr Blue Sky - mainly because when Withers is jigging around to it like a demented hobgoblin he actually looks cheery for about the only time of the year. After that I needed an antidote, though, and it came in the form of the Stones' Midnight Rambler and London Calling by the Clash. The only way to truly get into the swing of things was to wrap my tie tightly around my head and scare the living daylights out of those sober French and Kiwi visitors... Mr Le Debusier looked pretty stunned as well, so it happens.
On Saturday, with the hangover now fully kicking in, at least it was an interesting day. Transferring back to the Sports Desk to fill in for the holidaying Smashy, I had the pleasure of watching "Welshman" Brammy muttering words of hatred at the TV as smug Jim Rosenthal waxed lyrical about England's win over Australia.
But even that shock result was nothing compared to the sensational French victory over the All Blacks, or All Greys as they were on this occasion. There were plenty of Kiwi tears washing down St Mary's Street by 10.30pm, I can tell you.
To celebrate this splendid triumph I might as well pass on the French Cassoulet recipe that I rustled up this week. I had to make a few changes, though, on the basis that I didn't have all the necessary ingredients. Here is what I used...
INGREDIENTS
Four Toulouse sausages
Three slices of smoked middle bacon, roughly chopped
1/2 pound minced beef
A tin of butter beans and a tin of black eyed beans (these can be substituted by any bean really, and the recipe recommends Haricot beans)
Two tomatoes
One carrot peeled and chopped into large chunks
One sliced carrot
One piece of celery, chopped in two
Half an onion
salt and pepper
Olive oil
two cloves chopped garlic
breadcrumbs to cover
TO DO:
Heat oven at gas mark 4
Rinse beans and put into a saucepan
Add roughly chopped Carrot, celery, onion, salt and pepper
Cover the beans and veggies with water, then bring to the boil
Keep water level topped up and simmer for about 10-15 minutes
Put olive oil in frying pan and heat, then add the garlic
brown the minced beef, then add the sausages and the bacon
When they are browning, too, add the carrot and mix all together
Drain the juice from the beans into a measuring jug then add to the meats and keep on medium heat for 10 minutes.
Remove veggies from beans then put a layer of beans on the bottom of a casserole dish
Put the meats on top then add another layer of beans on top, with any excess juice
Finally top with breadcrumbs and put into the oven for 45 minutes
Stir around occasionally.
Serve with mash and some roasted squash
It's fair to say the Voice was a bit taken aback by it all and vowed to return to the scene of the crime to sort it out. Fortunately he was able to find the receipt and only then did he realise he had been charged for a whole host of confectionary he had purchased - but not the petrol for which he was being pursued. It was all put down as a misunderstanding and the Voice sheepishly brushed aside the moths escaping from his wallet to hand over the relevant dinero.
Then it came to light that we had another crook in our midst. The Wonderful Withers answered the phone to be greeted by "ello, ello, ello, you've been a naughty boy my san". Apparently he was accused on disturbing the neighbours with one of his over-loud, over-long parties at home. Well, that would be if he had any parties - or any mates to invite.
Truth of the matter he was over 150 miles away, at home in Crewe, while his landlord Dirty Tim invited the cream of the Welsh glitterati around to make sweet music in the back garden. Apparently said party went on from mid evening until 4pm the following afternoon - no wonder the neighbours weren't best pleased.
The police obviously discovered Withers' name on the electoral roll and decided it was time he had his collar felt. Withers banged up in jail among rapists, sodomists and other ne'er-do-wells? Doesn't bare thinking about, really.
This weekend the Wonderful One and the Fabulous BB are both celebrating their birthdays. On Friday, we took the chance to have an early celebration and were soon in full swing. With Cardiff inundated by New Zealand and French rugby fans here for there World Cup quarter final (sadly, Wales didn't get this far) it made for a good backdrop for a knees-up. And where better to go than the City Arms, where my own personal resident DJ Jase was on hand to provide us with the music.
Once again I felt it was only right that I request the loathsome ELO song Mr Blue Sky - mainly because when Withers is jigging around to it like a demented hobgoblin he actually looks cheery for about the only time of the year. After that I needed an antidote, though, and it came in the form of the Stones' Midnight Rambler and London Calling by the Clash. The only way to truly get into the swing of things was to wrap my tie tightly around my head and scare the living daylights out of those sober French and Kiwi visitors... Mr Le Debusier looked pretty stunned as well, so it happens.
On Saturday, with the hangover now fully kicking in, at least it was an interesting day. Transferring back to the Sports Desk to fill in for the holidaying Smashy, I had the pleasure of watching "Welshman" Brammy muttering words of hatred at the TV as smug Jim Rosenthal waxed lyrical about England's win over Australia.
But even that shock result was nothing compared to the sensational French victory over the All Blacks, or All Greys as they were on this occasion. There were plenty of Kiwi tears washing down St Mary's Street by 10.30pm, I can tell you.
To celebrate this splendid triumph I might as well pass on the French Cassoulet recipe that I rustled up this week. I had to make a few changes, though, on the basis that I didn't have all the necessary ingredients. Here is what I used...
INGREDIENTS
Four Toulouse sausages
Three slices of smoked middle bacon, roughly chopped
1/2 pound minced beef
A tin of butter beans and a tin of black eyed beans (these can be substituted by any bean really, and the recipe recommends Haricot beans)
Two tomatoes
One carrot peeled and chopped into large chunks
One sliced carrot
One piece of celery, chopped in two
Half an onion
salt and pepper
Olive oil
two cloves chopped garlic
breadcrumbs to cover
TO DO:
Heat oven at gas mark 4
Rinse beans and put into a saucepan
Add roughly chopped Carrot, celery, onion, salt and pepper
Cover the beans and veggies with water, then bring to the boil
Keep water level topped up and simmer for about 10-15 minutes
Put olive oil in frying pan and heat, then add the garlic
brown the minced beef, then add the sausages and the bacon
When they are browning, too, add the carrot and mix all together
Drain the juice from the beans into a measuring jug then add to the meats and keep on medium heat for 10 minutes.
Remove veggies from beans then put a layer of beans on the bottom of a casserole dish
Put the meats on top then add another layer of beans on top, with any excess juice
Finally top with breadcrumbs and put into the oven for 45 minutes
Stir around occasionally.
Serve with mash and some roasted squash
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
cassoulet a la Rippers
IT'S the end to another sorry rugby World Cup campaign for Wales and the wringing of hands and wailing noises are preventing me getting to sleep at nights. Sometimes I don't understand these people I live amongst. They have known for around two years that their team has a snowball's chance in hell of success in the tournament, yet they still act shocked and mortified when the whole thing shudders to a halt. Ah well, at least it gives Roberts, my rugby writer, something to get his teeth into.
He's never happier than when the faeces has flown into the air conditioner and he can rant at people over the phone. "Hey, it's all turned to sh**, mate, it's a ******* shambles. What about that tw** who was in charge? What was he doing? It's a total cock up."
After he replaces the handset I venture to ask: "Who on earth were you talking to then, mate?"
"No one... only the Welsh rugby union group chief executive."
Strange thing is, they all listen to him. Which makes me wonder: Who IS at fault for the state of Welsh rugby?
It's not just rugby that Roberts has a passion for. Standing outside the side entrance smoking a ciggie today, he looks across the road at the women leaving the BT offices and declares: "I love this time of the year?"
"Why's that, mate?" ask Wathanovski and I in unison.
"It's the boots, mate... the boots!"
He's been watching the girls leave the building, but I am wondering what the real attraction is. Some of us reckon that when this extremely private man gets home he has babes in boots padlocked to the walls of his dungeon. Or, if not the babes, perhaps he just walks around in his size eight stiletto boots.
Shutts, meantime, has moved home with mum, but is still acting like a 100 per cent wus. So much so that he is now cussing his mother for not keeping the house tidy enough. "She even leaves the butter out on the counter. It's disgraceful," stormed the giant. It could be the latest case of a child divorcing their parents, by the sound of things.
Quite a quiet weekend. Wren came over and we went for a couple of beers and had a nice Sunday lunch, watched Argentina knock Ireland out of the rugby and read the papers. That was about it.
On Tuesday I went to Bristol to see a goal four minutes into injury time rob the Gas of a first home victory of the season against Southend, which put me in a pretty bleak mood. Still, watched the end of Series 3 of 24, a video well worth investing in as the brilliant Jack Bauer finally wins the day again - having shot and killed one of his colleagues and chopped the arm off another. He could have added a great deal to the Welsh pack.
As for the recipe, a tribute to France and memories of the World Cup for my French buddies, I made a cassoulet on Tuesday. But the recipe will have to wait for tomorrow as my Boozeday Tuesday membership is already in danger of being ripped up and I don't want to miss Wednesday club as well. Ta, ta for now...
He's never happier than when the faeces has flown into the air conditioner and he can rant at people over the phone. "Hey, it's all turned to sh**, mate, it's a ******* shambles. What about that tw** who was in charge? What was he doing? It's a total cock up."
After he replaces the handset I venture to ask: "Who on earth were you talking to then, mate?"
"No one... only the Welsh rugby union group chief executive."
Strange thing is, they all listen to him. Which makes me wonder: Who IS at fault for the state of Welsh rugby?
It's not just rugby that Roberts has a passion for. Standing outside the side entrance smoking a ciggie today, he looks across the road at the women leaving the BT offices and declares: "I love this time of the year?"
"Why's that, mate?" ask Wathanovski and I in unison.
"It's the boots, mate... the boots!"
He's been watching the girls leave the building, but I am wondering what the real attraction is. Some of us reckon that when this extremely private man gets home he has babes in boots padlocked to the walls of his dungeon. Or, if not the babes, perhaps he just walks around in his size eight stiletto boots.
Shutts, meantime, has moved home with mum, but is still acting like a 100 per cent wus. So much so that he is now cussing his mother for not keeping the house tidy enough. "She even leaves the butter out on the counter. It's disgraceful," stormed the giant. It could be the latest case of a child divorcing their parents, by the sound of things.
Quite a quiet weekend. Wren came over and we went for a couple of beers and had a nice Sunday lunch, watched Argentina knock Ireland out of the rugby and read the papers. That was about it.
On Tuesday I went to Bristol to see a goal four minutes into injury time rob the Gas of a first home victory of the season against Southend, which put me in a pretty bleak mood. Still, watched the end of Series 3 of 24, a video well worth investing in as the brilliant Jack Bauer finally wins the day again - having shot and killed one of his colleagues and chopped the arm off another. He could have added a great deal to the Welsh pack.
As for the recipe, a tribute to France and memories of the World Cup for my French buddies, I made a cassoulet on Tuesday. But the recipe will have to wait for tomorrow as my Boozeday Tuesday membership is already in danger of being ripped up and I don't want to miss Wednesday club as well. Ta, ta for now...
Thursday, September 27, 2007
The first curry I ever made (enhanced a bit)
BOOZEDAY Tuesday appears to be a monster growing out of control. Fortunately I was saved from this week's test of stamina and endurance by the fact Wren was on a day off and I visited her in Bristol.
Didn't stop Smashy texting me at 8.45pm that night, moaning: "The Prince of Darkness is out of control."
The Prince, you see, has moved to Cardiff and therefore does not need to drive back to his Gwent Castle - a bit like his buddy Dracula relocating from Transylvannia to Yorkshire in search of fresh blood.
I sensed from Smashy's cry for help that Boozeday was continuing well into the evening, a feeling that was firmed up on Wednesday morning when a collection of bleary eyed colleagues slithered, rather than strolled, into the office.
