THE Prince of Darkness apparently bit off more than he could chew the other night. In a busy boozer, and well oiled with the required amount of vodka, he mysteriously materialised behind a young blonde and threw his arms around her, hoping his cloak of invisibility would hide his actions from the other partygoers.
Well, ok, there is a bit of spin put on this. What actually happened was that the Prince believed his intended victim was none other than The Solicitor, girlfriend of none other than Danny Boy (the Poipes, the Poipes). Knowing her fairly well he thought it quite within his remit to give her a friendly cutch (as the Welsh are prone to say).
But said cutch went rather wrong when the lady in questioned turned around and... wasn't The Solicitor at all. Now, I imagine the Prince made his rather incoherent excuses and left but this week the error of his ways was rammed home to him.
Danny Boy, never one to miss out on a tale - particularly one that he can vastly exagerate - confidently bowled over to him and informed him: "You know that girl you cuddled the other night? She only happens to be the wife of one of the tallest, toughest international rugby players in Cardiff."
Don't be surprised if the Prince remains in his mausoleum a bit more these days.
And that's it... I am off to Boston next week to see the Red Sox and have a (hopefully) relaxing break with Wren. I imagine we may have to do some sightseeing and shopping as well, but if that's the price I have to pay for a visit to Fenway (not once, but twice! much to Wren's carefully disguised anguish) then so be it.
Hopefully I can find an internet cafe from which to update you with tales of culinary delights in the States.
Ta, ta!
Friday, August 29, 2008
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Posh nosh
Posh and Becks turned up at The Yard last night to break the news. No, they aren't tying the knot as far as I am aware but Posh is moving up to join her partner in the big Smoke. They are going to live Sarf of the river and she will commute to Whitehall - yes, Whitehall! - in her new job. Best of luck, I say. No doubt the paparazzi has already been alerted to the reunion of the glamorous couple.
Meanwhile, Withers spent some time of his own in the capital at the weekend and had a rather strange experience on the platform at Victoria Station.
Before you ask: No, it didn't involve rent boys and a fiver.
What actually happened was that Withers spotted Wathanovski on the platform. At least, he was convinced it was Wathanovski. The bloke looked the spitting image but when the Wonderful One got closer he heard Wales' top soccer writer saying: "Anyway mate oi was walking down the apple n pairs and appened to glimpse me trouble n strife with..." You get the picture, broad cockney. The wonderful One was stunned.
But it got me thinking. Perhaps, just perhaps, the boy Wathanovski has been putting on his Welshness for public consumption. Maybe he's a lag escaped from Wormwood Scrubs who spends his weekends 'alf inching people's watches and loose change on various London stations.
More likely, though, is that this was Wathanovski's long lost twin and that they were both conceived within earshot of Bow Bells but someone stole Wathanovski from his carry cot outside the Royal London and spirited him away across the border.
Bare with me, the clues are there. The boy Wathanovski supports Spurs, for starters, even though he also expresses his undying love for Swansea. He's also been noticed sneaking off to eat jellied eels on his lunchbreak.
Um, well, alright, I made that bit up.
But mark my words, the truth can be stranger than fiction.
Meanwhile, Withers spent some time of his own in the capital at the weekend and had a rather strange experience on the platform at Victoria Station.
Before you ask: No, it didn't involve rent boys and a fiver.
What actually happened was that Withers spotted Wathanovski on the platform. At least, he was convinced it was Wathanovski. The bloke looked the spitting image but when the Wonderful One got closer he heard Wales' top soccer writer saying: "Anyway mate oi was walking down the apple n pairs and appened to glimpse me trouble n strife with..." You get the picture, broad cockney. The wonderful One was stunned.
But it got me thinking. Perhaps, just perhaps, the boy Wathanovski has been putting on his Welshness for public consumption. Maybe he's a lag escaped from Wormwood Scrubs who spends his weekends 'alf inching people's watches and loose change on various London stations.
More likely, though, is that this was Wathanovski's long lost twin and that they were both conceived within earshot of Bow Bells but someone stole Wathanovski from his carry cot outside the Royal London and spirited him away across the border.
Bare with me, the clues are there. The boy Wathanovski supports Spurs, for starters, even though he also expresses his undying love for Swansea. He's also been noticed sneaking off to eat jellied eels on his lunchbreak.
Um, well, alright, I made that bit up.
But mark my words, the truth can be stranger than fiction.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Mojitas
THE infamous Morticia left our coven on Friday to try to make her way in the big smoke, so we had a farewell do in Pica Pica (or pikey pikey as the former Ego people like to call it). Everything went pretty well until the Fugitive decided it was time to go all Mexican on us and returned to me with a pint of lager and a rather scary looking Tequila-based drink called a Mojita. Of course, I had to return the compliment and... well... I don't remember anything else to be perfectly honest.
Interesting conversation in the office today with Sarah 'not guilty' Me Lud telling us about her rather strange approach to vegetarianism.
Monsieur De Le Busier let it slip that, amazingly despite his ultra-posh upbringing, he had never eaten caviar before. He then signalled to Me Lud and suggested: "I bet you have eaten caviar though, haven't you Sarah?"
"Of course not!" she replied, horrified. "I am a vegetarian."
To which our other veggie, The Wonderful Withers formerly of WoS, spluttered into his coffee and responded: "But you eat meat!"
"Only sometimes," Me Lud answered, rather perplexingly.
The Style Nazi is a crafty old fellow. After being asked politely by the Boss to change a WoS graphic for the third time he humped and grumped and looked pretty p***ed off, to be honest.
But while we were watching he managed to complete this rather time-consuming iritating job... in about five seconds! If he hadn't done all the moaning it would have been much quicker.
Note to self: Keep an eye on this one. If we had walked away and left him to it I am sure he could have stretched the job out for two hours.