Piecing it together I discovered that a young student barmaid in The Yard had been talking to our motley crew and informing them that "If you go to the George in Roath tonight it's £1 a pint". She failed to mention that in order to take advantage of this offer you needed a special student card, one similar to that which Bram has had in his possession for most of his 50-odd years.
Still, Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes) was quick to rally the troops, and off they went to flag down a taxi. Once back in the Badlands, they managed to talk a student into lending them her card, and in exchange bought a number of the great unwashed drinks, still managing to make a generous saving on the deal.
For my part, I was behaving. Wren and I paid a visit to Cribbs Causeway, where we first enjoyed a burger and some delicious prawns in TGI's, then sat through an hour and 45 minutes of fist-clenching terror watching 1408, the latest Stephen King spine-tingler starring John Cusack and Samuel L Jackson. Very good it was, too, as Wren can attest, possessing as she does some nail marks deep in her palm where I was clutching it so tightly. What a wus!
I'm kind of like that Catherine Tate character that jumps at the tiniest of noises when she isn't expecting them. I was hopping about all over Cineworld at the sound of the slightest shriek, scream, crash or bang.
Followed that with a visit to the folks for tea and cake, then later went to Dominos to enjoy a large meteor pizza (one between two, you understand, I'm not THAT greedy).
Oh yes, also bought Marc Bolan's Greatest Hits and, though Withers might scoff, his music is still infinitely superior to that of ELO.
On Sunday afternoon there was an impromptu gathering of the clans to watch Manchester United wallop post-Mourinho Chelsea 2-0 in the Tut. As well as the usual suspects, The Solicitor turned up accompanying Danny Boy (the poipes...) suggesting they were speaking to each other at last. I think they reverted back to the Status Quo after his Tuesday tour of Cardiff, however.
Pete and his girlfriend Helen, on a brief visit back to Cardiff before a six-month world tour, also came in as did my landlord Scooby and Paddy the Clown (real name, honest). A good day was had by all, apart from the fact that I managed once again to depart sans Baseball cap. Down to four now, I'm afraid.
Wednesday club was a pretty reserved affair, not surprising really, and later I went home to reheat my world-famous curry. It was the first one I ever made, back in the day when I actually took voluntary home economics because it came just before lunch and you could then sit and scoff the meal you had made. I've embellished it since, and here is what I do.
INGREDIENTS
Two or three peeled potatoes, cut into big chunks
two eggs
cooking oil
1/2 red onion
two cloves of garlic, peeled and crushed
a stick of celery, sliced
Two heaped teaspoons of hot curry powder (less if fancy a milder curry)
1lbs mince
Pint of beef stock
Tea Spoonful of Cumin powder
Tea Spoonful of Fenugreek leaves
Five chopped mushrooms
Chopped red pepper
Bunch of spinach
Three tablespoons coriander
Generous sprinkling of Garam Masala
TO DO:
Boil saucepan containing the potato chunks and whole eggs in their shell
Remove potatoes after 10 minutes
Continue to hard boil eggs
Drain and put to side
Heat oil in wok
Add curry powder and stir but don't burn
Put in the garlic, onion and celery. Mix and cook for five minutes.
Add potatoes and fry in the oil to give a slightly firm, crisp coating
Add the beef and cook for 10-15 minutes until brown.
Add beef stock to cover mince (save the rest for if it boils too dry), cumin and fenugreek
Cook for a further 15 minutes on medium heat, stirring regularly.
Wash spinach leaves and add to the dish.
Then add mushrooms and peppers. Remove shell from eggs, and slice before adding to pan in last five minutes of cooking.
Cook for a further 10-15 minutes, then serve with rice.
Didn't stop Smashy texting me at 8.45pm that night, moaning: "The Prince of Darkness is out of control."
The Prince, you see, has moved to Cardiff and therefore does not need to drive back to his Gwent Castle - a bit like his buddy Dracula relocating from Transylvannia to Yorkshire in search of fresh blood.
I sensed from Smashy's cry for help that Boozeday was continuing well into the evening, a feeling that was firmed up on Wednesday morning when a collection of bleary eyed colleagues slithered, rather than strolled, into the office.
Piecing it together I discovered that a young student barmaid in The Yard had been talking to our motley crew and informing them that "If you go to the George in Roath tonight it's £1 a pint". She failed to mention that in order to take advantage of this offer you needed a special student card, one similar to that which Bram has had in his possession for most of his 50-odd years.
Still, Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes) was quick to rally the troops, and off they went to flag down a taxi. Once back in the Badlands, they managed to talk a student into lending them her card, and in exchange bought a number of the great unwashed drinks, still managing to make a generous saving on the deal.
For my part, I was behaving. Wren and I paid a visit to Cribbs Causeway, where we first enjoyed a burger and some delicious prawns in TGI's, then sat through an hour and 45 minutes of fist-clenching terror watching 1408, the latest Stephen King spine-tingler starring John Cusack and Samuel L Jackson. Very good it was, too, as Wren can attest, possessing as she does some nail marks deep in her palm where I was clutching it so tightly. What a wus!
I'm kind of like that Catherine Tate character that jumps at the tiniest of noises when she isn't expecting them. I was hopping about all over Cineworld at the sound of the slightest shriek, scream, crash or bang.
Followed that with a visit to the folks for tea and cake, then later went to Dominos to enjoy a large meteor pizza (one between two, you understand, I'm not THAT greedy).
Oh yes, also bought Marc Bolan's Greatest Hits and, though Withers might scoff, his music is still infinitely superior to that of ELO.
On Sunday afternoon there was an impromptu gathering of the clans to watch Manchester United wallop post-Mourinho Chelsea 2-0 in the Tut. As well as the usual suspects, The Solicitor turned up accompanying Danny Boy (the poipes...) suggesting they were speaking to each other at last. I think they reverted back to the Status Quo after his Tuesday tour of Cardiff, however.
Pete and his girlfriend Helen, on a brief visit back to Cardiff before a six-month world tour, also came in as did my landlord Scooby and Paddy the Clown (real name, honest). A good day was had by all, apart from the fact that I managed once again to depart sans Baseball cap. Down to four now, I'm afraid.
Wednesday club was a pretty reserved affair, not surprising really, and later I went home to reheat my world-famous curry. It was the first one I ever made, back in the day when I actually took voluntary home economics because it came just before lunch and you could then sit and scoff the meal you had made. I've embellished it since, and here is what I do.
INGREDIENTS
Two or three peeled potatoes, cut into big chunks
two eggs
cooking oil
1/2 red onion
two cloves of garlic, peeled and crushed
a stick of celery, sliced
Two heaped teaspoons of hot curry powder (less if fancy a milder curry)
1lbs mince
Pint of beef stock
Tea Spoonful of Cumin powder
Tea Spoonful of Fenugreek leaves
Five chopped mushrooms
Chopped red pepper
Bunch of spinach
Three tablespoons coriander
Generous sprinkling of Garam Masala
TO DO:
Boil saucepan containing the potato chunks and whole eggs in their shell
Remove potatoes after 10 minutes
Continue to hard boil eggs
Drain and put to side
Heat oil in wok
Add curry powder and stir but don't burn
Put in the garlic, onion and celery. Mix and cook for five minutes.
Add potatoes and fry in the oil to give a slightly firm, crisp coating
Add the beef and cook for 10-15 minutes until brown.
Add beef stock to cover mince (save the rest for if it boils too dry), cumin and fenugreek
Cook for a further 15 minutes on medium heat, stirring regularly.
Wash spinach leaves and add to the dish.
Then add mushrooms and peppers. Remove shell from eggs, and slice before adding to pan in last five minutes of cooking.
Cook for a further 10-15 minutes, then serve with rice.
Friday, September 21, 2007
selection of cold meats
DANNY Boy (the poipes, the poipes) is getting the cold shoulder from The Solicitor. From my understanding, she has put an injunction on him going anywhere near her, particularly after he stumbled home six hours late following a racous session in Dempsey's at the nether end of Boozeday Tuesday.
Apparently he joined Withers, the Fab BB, Monsieur De Lebusier and the Prince of Darkness in this well-known Irish haunt. To me it appeared to be a blatant attempt to suck up to the Boss, who had already booked his seat for that night's Celtic game in Europe.
Also there were the Boss's pals, who sound like characters out of an ancient Whizzer and Chips annual - Biff, Griff, Diff, Chiff, Stiff and Miff. Apparently by the end of the night they were all bouncing up and down singing "Hey, Hey the Celts are here...", according to my spies anyway.
Then on Thursday lunchtime, while squeezing in a ciggy break, Withers and I noticed Danny Boy (the poipes etc) sneaking back into work with a large package under his arm.
"What's that?" we quite reasonably inquired.
"Um, it's a blow-up sofa - apparently I broke the other one on Tuesday night," he replied sheepishly.
The scenario played out in my head. Danny Boy (the poipes etc) stumbles up the stairs to bed; The Solicitor boots him out and tells him to sleep on blow-up sofa; Danny Boy, not happy with this state of affairs, promptly chews hole in said sofa and pleads to be let back into marital bed. Then again, the story might be totally different. I'm sure it will come out in the wash...
News reaches me that our features editor Captain Mainwaring has given birth to a boy as well, following on from Kempy's happy event. The new arrival is called George which is, coincidentally, the first name of the actual Captain Mainwaring of Dad's Army fame. Hope the wee lad's mates never get to view the old sitcom, but I wouldn't count on it knowing the BBC's penchant for repeats and the advent of digital channels like UK Gold. We salute you, Captain.
There was a rather truncated Wednesday club this week involving myself, Smashy, the wonderful one and the Prince of Darkness. A few pints were supped in appalling weather, reminding us exactly what the smoking ban is going to do to us as the cold nights draw in.
Then on Thursday Wales managed to rescue some of their rugby pride with a 72-18 win over Japan. The Wonderful One, who has never shown any interest in the oval ball game until now, seized on some spare tickets for the game.
Turns out the second ticket was for Gracie "Fields", the new lodger in his Canton commune.
"Didn't think it would be a bloke you were taking along," teased Roberts.
The Wonderful One responded in typical fashion. His ears went bright red and he stomped out on his Size 11 plates shrieking "Grow up".
The rest of us new exactly where Roberts was coming from. In fact, it is just the kind of remark that has seen Withers on the receiving end of a flying flower vase in the past.
The Biter bit, methinks.
Bought some lovely meats from Sainsbury's the other day - French Saucisson, German pepper salami and Mortadella. Went down very nicely with a boiled egg, Bavarian smoked cheese and Dutch Gouda, I must say.
Apparently he joined Withers, the Fab BB, Monsieur De Lebusier and the Prince of Darkness in this well-known Irish haunt. To me it appeared to be a blatant attempt to suck up to the Boss, who had already booked his seat for that night's Celtic game in Europe.
Also there were the Boss's pals, who sound like characters out of an ancient Whizzer and Chips annual - Biff, Griff, Diff, Chiff, Stiff and Miff. Apparently by the end of the night they were all bouncing up and down singing "Hey, Hey the Celts are here...", according to my spies anyway.
Then on Thursday lunchtime, while squeezing in a ciggy break, Withers and I noticed Danny Boy (the poipes etc) sneaking back into work with a large package under his arm.
"What's that?" we quite reasonably inquired.
"Um, it's a blow-up sofa - apparently I broke the other one on Tuesday night," he replied sheepishly.
The scenario played out in my head. Danny Boy (the poipes etc) stumbles up the stairs to bed; The Solicitor boots him out and tells him to sleep on blow-up sofa; Danny Boy, not happy with this state of affairs, promptly chews hole in said sofa and pleads to be let back into marital bed. Then again, the story might be totally different. I'm sure it will come out in the wash...
News reaches me that our features editor Captain Mainwaring has given birth to a boy as well, following on from Kempy's happy event. The new arrival is called George which is, coincidentally, the first name of the actual Captain Mainwaring of Dad's Army fame. Hope the wee lad's mates never get to view the old sitcom, but I wouldn't count on it knowing the BBC's penchant for repeats and the advent of digital channels like UK Gold. We salute you, Captain.
There was a rather truncated Wednesday club this week involving myself, Smashy, the wonderful one and the Prince of Darkness. A few pints were supped in appalling weather, reminding us exactly what the smoking ban is going to do to us as the cold nights draw in.
Then on Thursday Wales managed to rescue some of their rugby pride with a 72-18 win over Japan. The Wonderful One, who has never shown any interest in the oval ball game until now, seized on some spare tickets for the game.
Turns out the second ticket was for Gracie "Fields", the new lodger in his Canton commune.
"Didn't think it would be a bloke you were taking along," teased Roberts.
The Wonderful One responded in typical fashion. His ears went bright red and he stomped out on his Size 11 plates shrieking "Grow up".
The rest of us new exactly where Roberts was coming from. In fact, it is just the kind of remark that has seen Withers on the receiving end of a flying flower vase in the past.
The Biter bit, methinks.
Bought some lovely meats from Sainsbury's the other day - French Saucisson, German pepper salami and Mortadella. Went down very nicely with a boiled egg, Bavarian smoked cheese and Dutch Gouda, I must say.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Abergavenny Food Festival
HOW the hell a cool dude like myself can end up being mentioned in the same sentence as Steve Coogan's social pariah TV character Alan Partridge I'll never know... but Withers managed it on Tuesday.
All I happened to do was relate the tale of how I took Wren to an Owl Sanctuary at Kington, near Hereford, on Monday morning. That was it. Immediately Withers tore in. "Just like Alan Partridge! Remember that girl he took on a date to the owl sanctuary near Norwich," he bellowed in front of a packed Boozeday Tuesday crowd. Thanks Withers.
The truth is I wanted to give Wren a treat for the weekend as it was the start of her holiday. As I wracked my befuddled, post-Saturday night brain to decide what we could do, I suddenly remembered, in my capacity as cordon bleu chef, that the Abergavenny food festival had been running from Friday. Then I remembered that Wren was also a big lover of owls, and in fact owns a furry toy owl that goes by the name of Owzat. Recently she had been telling me about an owl sanctuary somewhere out in the wilds of Herefordshire.
Why not kill two birds with one stone? Well not literally kill... you know what I mean.
Anyhoo, that's what we did.
Off to Abergavenny first and an enjoyable day it was, too. A bit pricey, though, I reckon. It cost £4.50 for a red bracelet just to let you tour the various stalls, which were advertising everything from a wonderful sleep elixir to a grow-your-own-hot chillis franchise. Wren and I settled for some "Glam Lamb", a lovely burger of Welsh lamb on a giant field mushroom, topped with mint mayonaisse. Gorgeous, I must say. We also bought a home-made steak and kidney pie to have when we got home and a lemon cake for Wren to take to her mums (if it lasted the journey).
Good fun, particularly when we saw the Cosmic Sausages in a tent outside the Castle. Pure genius, particularly their rendition of the James Bond theme where they managed to play the music on Mandolin, string bass and other assorted percussion instruments while moving around the tent and donning various disguises. ]
Apparently the voice turned up at Abergavenny as well, though we didn't see him. When asked what he did at the festival he replied, in his growling tones: "I had chips." Does the adventurous spirit know no bounds?
Back to the car and we drove on to Hereford, opting to stay at the Premier Travel Inn (an old favourite) before the next day's journey to see the Owls. That night, in the Starting Gate Beefeater pub opposite the Inn, we enjoyed a pretty sizeable meal for just £36. After we enjoyed a mixed platter of fish to start, I gorged on a 16oz sirloin with peppercorn sauce and Wren tucked into a huge rack of pork ribs. Worth every penny and highly recommended.
On then to the Owls on Monday, once we had negotiated our way out of Hereford. Wren had told me the sanctuary was in Knighton, around 50-odd miles away. Luckily, to a background of tut-tutting as I looked through the day-out brochures arrayed in the hotel lobby ("You'll never find anything there) I struck lucky. The biggest owl sanctuary in Great Britain, plus miniature horses and, amazingly, red squirrels were housed just 15 miles down the road in Kington. Probably saved us 100 miles of useless searching, I reckon, so who's tutting now. Like the good boyfriend I am, I rubbed in my triumph at every opportunity.
Anyway, the owl sanctuary was fantastic. You could even stroke some of the owls. They came from as far away as Mexico and, wait for it, the Sahara. The mind boggles at how one of these cute little chaps with the beady eyes could survive in the heat of Africa.
Everywhere we walked we were followed by a honking goose with a green beak who I christened Honky. I've always been a bit wary of geese since they attacked my mum at Bourton-on-the-Water.
This time, though, it was the black swans we should have been looking out for. Two of them took an instant dislike to us walking past our pond and escorted us away from their premises pretty sharply before turning their attention to attacking some poor little neighbourly ducks. Vicious things, we reported them to the owner, who explained how territorial they were.
A splendid day despite the Swan attack, though, and we drove back that night well satisfied with the day's work.
Got a text that night from Ballsy. "Has Kempy dropped her baby yet?"
"Not yet," I replied, not realising that I'm now firmly out of the Kempy social loop.
On Tuesday afternoon I introduced Wren to the delights of Boozeday for the first time, only to see Withers bumping his gums, gloomy look spreading across his face.
"I don't believe it... I don't bloody believe it!" he growled. Apparently, some of us weren't included on the list of "need to knows" when her and Coggsy's baby Patrick was born, 6lbs 10ozs, on Sunday. The Fab BB? He knew. As did the Prince of Darkness. It only made Withers feel marginally better to know that I, too, was in the dark.
As will Patrick be, by the time he is 18, no doubt. How a fervent Welshman like Coggsy can give his son such an Irish name is beyond me. Now the poor kid will be confined to a life of drinking Guinness and Magners, lazing around and telling stories. Just like Dad, really.
All I happened to do was relate the tale of how I took Wren to an Owl Sanctuary at Kington, near Hereford, on Monday morning. That was it. Immediately Withers tore in. "Just like Alan Partridge! Remember that girl he took on a date to the owl sanctuary near Norwich," he bellowed in front of a packed Boozeday Tuesday crowd. Thanks Withers.
The truth is I wanted to give Wren a treat for the weekend as it was the start of her holiday. As I wracked my befuddled, post-Saturday night brain to decide what we could do, I suddenly remembered, in my capacity as cordon bleu chef, that the Abergavenny food festival had been running from Friday. Then I remembered that Wren was also a big lover of owls, and in fact owns a furry toy owl that goes by the name of Owzat. Recently she had been telling me about an owl sanctuary somewhere out in the wilds of Herefordshire.
Why not kill two birds with one stone? Well not literally kill... you know what I mean.
Anyhoo, that's what we did.
Off to Abergavenny first and an enjoyable day it was, too. A bit pricey, though, I reckon. It cost £4.50 for a red bracelet just to let you tour the various stalls, which were advertising everything from a wonderful sleep elixir to a grow-your-own-hot chillis franchise. Wren and I settled for some "Glam Lamb", a lovely burger of Welsh lamb on a giant field mushroom, topped with mint mayonaisse. Gorgeous, I must say. We also bought a home-made steak and kidney pie to have when we got home and a lemon cake for Wren to take to her mums (if it lasted the journey).
Good fun, particularly when we saw the Cosmic Sausages in a tent outside the Castle. Pure genius, particularly their rendition of the James Bond theme where they managed to play the music on Mandolin, string bass and other assorted percussion instruments while moving around the tent and donning various disguises. ]
Apparently the voice turned up at Abergavenny as well, though we didn't see him. When asked what he did at the festival he replied, in his growling tones: "I had chips." Does the adventurous spirit know no bounds?
Back to the car and we drove on to Hereford, opting to stay at the Premier Travel Inn (an old favourite) before the next day's journey to see the Owls. That night, in the Starting Gate Beefeater pub opposite the Inn, we enjoyed a pretty sizeable meal for just £36. After we enjoyed a mixed platter of fish to start, I gorged on a 16oz sirloin with peppercorn sauce and Wren tucked into a huge rack of pork ribs. Worth every penny and highly recommended.
On then to the Owls on Monday, once we had negotiated our way out of Hereford. Wren had told me the sanctuary was in Knighton, around 50-odd miles away. Luckily, to a background of tut-tutting as I looked through the day-out brochures arrayed in the hotel lobby ("You'll never find anything there) I struck lucky. The biggest owl sanctuary in Great Britain, plus miniature horses and, amazingly, red squirrels were housed just 15 miles down the road in Kington. Probably saved us 100 miles of useless searching, I reckon, so who's tutting now. Like the good boyfriend I am, I rubbed in my triumph at every opportunity.
Anyway, the owl sanctuary was fantastic. You could even stroke some of the owls. They came from as far away as Mexico and, wait for it, the Sahara. The mind boggles at how one of these cute little chaps with the beady eyes could survive in the heat of Africa.
Everywhere we walked we were followed by a honking goose with a green beak who I christened Honky. I've always been a bit wary of geese since they attacked my mum at Bourton-on-the-Water.
This time, though, it was the black swans we should have been looking out for. Two of them took an instant dislike to us walking past our pond and escorted us away from their premises pretty sharply before turning their attention to attacking some poor little neighbourly ducks. Vicious things, we reported them to the owner, who explained how territorial they were.
A splendid day despite the Swan attack, though, and we drove back that night well satisfied with the day's work.
Got a text that night from Ballsy. "Has Kempy dropped her baby yet?"
"Not yet," I replied, not realising that I'm now firmly out of the Kempy social loop.
On Tuesday afternoon I introduced Wren to the delights of Boozeday for the first time, only to see Withers bumping his gums, gloomy look spreading across his face.
"I don't believe it... I don't bloody believe it!" he growled. Apparently, some of us weren't included on the list of "need to knows" when her and Coggsy's baby Patrick was born, 6lbs 10ozs, on Sunday. The Fab BB? He knew. As did the Prince of Darkness. It only made Withers feel marginally better to know that I, too, was in the dark.
As will Patrick be, by the time he is 18, no doubt. How a fervent Welshman like Coggsy can give his son such an Irish name is beyond me. Now the poor kid will be confined to a life of drinking Guinness and Magners, lazing around and telling stories. Just like Dad, really.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Hot spiced chicken and noodles
THE voice of God doesn't just strike fear into the hearts of us adults. We now know little kiddies are also sent wailing by his menacing presence.
Our former secretary Lisa arrived in the office with her 15-month old child the other day to show him off to her former colleagues. But while she was having a quiet conversation with the editor, nipper nipped off, only to find himself confronted by the deep-voiced Gwenty.
"Hellooow," boomed the voice in what he thought was his best baby-talking manner. Immediately the child's face crumpled and he turned away in abject fear. Lisa was straight out of the editor's office to cuddle him in her arms and protect him from further anguish.
Feeling pretty bad, the Voice didn't know where to put himself, particularly with his colleagues all now staring at him, wondering what on earth the Godly one had done to the poor child. That was until Nathan piped up: "You're breaking at least 11 court orders by being in such close proximity to a child."
Oh how we laughed.
Aren't the Welsh wonderful. That English-hating, leak-wielding billiard ball-shaped tyro Bram was still laughing about my fellow countrymen's World Cup defeat to South Africa as we stood outside the office enjoying a ciggie and listening to Welsh rugby songs being piped into the street by security guard Glyn's CD player.
Welsh fans strolled past on their way to witnessing their own mauling at the hands of the Aussies.
But a nagging suspicion was upon me and I decided the question had to be asked. "Can you actually sing the Welsh national anthem, Brammy?" I piped up.
The Thompson House equivalent of Owain Glyndwr responded: "Well, some bits of it."
Doesn't really back up his patriotic boasts, does it?
I'm not saying I'm a mind reader but some of my skills even frighten me. Standing outside the pub on Wednesday night Withers was regaling me with the latest tales of his rather extrovert flatmate, known generally as Dirty Tim.
"You'll never guess what he turned up dressed in the other day," he said, ready to shock me with the revelation.
"A tutu?" I ventured.
"How the hell did you know that! Yes a yellow tutu."
Just call me a genius.
I enjoyed a drink with the staff, including the Fab BB, Catherine Mary, Mr De Lebusier, Smashy and Roberts. Withers, meanwhile, was in Llandudno showing off his red socks to the Great and the Good and the politics version of Glastonbury (according to one particular writer on the Western Mail). In plain English, the Plaid Cymru Conference.
With a busy day ahead, however, I returned home early to cook up a Chinese meal from my Ken Hom recipe book: Hot spiced chicken...
You need:
1 lb chicken thighs, rubbed with salt and left for 30 minutes then cut into pieces.
4 spring onions
5 fl ozs groundnut oil
3 dried chillis, sliced lengthways in two.
1 tsp more oil
2 tsp finely chopped ginger
1 tbsp chilli bean sauce
10 fl ozs chicken stock
2 tsp whole peppercorns, roasted and ground in mortar and pestle
2 tsp sugar
2 tbsp dark soy
WHAT YOU DO:
Heat wok till hot, then add the 5 fl ozs of oil and wait until smoking
add dried chillis and stir for few seconds. Turn heat down.
Add chicken to pan and brown slowly. Remove chillis now if prefer it milder.
Drain off oil in colander with metal pan underneath
Wipe the wok clean, then add the tsp of oil
Heat until hot, then add chopped spring onions (in 2cms pieces), ginger, chilli bean sauce.
Cook for short while then add stock, peppercorns, sugar and soy.
Turn low and return chicken to pan.
Cover and cook for 30 mins and serve with plain noodles.
Our former secretary Lisa arrived in the office with her 15-month old child the other day to show him off to her former colleagues. But while she was having a quiet conversation with the editor, nipper nipped off, only to find himself confronted by the deep-voiced Gwenty.
"Hellooow," boomed the voice in what he thought was his best baby-talking manner. Immediately the child's face crumpled and he turned away in abject fear. Lisa was straight out of the editor's office to cuddle him in her arms and protect him from further anguish.
Feeling pretty bad, the Voice didn't know where to put himself, particularly with his colleagues all now staring at him, wondering what on earth the Godly one had done to the poor child. That was until Nathan piped up: "You're breaking at least 11 court orders by being in such close proximity to a child."
Oh how we laughed.
Aren't the Welsh wonderful. That English-hating, leak-wielding billiard ball-shaped tyro Bram was still laughing about my fellow countrymen's World Cup defeat to South Africa as we stood outside the office enjoying a ciggie and listening to Welsh rugby songs being piped into the street by security guard Glyn's CD player.
Welsh fans strolled past on their way to witnessing their own mauling at the hands of the Aussies.
But a nagging suspicion was upon me and I decided the question had to be asked. "Can you actually sing the Welsh national anthem, Brammy?" I piped up.
The Thompson House equivalent of Owain Glyndwr responded: "Well, some bits of it."
Doesn't really back up his patriotic boasts, does it?
I'm not saying I'm a mind reader but some of my skills even frighten me. Standing outside the pub on Wednesday night Withers was regaling me with the latest tales of his rather extrovert flatmate, known generally as Dirty Tim.
"You'll never guess what he turned up dressed in the other day," he said, ready to shock me with the revelation.
"A tutu?" I ventured.
"How the hell did you know that! Yes a yellow tutu."
Just call me a genius.
I enjoyed a drink with the staff, including the Fab BB, Catherine Mary, Mr De Lebusier, Smashy and Roberts. Withers, meanwhile, was in Llandudno showing off his red socks to the Great and the Good and the politics version of Glastonbury (according to one particular writer on the Western Mail). In plain English, the Plaid Cymru Conference.
With a busy day ahead, however, I returned home early to cook up a Chinese meal from my Ken Hom recipe book: Hot spiced chicken...
You need:
1 lb chicken thighs, rubbed with salt and left for 30 minutes then cut into pieces.
4 spring onions
5 fl ozs groundnut oil
3 dried chillis, sliced lengthways in two.
1 tsp more oil
2 tsp finely chopped ginger
1 tbsp chilli bean sauce
10 fl ozs chicken stock
2 tsp whole peppercorns, roasted and ground in mortar and pestle
2 tsp sugar
2 tbsp dark soy
WHAT YOU DO:
Heat wok till hot, then add the 5 fl ozs of oil and wait until smoking
add dried chillis and stir for few seconds. Turn heat down.
Add chicken to pan and brown slowly. Remove chillis now if prefer it milder.
Drain off oil in colander with metal pan underneath
Wipe the wok clean, then add the tsp of oil
Heat until hot, then add chopped spring onions (in 2cms pieces), ginger, chilli bean sauce.
Cook for short while then add stock, peppercorns, sugar and soy.
Turn low and return chicken to pan.
Cover and cook for 30 mins and serve with plain noodles.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Breton leg of lamb
ANOTHER one bites the dust. The Fabulous BB has landed a fab job on the Sunday People after prostituting himself shamelessly around the Street of Shame over the last couple of months. Good luck to the old boy, I say, though WoS will be a lesser place without him.
The Fab One wasn't letting on at all on Wednesday night. He is the first person I have ever come across who has been able to stage a leaving do without telling anyone he is actually leaving. Like all newspaper offices, the rumour mill was ablaze, however. "Och, that Baker's goona join the Wes'n Meal," said the Boss in his lilting Irish, Glaswegian tones.
Good exclusive, Boss, but wrong, I'm glad to say.
It was a pretty good booze up, even so, and made up for the fact that I missed Boozeday Tuesday because Wren was over for a visit. We spent an enjoyable Tuesday in the beautiful grounds of Margam Park, near Neath, enjoying cakes and tea at the castle and then visiting the kids' Nursery Rhyme village. Even at my diminutive height I managed to bang my head on a trip around the house of red riding hood's gran. I've still got the cut to prove it.
Wednesday it was back on the news desk and a welcome for another new arrival, Bad Manners, our new features editor. Don't know why I've christened her Bad Manners, other than the fact the surname is strikingly similar to her own.
Withers, meantime, has reliably informed me that I have the spelt the nickname of our other new man wrong. How the hell he can tell me that when it is an invented name anyway I don't know.
Apparently, it should read Andrew Le Debussier, a bit like Le Tissier.
Last night, after a hard day at the front, Wales were playing a European Championship qualifier in Slovakia so we adjourned to O'Neills to watch the game. Wonder of wonders, Wales did not only manage to win, but won emphatically 5-2. And, in a wonderful night for British football, England overcame Russia 3-0 to put their qualification back on track and Scotland somehow managed to win 1-0 in France, to the delight of the Boss, who switched to being Scottish for the night. "Ah canna beleeeve it!" he screamed during one of our many fag breaks.
It was certainly a good attendance and a good night, though there were some pretty hangdog expressions on the news team faces today. I, fortunately, managed to get away while the going was good - only to fall asleep watching Heroes, a mistake which must have put me in Wren's bad books, as I had promised to ring her at the end.
On Tuesday night I found a recipe for Clarissa Dickson-Wright's Breton leg of lamb in an old Observer magazine. Fantashtic, as Roberts would say.
You need:
250gm tin of haricot beans
1 carrot
1 onion, stuck with a clove
bouquet garni
salt and pepper
1 leg of lamb
butter
cubed pancetta or gammon
150ml of double cream
breadcrumbs
To do:
Heat the oven to gas mark 4
Put the beans in water with carrot, onion and bouquet garni
Bring to boil and cook for 15 mins.
Drain, remove veg and season
Spread butter over the lamb fat
Put in oven to roast per packet instructions
Season halfway through
25 minutes from serving prepare the beans
Put them in a casserole, fry up the pancetta and add it to the beans
Pour over the cream and add a small amount of butter, cover with breadcrumbs and dot with butter on top.
Put in oven and bake for 25 minutes with the lamb.
Serve up the lamb with the beans.
Delish!
The Fab One wasn't letting on at all on Wednesday night. He is the first person I have ever come across who has been able to stage a leaving do without telling anyone he is actually leaving. Like all newspaper offices, the rumour mill was ablaze, however. "Och, that Baker's goona join the Wes'n Meal," said the Boss in his lilting Irish, Glaswegian tones.
Good exclusive, Boss, but wrong, I'm glad to say.
It was a pretty good booze up, even so, and made up for the fact that I missed Boozeday Tuesday because Wren was over for a visit. We spent an enjoyable Tuesday in the beautiful grounds of Margam Park, near Neath, enjoying cakes and tea at the castle and then visiting the kids' Nursery Rhyme village. Even at my diminutive height I managed to bang my head on a trip around the house of red riding hood's gran. I've still got the cut to prove it.
Wednesday it was back on the news desk and a welcome for another new arrival, Bad Manners, our new features editor. Don't know why I've christened her Bad Manners, other than the fact the surname is strikingly similar to her own.
Withers, meantime, has reliably informed me that I have the spelt the nickname of our other new man wrong. How the hell he can tell me that when it is an invented name anyway I don't know.
Apparently, it should read Andrew Le Debussier, a bit like Le Tissier.
Last night, after a hard day at the front, Wales were playing a European Championship qualifier in Slovakia so we adjourned to O'Neills to watch the game. Wonder of wonders, Wales did not only manage to win, but won emphatically 5-2. And, in a wonderful night for British football, England overcame Russia 3-0 to put their qualification back on track and Scotland somehow managed to win 1-0 in France, to the delight of the Boss, who switched to being Scottish for the night. "Ah canna beleeeve it!" he screamed during one of our many fag breaks.
It was certainly a good attendance and a good night, though there were some pretty hangdog expressions on the news team faces today. I, fortunately, managed to get away while the going was good - only to fall asleep watching Heroes, a mistake which must have put me in Wren's bad books, as I had promised to ring her at the end.
On Tuesday night I found a recipe for Clarissa Dickson-Wright's Breton leg of lamb in an old Observer magazine. Fantashtic, as Roberts would say.
You need:
250gm tin of haricot beans
1 carrot
1 onion, stuck with a clove
bouquet garni
salt and pepper
1 leg of lamb
butter
cubed pancetta or gammon
150ml of double cream
breadcrumbs
To do:
Heat the oven to gas mark 4
Put the beans in water with carrot, onion and bouquet garni
Bring to boil and cook for 15 mins.
Drain, remove veg and season
Spread butter over the lamb fat
Put in oven to roast per packet instructions
Season halfway through
25 minutes from serving prepare the beans
Put them in a casserole, fry up the pancetta and add it to the beans
Pour over the cream and add a small amount of butter, cover with breadcrumbs and dot with butter on top.
Put in oven and bake for 25 minutes with the lamb.
Serve up the lamb with the beans.
Delish!
Saturday, September 08, 2007
Cote de porc a la charcutiere
THEY say God is love. Well it appears the Voice of God has found love via that wonderful "social-networking" tool known as Facebook.
The Voice has been absolutely beaming these days. Rather than shooting thunderbolt stares at people and growling dire warnings, he is more likely to be seen skipping around the office, humming gaily to himself. I swear his voice has risen half an octave, too.
Apparently the Voice was contacted by an old "friend" from his schooldays and the rest, as they say, is history. Some might say it's a miracle that a man so willing to unleash a mighty wrath on anyone that crosses his path can change so much in such a short space of time.
Then again, it's amazing what a bit of nookie can do.
On Friday all Wales was preparing for a mighty assault on the rugby World Cup. Before that there was a little matter of a game of footie at the Millennium Stadium between Wales and Germany. The recent performances of the round-ball team had meant only 25,000 tickets were sold - hardly the kind of crowd that was likely to bring chaos to the streets of Cardiff.
But first sign of those awful football fans, and Wales goes into meltdown. Drinking with one of my old pals from the nationals on Friday night, we decided to make the most of a balmy evening by standing outside so that I could puff contentedly on a roll up.
Fine, until it came to a trip to the bar. When the barmaid plonked my pint of Carling down it was, heaven forbid, IN A PLASTIC GLASS.
Of course, I complained. "Sorry," she said, "but it's the law."
Well, it's not the law every other Friday when we drink outside the Yard. And I'm sure it's not the law when thousands upon thousands of alcohol-addled rugby fans visit the city with the express intention to get wrecked.
Double standards, I tell you. Double standards.
As for the meal I enjoyed the other day, I have refreshed my memory of the Anthony Bourdain recipe for cote de porc.
YOU NEED:
1 tbsp oil
1 tbsp butter
4 large, boneless pork chops
a handful of shitake mushrooms and some big sliced Portabello mushrooms
salt and pepper
1 small onion, finely chopped
2 tsp flour
two washed and roughly chopped, but not peeled, carrots
2 sticks of celery
2 finely sliced shallots
1/2 cup white wine
1 cup beef stock
2 tbsp dijon mustard
1 sprig flat-leaf parsley.
TO DO:
Sprinkle the chops with rock salt and black pepper and leave to dry for 15 mins.
Pre-heat oven to about gas mark 4
Place carrots, celery and shallots in an oven-proof pan and pour over olive oil.
Put that in the oven and roast for 15 minutes, then toss into a large saucepan.
Heat up and mix in 1 tsp of flour.
Add a pint of beef stock and boil rigorously for a while, reducing and thickening.
Meanwhile, heat the oil and butter in a large saucepan, or griddled saucepan if you want to be fancy.
Add the chops, put the mushrooms around them and sear them for 4 mins on both sides
Transfer both to an ovenproof pan and place in the oven, cooking for 8 minutes before removing from oven and placing on a plate, covering with silver foil.
At the same time as the pork is in the oven, drain the vegetables from the thickened stock with a sieve placed above a measuring jug.
Put the frying pan with the chop juices back on the heat and add the chopped onion.
Cook until golden, then add the flour and stir in. Add the white wine, and reduce, scraping up all the good bits.
Add the newly made stock a bit at a time, stirring all the time.
Reduce by half then remove from heat and whisk in the mustard.
Add the parsley and adjust the seasoning to taste.
Lay the pork out on a plate and pour over the stock. Serve with the sweet potato and spring onion mash featured on the previous blog entry. Mmmmmm!
The Voice has been absolutely beaming these days. Rather than shooting thunderbolt stares at people and growling dire warnings, he is more likely to be seen skipping around the office, humming gaily to himself. I swear his voice has risen half an octave, too.
Apparently the Voice was contacted by an old "friend" from his schooldays and the rest, as they say, is history. Some might say it's a miracle that a man so willing to unleash a mighty wrath on anyone that crosses his path can change so much in such a short space of time.
Then again, it's amazing what a bit of nookie can do.
On Friday all Wales was preparing for a mighty assault on the rugby World Cup. Before that there was a little matter of a game of footie at the Millennium Stadium between Wales and Germany. The recent performances of the round-ball team had meant only 25,000 tickets were sold - hardly the kind of crowd that was likely to bring chaos to the streets of Cardiff.
But first sign of those awful football fans, and Wales goes into meltdown. Drinking with one of my old pals from the nationals on Friday night, we decided to make the most of a balmy evening by standing outside so that I could puff contentedly on a roll up.
Fine, until it came to a trip to the bar. When the barmaid plonked my pint of Carling down it was, heaven forbid, IN A PLASTIC GLASS.
Of course, I complained. "Sorry," she said, "but it's the law."
Well, it's not the law every other Friday when we drink outside the Yard. And I'm sure it's not the law when thousands upon thousands of alcohol-addled rugby fans visit the city with the express intention to get wrecked.
Double standards, I tell you. Double standards.
As for the meal I enjoyed the other day, I have refreshed my memory of the Anthony Bourdain recipe for cote de porc.
YOU NEED:
1 tbsp oil
1 tbsp butter
4 large, boneless pork chops
a handful of shitake mushrooms and some big sliced Portabello mushrooms
salt and pepper
1 small onion, finely chopped
2 tsp flour
two washed and roughly chopped, but not peeled, carrots
2 sticks of celery
2 finely sliced shallots
1/2 cup white wine
1 cup beef stock
2 tbsp dijon mustard
1 sprig flat-leaf parsley.
TO DO:
Sprinkle the chops with rock salt and black pepper and leave to dry for 15 mins.
Pre-heat oven to about gas mark 4
Place carrots, celery and shallots in an oven-proof pan and pour over olive oil.
Put that in the oven and roast for 15 minutes, then toss into a large saucepan.
Heat up and mix in 1 tsp of flour.
Add a pint of beef stock and boil rigorously for a while, reducing and thickening.
Meanwhile, heat the oil and butter in a large saucepan, or griddled saucepan if you want to be fancy.
Add the chops, put the mushrooms around them and sear them for 4 mins on both sides
Transfer both to an ovenproof pan and place in the oven, cooking for 8 minutes before removing from oven and placing on a plate, covering with silver foil.
At the same time as the pork is in the oven, drain the vegetables from the thickened stock with a sieve placed above a measuring jug.
Put the frying pan with the chop juices back on the heat and add the chopped onion.
Cook until golden, then add the flour and stir in. Add the white wine, and reduce, scraping up all the good bits.
Add the newly made stock a bit at a time, stirring all the time.
Reduce by half then remove from heat and whisk in the mustard.
Add the parsley and adjust the seasoning to taste.
Lay the pork out on a plate and pour over the stock. Serve with the sweet potato and spring onion mash featured on the previous blog entry. Mmmmmm!
Thursday, September 06, 2007
sweet potato and squash mash
DO you remember the Krypton Factor. Back in the day it was quite a popular programme where contestants were put through a number of difficult challenges to test their physical and mental strengths.
And the first one was always a memory test in which they had to recall a set of pictures, numbers or patterns in the correct sequence they had been shown.
So what's that got to do with the price of bread? I hear you ask.
Well, it has now become abundantly clear to me that my girlfriend Wren would never have got through the first round on the Krypton Factor. Or, indeed, been able to compete in the world memory championships which were staged just a few weeks ago.
Why have I come to this conclusion? Simply because Wren never seems to have the slightest idea what her working rota is. In fact, I can probably recite it better.
On Monday an incident happened which makes me think she must start training her brain much more efficiently.
I was awoken early by a text, telling me she was feeling tired but up for the day. Then at 7am came a follow-up message containing rather a lot of expletives. "Hi, am so p*ssed off. Got my rota wrong and am not due in until 8.30. Could have had another hour in bed. *!@*@!"
Oh how I laughed!
Her mood later improved, though, with a trip to Starbucks and a muffin.
It's all left me a little bit worried, though. The last time I received a similar message about tardiness it was from that old fogey Bram, who had forgotten the clocks had gone back and waited an hour, cursing the bus that never arrived. The difference is that Bram's brain has been addled with pints of old Scroat and has gradually been wittled down to the size of an old, dry walnut.
Heed the signs, Wren.
We had a Boozeday Tuesday indoctrination ceremony for the new boy, and there was an exceptionally good turnout. He's a nice lad and brings a bit of class to the proceedings, being an Oxford graduate.
Somehow the classless Withers has taken to renaming him Andrew De La Busiay, for reasons I can't quite fathom. But it's catching so he already has a blog name.
I say classless, but Withers is still intent on upwardly mobility. His hobnobbing with the great and the good of Welsh politics has prompted him to buy a pair of startlingly bright, red socks. He explained that it was something all the big hitters in his field were wearing these days.
I must admit, though, that we all spluttered over our beer when he told us the price.
"£11! For a pair of socks!" I shouted, open-mouthed in shock. This, remember, is a man who needs a surgical operation to remove his wallet from his trouser pocket.
"Yeh well, I had a £10 voucher from House of Fraser for my birthday," he explained hastily.
Even so...
Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes) is on a particularly tight leash these days with his wife, the solicitor, turning up midway through the afternoon to escort him back for some painting and decorating. So much for his proud declaration that "she is going to have to get used to me being late home on Boozeday Tuesdays."
The Fab BB, the wonderful one and Smashy weren't so keen to call it a day, however. Long after I'd left the fray they were regailing tales of WoS daring-do to the Newbie in the City Arms. I'm surprised he turned up for work the next day.
I did a superb meal on Monday night, A French pork dish in white wine from my Anthony Bourdain cook book, but can't quite remember the recipe. I'll try to fill you in later in the week.
To accompany it, though, I tried sweet potato and butternut squash mash which proved to be a great discovery.
Peel and cut the sweet potato and butternut squash then put into a pan of boiling, salted water.
Wait until the potato is easily pierced by a knife then remove from heat and drain.
Add two tablespoons of spring onion and one red chilli, chopped up with seeds removed, together with a large dollop of butter, a small amount of salt and black pepper. mash up then serve.
And the first one was always a memory test in which they had to recall a set of pictures, numbers or patterns in the correct sequence they had been shown.
So what's that got to do with the price of bread? I hear you ask.
Well, it has now become abundantly clear to me that my girlfriend Wren would never have got through the first round on the Krypton Factor. Or, indeed, been able to compete in the world memory championships which were staged just a few weeks ago.
Why have I come to this conclusion? Simply because Wren never seems to have the slightest idea what her working rota is. In fact, I can probably recite it better.
On Monday an incident happened which makes me think she must start training her brain much more efficiently.
I was awoken early by a text, telling me she was feeling tired but up for the day. Then at 7am came a follow-up message containing rather a lot of expletives. "Hi, am so p*ssed off. Got my rota wrong and am not due in until 8.30. Could have had another hour in bed. *!@*@!"
Oh how I laughed!
Her mood later improved, though, with a trip to Starbucks and a muffin.
It's all left me a little bit worried, though. The last time I received a similar message about tardiness it was from that old fogey Bram, who had forgotten the clocks had gone back and waited an hour, cursing the bus that never arrived. The difference is that Bram's brain has been addled with pints of old Scroat and has gradually been wittled down to the size of an old, dry walnut.
Heed the signs, Wren.
We had a Boozeday Tuesday indoctrination ceremony for the new boy, and there was an exceptionally good turnout. He's a nice lad and brings a bit of class to the proceedings, being an Oxford graduate.
Somehow the classless Withers has taken to renaming him Andrew De La Busiay, for reasons I can't quite fathom. But it's catching so he already has a blog name.
I say classless, but Withers is still intent on upwardly mobility. His hobnobbing with the great and the good of Welsh politics has prompted him to buy a pair of startlingly bright, red socks. He explained that it was something all the big hitters in his field were wearing these days.
I must admit, though, that we all spluttered over our beer when he told us the price.
"£11! For a pair of socks!" I shouted, open-mouthed in shock. This, remember, is a man who needs a surgical operation to remove his wallet from his trouser pocket.
"Yeh well, I had a £10 voucher from House of Fraser for my birthday," he explained hastily.
Even so...
Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes) is on a particularly tight leash these days with his wife, the solicitor, turning up midway through the afternoon to escort him back for some painting and decorating. So much for his proud declaration that "she is going to have to get used to me being late home on Boozeday Tuesdays."
The Fab BB, the wonderful one and Smashy weren't so keen to call it a day, however. Long after I'd left the fray they were regailing tales of WoS daring-do to the Newbie in the City Arms. I'm surprised he turned up for work the next day.
I did a superb meal on Monday night, A French pork dish in white wine from my Anthony Bourdain cook book, but can't quite remember the recipe. I'll try to fill you in later in the week.
To accompany it, though, I tried sweet potato and butternut squash mash which proved to be a great discovery.
Peel and cut the sweet potato and butternut squash then put into a pan of boiling, salted water.
Wait until the potato is easily pierced by a knife then remove from heat and drain.
Add two tablespoons of spring onion and one red chilli, chopped up with seeds removed, together with a large dollop of butter, a small amount of salt and black pepper. mash up then serve.
Saturday, September 01, 2007
Greek tomatoes with eggs
I thought I had taken on a lot of new responsibilities this week... that was before I heard of the kind of thing Owenov is expected to do in his new job.
My former colleague was employed to be the new design guru of our sister paper the Western Snail, but it appears he failed to read the small print.
Apparently his new boss, the Notorious Greek, demands quite a bit more than 100 per cent from his staff. In fact it is fair to say they are expected to get down and dirty for the tyrant with the rapidly disappearing curly perm.
This week Owenov turned up for work to be confronted by a particularly anxious looking Greek. "I need you to help me out," he ordered, with the smile of an assassin. Poor old Owenov should have known better than to answer in his usual convivial "glad to help in any way I can" response.
"Well, it's my toilet," the Greek announced, stepping through the opening at roughly the same breakneck speed he approaches someone with loose change near the coffee machine or a person about to buy a round at the bar. "The flush has stopped working and the Mrs is going to kill me if I can't find someone to fix it."
Most of us would venture the helpful suggestion "Get a plumber then, you knob."
But not good old Owenov. The gentle-natured one asked his superior exactly what the symptoms were of his toilet's disease. Then, having fixed plenty of similar faults in the past, he proceeded to tell the Greek exactly what he had to do to fix the problem himself.
Next day, though, the Greek was looking even more downtrodden, and not a little soggy around the edges.
"What's wrong?" asked the sympathetic Owenov.
"It's terrible! I thought I'd fixed the problem but I've flooded the bathroom and the entire upstairs. Pleeeze, you've got to help me. Get your coat on, we're going to my house."
Design guru? I expect Owenov to be charging by the hour soon and adding on extra for parts.
Rather than tell the exalted one where to stick his plunger, however, Owenov went back with him to his house in one of the posher suburbs of Cardiff and fixed the problem. The Greek stood there, like the foreman he is, giving extremely unhelpful suggestions while Owenov plunged his hands into the depth of his cistern.
Watch out, Owenov. He will be handing you the bogroll and asking you to perform other menial tasks before long. Yuck!
Withers, meanwhile, has found an interesting way to impress his new female flatmate. Returning from drinkies in the Yard the other day, Withers stumbled in on his new house companion moving her stuff in with a mate of hers.
Having introduced himself and welcomed her to Chez Withers, the new arrival had just one question for him: "Are you drunk?"
Having denied the accusation vehemently and excused himself on the basis he was "a bit tired", he then managed to fall down the stairs, landing embarrassingly at the feet of the new acquaintaince.
Brilliant.
Back to my busy week. I have finally stepped into Kempy's shoes and have switched my allegiance from sport to news. It's been a really hectic schedule, involving some late finishes, but I've enjoyed the first week very much.
Haven't really had much time to myself, though. The week started well with Wren and I watching Wales lose another rugby game heavily, joining Smashy, Withers and Danny Boy in my local boozer in Roath.
Then on Tuesday I caught up with my chores, had a good swim and later went to see the Gas lose a good Carling Cup game against West Ham 2-1. After that it was work, work, work - not helped by the fact my first introduction to the news desk was interrupted by two fire alarms, meaning we got about half an hour's work done before lunch. Apparently someone kept burning the toast in the canteen.
Nicey and his band were off to a festival called Glustenbury in Leicestershire this weekend, but they joined us for a quick pint on Friday night. We were discussing the latest news that a budding young female TV presenter was replacing one of the more experienced members of the BBC news team.
"It's a shame, I really fancied her," admitted Nicey, talking about the former darling of the regional news. Then he thought about it a bit more. "Mind you, I wouldn't turn down a threesome with them both."
The man is ALL charm.
The other day I cooked a really quick and interesting meal that is apparently very popular in Greece. It's called, quite simply, tomatoes with eggs, and is a terrific quick snack.
YOU NEED: 3 tablespoons of olive oil; 50 grams of butter, four ripe tomatoes, peeled and chopped; sugar, salt, pepper and a good sprinkling of oregano; three or four eggs, lightly beaten.
TO DO:
To make peeling a bit easier, pour boiling water over the tomatoes and let them stand for a short time. Then peel and chop them.
Put the olive oil and butter into a large frying pan.
Add tomatoes and all the seasoning, including a spoonful of sugar, and cook slowly until the mix becomes a thick sauce.
Beat the eggs lightly with a pinch of salt and pepper. Stir into the saucepan and use a fork to drag the egg through the tomatoes. When it starts to curd remove from the heat and dip fresh, crusty bread into the pan, eating it in a peasant way. Either that or serve on a bed of wholemeal pasta (I used penne). Gorgeous.
My former colleague was employed to be the new design guru of our sister paper the Western Snail, but it appears he failed to read the small print.
Apparently his new boss, the Notorious Greek, demands quite a bit more than 100 per cent from his staff. In fact it is fair to say they are expected to get down and dirty for the tyrant with the rapidly disappearing curly perm.
This week Owenov turned up for work to be confronted by a particularly anxious looking Greek. "I need you to help me out," he ordered, with the smile of an assassin. Poor old Owenov should have known better than to answer in his usual convivial "glad to help in any way I can" response.
"Well, it's my toilet," the Greek announced, stepping through the opening at roughly the same breakneck speed he approaches someone with loose change near the coffee machine or a person about to buy a round at the bar. "The flush has stopped working and the Mrs is going to kill me if I can't find someone to fix it."
Most of us would venture the helpful suggestion "Get a plumber then, you knob."
But not good old Owenov. The gentle-natured one asked his superior exactly what the symptoms were of his toilet's disease. Then, having fixed plenty of similar faults in the past, he proceeded to tell the Greek exactly what he had to do to fix the problem himself.
Next day, though, the Greek was looking even more downtrodden, and not a little soggy around the edges.
"What's wrong?" asked the sympathetic Owenov.
"It's terrible! I thought I'd fixed the problem but I've flooded the bathroom and the entire upstairs. Pleeeze, you've got to help me. Get your coat on, we're going to my house."
Design guru? I expect Owenov to be charging by the hour soon and adding on extra for parts.
Rather than tell the exalted one where to stick his plunger, however, Owenov went back with him to his house in one of the posher suburbs of Cardiff and fixed the problem. The Greek stood there, like the foreman he is, giving extremely unhelpful suggestions while Owenov plunged his hands into the depth of his cistern.
Watch out, Owenov. He will be handing you the bogroll and asking you to perform other menial tasks before long. Yuck!
Withers, meanwhile, has found an interesting way to impress his new female flatmate. Returning from drinkies in the Yard the other day, Withers stumbled in on his new house companion moving her stuff in with a mate of hers.
Having introduced himself and welcomed her to Chez Withers, the new arrival had just one question for him: "Are you drunk?"
Having denied the accusation vehemently and excused himself on the basis he was "a bit tired", he then managed to fall down the stairs, landing embarrassingly at the feet of the new acquaintaince.
Brilliant.
Back to my busy week. I have finally stepped into Kempy's shoes and have switched my allegiance from sport to news. It's been a really hectic schedule, involving some late finishes, but I've enjoyed the first week very much.
Haven't really had much time to myself, though. The week started well with Wren and I watching Wales lose another rugby game heavily, joining Smashy, Withers and Danny Boy in my local boozer in Roath.
Then on Tuesday I caught up with my chores, had a good swim and later went to see the Gas lose a good Carling Cup game against West Ham 2-1. After that it was work, work, work - not helped by the fact my first introduction to the news desk was interrupted by two fire alarms, meaning we got about half an hour's work done before lunch. Apparently someone kept burning the toast in the canteen.
Nicey and his band were off to a festival called Glustenbury in Leicestershire this weekend, but they joined us for a quick pint on Friday night. We were discussing the latest news that a budding young female TV presenter was replacing one of the more experienced members of the BBC news team.
"It's a shame, I really fancied her," admitted Nicey, talking about the former darling of the regional news. Then he thought about it a bit more. "Mind you, I wouldn't turn down a threesome with them both."
The man is ALL charm.
The other day I cooked a really quick and interesting meal that is apparently very popular in Greece. It's called, quite simply, tomatoes with eggs, and is a terrific quick snack.
YOU NEED: 3 tablespoons of olive oil; 50 grams of butter, four ripe tomatoes, peeled and chopped; sugar, salt, pepper and a good sprinkling of oregano; three or four eggs, lightly beaten.
TO DO:
To make peeling a bit easier, pour boiling water over the tomatoes and let them stand for a short time. Then peel and chop them.
Put the olive oil and butter into a large frying pan.
Add tomatoes and all the seasoning, including a spoonful of sugar, and cook slowly until the mix becomes a thick sauce.
Beat the eggs lightly with a pinch of salt and pepper. Stir into the saucepan and use a fork to drag the egg through the tomatoes. When it starts to curd remove from the heat and dip fresh, crusty bread into the pan, eating it in a peasant way. Either that or serve on a bed of wholemeal pasta (I used penne). Gorgeous.
Friday, August 24, 2007
A cornish pastie - in Dorset!
ROAD-TRIP DAY SIX: Home via Dorchester approx 180 miles
I spent some of my formative years in Dorchester and can vaguely recall a few things - like walking around the infants school playground singing: "who... wants... to.... play... football-with-a-stone" on the basis that we weren't allowed to take balls to school. I also recall my mother used to curse me when I arrived home. "That's another new pair of shoes all scuffed up and you've only had them a day. What happened?" She never did find out the secret.
I also recall riding my bike around the Dorchester Town football pitch while my dad watched a Western League game against someone like Welton Rovers or Bridport. I know, too, that I lived at 4 Shaston Crescent, over the road from my best pal Martin. We used to watch the Monkeys on TV, then go out and act like them. I was always Davy Jones, he was always Peter Tork. Don't ask me why, other than he was taller than me and I bagsied Davy first.
On the basis of these flimsy memories I decided we had to pay a visit to the county town of Dorset on our way back to Cardiff.
First, though, we spent a good hour in Poole Park where we watched grown and retired men taking a race between their electric-powered toy yachts extremely seriously. They were marching up and down the side of the lake, urging on their entrant, weaving in and out of each other while an electronic box ordered them about. "60 seconds to start..." said the yacht-dalek and they all jostled for position on the starting grid. Had to admit, though, it looked good fun.
We also saw the little model train which kids, and adults, can ride around the duck pond and admired the two sunk pedalo Swans in the middle of the big lake. It's a lovely spot and if you ever get to Poole it's well worth a look.
From there we drove on to Dorchester, opting to ignore Weymouth as we had seen our fill of seaside towns.
My first reaction to my old homestead was disappointment. The council have been busy, promoting it ruthlessly as Thomas Hardy Country, with everything being renamed Hardy's or Casterbridge. My Dad assures me it could be a bit that way in summer, but to me it now looked a complete tourist trap. To prove the point we visited the Terracota Warriors museum at Wren's request. Parting with £5.50 each we left about 10 minutes later. Rather than getting a feel for the immense Chinese discovery, the museum contained about seven replica warriors, a video of ancient Chinese dynasties - I couldn't help shouting "Ah, Monkey" into the dark room when one of the actors made an elaborate gesture - and cards that repeated themselves, telling of exactly how the warriors were discovered. I'm sorry, but that aint value for money.
The Dorset County Museum was better, with a fascinating exhibition about Hardy and an exact replica of his study, with his actual property still there. It gave me a yearning to read the books which I had dismissed with disdain at senior school, preferring to buy the "cheat" versions before O levels came around and swatting up on a few quotes the teacher had provided us with.
Wren, prompted by her four-hour alarm clock, treated herself to a pastie made in Cornwall, heated up in Dorset, containing spinach, ricotta, potato and pine nuts. Then it was time for a visit to my old house.
I found it quite easily and the memories came flooding back: like the time my four-year-old brother and his neighbour Jenny, who was roughly the same age, took her baby brother for a walk right the way into the centre of town. Both sets of parents were understandably frantic. They were eventually discovered strolling through the local park, having negotiated three busy main roads.
Following that I insisted we take a peek at the Dorchester Town ground as it is now. What a change! It is a proper football ground with stands, floodlights etc, and sits next door to the almost obligatory supermarket.
After that it was off home, via Salisbury.
Wren wanted to look around the Cathedral, and I needed the break, so we made another stop. She had read a fictional book set in Salisbury and I admit the size of the Cathedral is pretty awe inspiring.
More importantly, though, it was tea time. We had a nice meal in the Market Tavern in the centre of town. We started with a plate of Chilli Nachos (massive) and I followed that with plaice stuffed with a prawn and mushroom sauce. Can't for the life of me remember what Wren had.
Back to the car then and an interesting drive home, avoiding the motorways until we hit Malmesbury and Swindon and joined the M4.
When we finally reached the house at around 10.30 we were both pretty bushed. Like my old mum used to say: "It's nice to go away, but it's lovely to come home".
The road trip ended after our return from the Hotel du Pain, or whatever it's called. Final distance travelled: 887 miles. Well done, Basil.
Newsflash: I put a message in Boo's window on Wednesday. "Bargain Buy £100". I sold him the same day. Brill. Hope he's gone to a good home.
I spent some of my formative years in Dorchester and can vaguely recall a few things - like walking around the infants school playground singing: "who... wants... to.... play... football-with-a-stone" on the basis that we weren't allowed to take balls to school. I also recall my mother used to curse me when I arrived home. "That's another new pair of shoes all scuffed up and you've only had them a day. What happened?" She never did find out the secret.
I also recall riding my bike around the Dorchester Town football pitch while my dad watched a Western League game against someone like Welton Rovers or Bridport. I know, too, that I lived at 4 Shaston Crescent, over the road from my best pal Martin. We used to watch the Monkeys on TV, then go out and act like them. I was always Davy Jones, he was always Peter Tork. Don't ask me why, other than he was taller than me and I bagsied Davy first.
On the basis of these flimsy memories I decided we had to pay a visit to the county town of Dorset on our way back to Cardiff.
First, though, we spent a good hour in Poole Park where we watched grown and retired men taking a race between their electric-powered toy yachts extremely seriously. They were marching up and down the side of the lake, urging on their entrant, weaving in and out of each other while an electronic box ordered them about. "60 seconds to start..." said the yacht-dalek and they all jostled for position on the starting grid. Had to admit, though, it looked good fun.
We also saw the little model train which kids, and adults, can ride around the duck pond and admired the two sunk pedalo Swans in the middle of the big lake. It's a lovely spot and if you ever get to Poole it's well worth a look.
From there we drove on to Dorchester, opting to ignore Weymouth as we had seen our fill of seaside towns.
My first reaction to my old homestead was disappointment. The council have been busy, promoting it ruthlessly as Thomas Hardy Country, with everything being renamed Hardy's or Casterbridge. My Dad assures me it could be a bit that way in summer, but to me it now looked a complete tourist trap. To prove the point we visited the Terracota Warriors museum at Wren's request. Parting with £5.50 each we left about 10 minutes later. Rather than getting a feel for the immense Chinese discovery, the museum contained about seven replica warriors, a video of ancient Chinese dynasties - I couldn't help shouting "Ah, Monkey" into the dark room when one of the actors made an elaborate gesture - and cards that repeated themselves, telling of exactly how the warriors were discovered. I'm sorry, but that aint value for money.
The Dorset County Museum was better, with a fascinating exhibition about Hardy and an exact replica of his study, with his actual property still there. It gave me a yearning to read the books which I had dismissed with disdain at senior school, preferring to buy the "cheat" versions before O levels came around and swatting up on a few quotes the teacher had provided us with.
Wren, prompted by her four-hour alarm clock, treated herself to a pastie made in Cornwall, heated up in Dorset, containing spinach, ricotta, potato and pine nuts. Then it was time for a visit to my old house.
I found it quite easily and the memories came flooding back: like the time my four-year-old brother and his neighbour Jenny, who was roughly the same age, took her baby brother for a walk right the way into the centre of town. Both sets of parents were understandably frantic. They were eventually discovered strolling through the local park, having negotiated three busy main roads.
Following that I insisted we take a peek at the Dorchester Town ground as it is now. What a change! It is a proper football ground with stands, floodlights etc, and sits next door to the almost obligatory supermarket.
After that it was off home, via Salisbury.
Wren wanted to look around the Cathedral, and I needed the break, so we made another stop. She had read a fictional book set in Salisbury and I admit the size of the Cathedral is pretty awe inspiring.
More importantly, though, it was tea time. We had a nice meal in the Market Tavern in the centre of town. We started with a plate of Chilli Nachos (massive) and I followed that with plaice stuffed with a prawn and mushroom sauce. Can't for the life of me remember what Wren had.
Back to the car then and an interesting drive home, avoiding the motorways until we hit Malmesbury and Swindon and joined the M4.
When we finally reached the house at around 10.30 we were both pretty bushed. Like my old mum used to say: "It's nice to go away, but it's lovely to come home".
The road trip ended after our return from the Hotel du Pain, or whatever it's called. Final distance travelled: 887 miles. Well done, Basil.
Newsflash: I put a message in Boo's window on Wednesday. "Bargain Buy £100". I sold him the same day. Brill. Hope he's gone to a good home.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Meals fit for a King
YOU may now bow down to me. It turns out I am descended from royalty. My descendants arrived here from Normandy with William the Conqueror, beat up a few Anglo-Saxons and then set about lording it around the British Isles. There is even a Rippers "seat" somewhere in Warwickshire - but I'll get to that later.
I learned all this during our fascinating road trip of Britain. Having arrived in Brighton in the pouring rain, thinking "what on earth are we going to do here?", it turned out to be a splendid little break. As I've mentioned before the owners of the Alvia, who are most likely Scandinavians and perhaps sussed the "Viking" in me, were extremely polite and helpful throughout our stay.
I did worry a bit, though, when we were shown to our four-poster bedroom to find what can only be described as a Black grizzly bear lying on our bed. In the middle of summer, too. I'm sure that is the ideal bed cover in Finland, Denmark or Sweden in Mid winter, but not for Brighton in August - despite the heavy rain.
That night we decided to don coats and hats, put up an umbrella and risk a trip into town. There was nothing much advertised but I had spotted an interesting little bar called Rikki Tik's on the internet earlier.
We had a couple of drinks there while a DJ pumped out some sounds but a wet Tuesday in Brighton hardly encourages the party-goers onto the streets. After that we had a little wander around, then visited a cosy little pub called the Globe for another couple of lagers. I must admit I felt slightly unsteady on my feet after that.
By then Wren, who has a body clock very similar to the Robot in that she simply MUST eat every four hours, was beginning to gnaw on my arm. Nothing for it, we went in pursuit of fast food.
I was amazed to find that she had never experienced the delight of Subway, being rather put off by the smells that eminate from this rather fine establishment. On this occasion she agreed to try it, and indeed was converted. We both noshed our baguettes sitting on a bench near the Royal Pavilion, a marvellous edifice which would be equally at home in India or perhaps Baghdad.
Next day it was still fairly miserable but, as hardy Brit holidaymakers are wont to do, we headed for the pier. What a place! As we looked around the various attractions and amusements the sun began to come out. Wren beat me on the Dolphin Derby, a great little game where you roll balls up a slope and attempt to get them into different value holes (oo er, missus).
I also desperately tried to snare a Zippy doll with one of those grabbing machines, wasting 50p knowing full well the things are rigged and you have no hope of winning. Still, it would have made a good present for Withers, who seems to talk more and more like the character out of Rainbow these days.
After the pier it was time to hit the shops. And there were a great selection of Bohemians boutiques in the Laines area of the town. We also took the chance to eat at a Brazilian restaurant called Bosa Nostra, which was fab. I had the Brazilian national dish, which is called Feijoada and is a stew of beans with various meats thrown in. We also had some Brazilian sausage for starter and Wren had a pancake stuffed with mince and covered with cheese.
We didn't find my favourite-ever shop, though, until the walk home after watching a seagull nearly throttle himself by eating half an apple whole. Reminded me of Shutts at an all-you-can-eat buffet.
The Taj. Even now the name sends shivers down my spine. The Taj is the most wonderful supermarket, stocking everything a cordon blue chef like myself could desire. Every vegetable, every pasta, every rice, every spice and every variation of every spice. I could move to Brighton, just to shop in The Taj alone. It's brilliant. I celebrated by buying a couple of jars of Fenugreek Leaves, particular good for Paneer curries. Wren had to tear me away. Brighton may be a long way but one day I will return and raid that shop. Fantastic.
That night we went to the Pav Tav as trendy Wren, now dressed in some rather swanky new purchases, has taken to calling it. It is a pub that is frequented by student types and recent school leavers and made me feeling quite old.
But it's good. It's good because even on a Wednesday night they showcase new bands.
We had the privilege of watching a band from Horsham called Offside. They were pretty punky, pretty loud and not bad at all. The only problem came when one of their guitarists, obviously fairly new to the game, broke a string. This became a major issue for him. Rather than playing on as best he could he stood with hands on hips, feeling sorry for himself as the other members of the band bravely tried to rescue the number.
There then followed a 10 minute delay while he attached a new string, only to realise that throughout the following numbers his guitar continually went out of tune. Poor Dab. He needs to realise the show must go on, whatever the catastrophe (and there are far worse catastrophes than breaking a string, like your amp catching fire cos your beer has fallen down the back of it, as I can well testify).
Full marks to Offside, though. Good band and highly enjoyable with songs like Tick-Tock, Waster and something that sounded like Boy George. There was a little bit of a reggae beat in there, too, taking me back to '77 yada, yada, yada...
We went Turkish on the way home. Chicken kebabs.
THURSDAY: To Poole via Arundel and Portsmouth, 150 miles.
The following morning we set off fresh on the next leg of our journey. We set off for Portsmouth after a mild rant from me after moving the car around to the front of the hotel to find that some discourteous driver was parking his vehicle in the middle of two spaces. Anyone who knows Brighton will know parking is a problem at the best of times and we had to load up Wren's flat, I mean luggage, in the boot. For this task I was forced to park in the road, all the time glaring at the entirely ignorant driver who had caused this scenario.
First stop on what was supposed to be the Bournemouth leg of the journey was Arundel. Fantastic place. Very medieval with a swanky castle and everything. My real reason for going here was to visit the cricket ground, however. This is the place the MCC play at every year and the Lord's Taverners seem to have made a second home. We drove up to the ground and were lucky enough to gatecrash the Under-14 English Cup final between Leicester and Sheffield.
Standing by the scoreboard to take a picture, the man in situ shouted: "Are you the advanced party? When are the rest of the Army arriving?"
Hadn't a clue what he was on about but smiled politely anyway. Only on returning to the car did I realise I had my England Barmy Army shirt on. Doh!
What an idyllic spot for a cricket ground, though. Breathtaking, I must say.
Driving on we reached the outskirts of Portsmouth. Needing a break I decided we should pop in and see the Victory. We headed for the historic Docklands and though they were charging £16 per adult for full tour tickets it was quite easy to just wander around, see most of the boats and museums, without spending a jot.
I was quite happy to keep my money in my pocket until Wren and I saw a little booth. "Find out the history of your surname", it said. "More than 500,000 names researched". As I told the man in the booth my name I had little hope of it cropping up. But there it was. And what a fantastic history the Rippers dynasty has.
There is Ermine on our family crest, which represents royalty of some description, and there is also a family moto "Virtue for its own sake". Well, everyone knows how virtuous I am so this didn't surprise me much.
The history did, though. Apparently one of my ancestors arrived with William of Conk. Another died fighting a joust in front of the king at Woodstock, and yet another was a soldier who later became a journalist. We have a family "seat" called Amington Hall in Warwickshire. From now on, I expect to be addressed as "Sir" or "His Lordship Mr Rippers". Particularly by that serf Withers.
Wren, too, looked into her family history. She is proudly Anglo-Saxon.
Unlike me. The Normans may have come from France (which perhaps explains my culinary expertise) but they were originally Vikings. Doesn't explain why I get sea sick on the cross channel ferry, though.
That night we arrived in Bournemouth. I used to go there when it was a thriving little holiday town with swanky hotels. My mate Millsy and I used to drive down in his TR6 after finishing work early on a Friday, being spurred on by Dexy's Midnight Runners album Searching for the Young Soul Rebels, park up outside the local church and then proceed into the town to get bladdered and visit the local clubs. On the way back we found a takeaway that served the best mushroom burgers I've ever tasted.
All weekend we would sleep in the car, only to be woken on Sunday morning by the ringing of the church bells and some rather curious looking old ladies staring in through the window as we peered out with bloodshot eyes from under heavy eyelids at the churchgoing folk of the town.
My illusions of great Bournemouth trips were shattered by the current state of the place. It is a typically rundown, unexciting town, in vast contrast to Brighton. The impression wasn't helped when we were shown rooms in three hotels which all appeared down at heel and greatly in need of refurbishment. There was nothing for it but to move on to Poole.
Not much here, either, but they do have a lovely local park and it is quite a posh place for the sailing fraternity to visit. We found a nice hotel, too. The Quarterdeck. The only problem was a dodgy shower but the room and breakfast were splendid.
That night we ate out at an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet called the Real China. The only trouble was that as we started to enjoy it, the staff started closing down and putting stuff away around us. In the end, all-you-can-eat became all-you-can-prevent-the-waiters-packing-away. Still, it was fun.
The final leg of the road trip in the next blog instalment.
I learned all this during our fascinating road trip of Britain. Having arrived in Brighton in the pouring rain, thinking "what on earth are we going to do here?", it turned out to be a splendid little break. As I've mentioned before the owners of the Alvia, who are most likely Scandinavians and perhaps sussed the "Viking" in me, were extremely polite and helpful throughout our stay.
I did worry a bit, though, when we were shown to our four-poster bedroom to find what can only be described as a Black grizzly bear lying on our bed. In the middle of summer, too. I'm sure that is the ideal bed cover in Finland, Denmark or Sweden in Mid winter, but not for Brighton in August - despite the heavy rain.
That night we decided to don coats and hats, put up an umbrella and risk a trip into town. There was nothing much advertised but I had spotted an interesting little bar called Rikki Tik's on the internet earlier.
We had a couple of drinks there while a DJ pumped out some sounds but a wet Tuesday in Brighton hardly encourages the party-goers onto the streets. After that we had a little wander around, then visited a cosy little pub called the Globe for another couple of lagers. I must admit I felt slightly unsteady on my feet after that.
By then Wren, who has a body clock very similar to the Robot in that she simply MUST eat every four hours, was beginning to gnaw on my arm. Nothing for it, we went in pursuit of fast food.
I was amazed to find that she had never experienced the delight of Subway, being rather put off by the smells that eminate from this rather fine establishment. On this occasion she agreed to try it, and indeed was converted. We both noshed our baguettes sitting on a bench near the Royal Pavilion, a marvellous edifice which would be equally at home in India or perhaps Baghdad.
Next day it was still fairly miserable but, as hardy Brit holidaymakers are wont to do, we headed for the pier. What a place! As we looked around the various attractions and amusements the sun began to come out. Wren beat me on the Dolphin Derby, a great little game where you roll balls up a slope and attempt to get them into different value holes (oo er, missus).
I also desperately tried to snare a Zippy doll with one of those grabbing machines, wasting 50p knowing full well the things are rigged and you have no hope of winning. Still, it would have made a good present for Withers, who seems to talk more and more like the character out of Rainbow these days.
After the pier it was time to hit the shops. And there were a great selection of Bohemians boutiques in the Laines area of the town. We also took the chance to eat at a Brazilian restaurant called Bosa Nostra, which was fab. I had the Brazilian national dish, which is called Feijoada and is a stew of beans with various meats thrown in. We also had some Brazilian sausage for starter and Wren had a pancake stuffed with mince and covered with cheese.
We didn't find my favourite-ever shop, though, until the walk home after watching a seagull nearly throttle himself by eating half an apple whole. Reminded me of Shutts at an all-you-can-eat buffet.
The Taj. Even now the name sends shivers down my spine. The Taj is the most wonderful supermarket, stocking everything a cordon blue chef like myself could desire. Every vegetable, every pasta, every rice, every spice and every variation of every spice. I could move to Brighton, just to shop in The Taj alone. It's brilliant. I celebrated by buying a couple of jars of Fenugreek Leaves, particular good for Paneer curries. Wren had to tear me away. Brighton may be a long way but one day I will return and raid that shop. Fantastic.
That night we went to the Pav Tav as trendy Wren, now dressed in some rather swanky new purchases, has taken to calling it. It is a pub that is frequented by student types and recent school leavers and made me feeling quite old.
But it's good. It's good because even on a Wednesday night they showcase new bands.
We had the privilege of watching a band from Horsham called Offside. They were pretty punky, pretty loud and not bad at all. The only problem came when one of their guitarists, obviously fairly new to the game, broke a string. This became a major issue for him. Rather than playing on as best he could he stood with hands on hips, feeling sorry for himself as the other members of the band bravely tried to rescue the number.
There then followed a 10 minute delay while he attached a new string, only to realise that throughout the following numbers his guitar continually went out of tune. Poor Dab. He needs to realise the show must go on, whatever the catastrophe (and there are far worse catastrophes than breaking a string, like your amp catching fire cos your beer has fallen down the back of it, as I can well testify).
Full marks to Offside, though. Good band and highly enjoyable with songs like Tick-Tock, Waster and something that sounded like Boy George. There was a little bit of a reggae beat in there, too, taking me back to '77 yada, yada, yada...
We went Turkish on the way home. Chicken kebabs.
THURSDAY: To Poole via Arundel and Portsmouth, 150 miles.
The following morning we set off fresh on the next leg of our journey. We set off for Portsmouth after a mild rant from me after moving the car around to the front of the hotel to find that some discourteous driver was parking his vehicle in the middle of two spaces. Anyone who knows Brighton will know parking is a problem at the best of times and we had to load up Wren's flat, I mean luggage, in the boot. For this task I was forced to park in the road, all the time glaring at the entirely ignorant driver who had caused this scenario.
First stop on what was supposed to be the Bournemouth leg of the journey was Arundel. Fantastic place. Very medieval with a swanky castle and everything. My real reason for going here was to visit the cricket ground, however. This is the place the MCC play at every year and the Lord's Taverners seem to have made a second home. We drove up to the ground and were lucky enough to gatecrash the Under-14 English Cup final between Leicester and Sheffield.
Standing by the scoreboard to take a picture, the man in situ shouted: "Are you the advanced party? When are the rest of the Army arriving?"
Hadn't a clue what he was on about but smiled politely anyway. Only on returning to the car did I realise I had my England Barmy Army shirt on. Doh!
What an idyllic spot for a cricket ground, though. Breathtaking, I must say.
Driving on we reached the outskirts of Portsmouth. Needing a break I decided we should pop in and see the Victory. We headed for the historic Docklands and though they were charging £16 per adult for full tour tickets it was quite easy to just wander around, see most of the boats and museums, without spending a jot.
I was quite happy to keep my money in my pocket until Wren and I saw a little booth. "Find out the history of your surname", it said. "More than 500,000 names researched". As I told the man in the booth my name I had little hope of it cropping up. But there it was. And what a fantastic history the Rippers dynasty has.
There is Ermine on our family crest, which represents royalty of some description, and there is also a family moto "Virtue for its own sake". Well, everyone knows how virtuous I am so this didn't surprise me much.
The history did, though. Apparently one of my ancestors arrived with William of Conk. Another died fighting a joust in front of the king at Woodstock, and yet another was a soldier who later became a journalist. We have a family "seat" called Amington Hall in Warwickshire. From now on, I expect to be addressed as "Sir" or "His Lordship Mr Rippers". Particularly by that serf Withers.
Wren, too, looked into her family history. She is proudly Anglo-Saxon.
Unlike me. The Normans may have come from France (which perhaps explains my culinary expertise) but they were originally Vikings. Doesn't explain why I get sea sick on the cross channel ferry, though.
That night we arrived in Bournemouth. I used to go there when it was a thriving little holiday town with swanky hotels. My mate Millsy and I used to drive down in his TR6 after finishing work early on a Friday, being spurred on by Dexy's Midnight Runners album Searching for the Young Soul Rebels, park up outside the local church and then proceed into the town to get bladdered and visit the local clubs. On the way back we found a takeaway that served the best mushroom burgers I've ever tasted.
All weekend we would sleep in the car, only to be woken on Sunday morning by the ringing of the church bells and some rather curious looking old ladies staring in through the window as we peered out with bloodshot eyes from under heavy eyelids at the churchgoing folk of the town.
My illusions of great Bournemouth trips were shattered by the current state of the place. It is a typically rundown, unexciting town, in vast contrast to Brighton. The impression wasn't helped when we were shown rooms in three hotels which all appeared down at heel and greatly in need of refurbishment. There was nothing for it but to move on to Poole.
Not much here, either, but they do have a lovely local park and it is quite a posh place for the sailing fraternity to visit. We found a nice hotel, too. The Quarterdeck. The only problem was a dodgy shower but the room and breakfast were splendid.
That night we ate out at an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet called the Real China. The only trouble was that as we started to enjoy it, the staff started closing down and putting stuff away around us. In the end, all-you-can-eat became all-you-can-prevent-the-waiters-packing-away. Still, it was fun.
The final leg of the road trip in the next blog instalment.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