He had his comeuppance again on Friday, as a matter of fact. The Style Nazi circulated an all-users E Mail ranting on about how he bought a clean tea towel in every day and that he was fed up with other people making use of it in the kitchen area, leaving it all wet and that.
This stroppy missive obviously struck a chord with some of the pranksters around us, including our photo guru stormin' Rob Norman.
When the Nazi arrived for work at 1pm the next day he found his chair, desk and monitor covered in every shade of tea towel you could imagine. Nice one!
By the way I thought I was still dreaming today. At 5pm the scores came through: Bristol Rovers 6 Hereford United 1. Now Smashy, though mainly a rugby fan, has a soft spot for the Bulls. I had to remind him that just to please him they had obviously reverted to rugby at half time, hence the number of points we put on the board!
Interesting conversation in the office today with Sarah 'not guilty' Me Lud telling us about her rather strange approach to vegetarianism.
Monsieur De Le Busier let it slip that, amazingly despite his ultra-posh upbringing, he had never eaten caviar before. He then signalled to Me Lud and suggested: "I bet you have eaten caviar though, haven't you Sarah?"
"Of course not!" she replied, horrified. "I am a vegetarian."
To which our other veggie, The Wonderful Withers formerly of WoS, spluttered into his coffee and responded: "But you eat meat!"
"Only sometimes," Me Lud answered, rather perplexingly.
The Style Nazi is a crafty old fellow. After being asked politely by the Boss to change a WoS graphic for the third time he humped and grumped and looked pretty p***ed off, to be honest.
But while we were watching he managed to complete this rather time-consuming iritating job... in about five seconds! If he hadn't done all the moaning it would have been much quicker.
Note to self: Keep an eye on this one. If we had walked away and left him to it I am sure he could have stretched the job out for two hours.
He had his comeuppance again on Friday, as a matter of fact. The Style Nazi circulated an all-users E Mail ranting on about how he bought a clean tea towel in every day and that he was fed up with other people making use of it in the kitchen area, leaving it all wet and that.
This stroppy missive obviously struck a chord with some of the pranksters around us, including our photo guru stormin' Rob Norman.
When the Nazi arrived for work at 1pm the next day he found his chair, desk and monitor covered in every shade of tea towel you could imagine. Nice one!
By the way I thought I was still dreaming today. At 5pm the scores came through: Bristol Rovers 6 Hereford United 1. Now Smashy, though mainly a rugby fan, has a soft spot for the Bulls. I had to remind him that just to please him they had obviously reverted to rugby at half time, hence the number of points we put on the board!
Monday, August 18, 2008
Pick N Mix
My anonymity has been totally destroyed by this business of being the Ego letters editor (God help me). Not only am I now known in the corner shop, the laundrette and the local pub but on Thursday night I spent 40 minutes outside my house conversing with the taxi driver who had given me a lift home. He recognised my picture from the paper (thanks Orson) and wanted to tell me about the raw deal the drivers are getting from the council.
As it happens I totally agree with him over the seemingly random distribution of licences and the fact that they are finding it harder and harder to make a living. I am well acquainted with many of the old stagers, having stumbled many a time into a cab having found my legs unable to tolerate the weight of my body after a few lively evenings out on the town.
The trouble was that on this occasion I had to be up at 5.30 in the morning to edit the evening rag, sorry, paper and could have done with the extra 40 minutes to cook some supper and prepare myself for an early night.
The truth is I never volunteered to do the letters so it came as a huge surprise to me that Orson, our Head of Production, managed to find an old and, it must be said, very unflattering, picture of me in the system and next minute, hey presto, I was appearing right there at the bottom of the page. I will NEVER hear the last of it and chances of blending into the background are now slim to nil.
The Fat Kid and Big Boy came to visit me at the weekend, and Wren was over, too, to discuss bridesmaid dresses and the like. It felt like an ambush.
The weather was rubbish so despite all the talk of going to parks, we ended up having one quick whiz around Roath Park before heading into town for some shopping (outnumbered 2-1 again, I would have rather watched the footie results unfolding, but never mind).
The Big Boy has still got a huge appetite on him but having said that the two ladies in my life aren't far behind in the gnoshing stakes.
At one stage we came across a big pick'n'mix presentation in the St David's Centre and their eyes lit up at once. The next thing I knew they were filling a big yellow bag up with everything you could imagine from toffees to jelly babies, things that looked like pebbles and sugar-coated multi-coloured things.
Then I was handed the bag to give to the man on the scales. Total cost? £8.10! Pick n fix, if you ask me.
Later that afternoon we watched a good New York Cop/Russian Gangster DVD called We Own The Night with Mark Wahlberg, Joaquin Phoenix and the great Robert Duvall. Excellent.
Later I rustled up a carbonara and by the time that was done it was time for bed.
Next morning I took the Fat Kid and Big Boy over to see my Dad and Stepmum. My stepmum Jean got on famously with the Big Boy and he was soon admiring her antiques.
He reminds me a bit of the bloke in the Monty Python sketch who offers people arguments. Having picked up speaking only recently, he now knows how to disagree like an old timer.
Remember the sketch when the bloke walks in and pays to have an argument?
My afternoon went something like this:
Me: That's nice isn't it?
BB: No it isn't
Me: Yes, it is
BB: No it isn't.
I felt like saying: "This isn't an argument, you're just contradicting me."
But I know the answer would have been: "No, I'm not!"
After all that energy used up it was back to Cardiff to watch Manchester United draw their first Premiership game of the season at home to Newcastle and then rest up for the night on the couch.
As it happens I totally agree with him over the seemingly random distribution of licences and the fact that they are finding it harder and harder to make a living. I am well acquainted with many of the old stagers, having stumbled many a time into a cab having found my legs unable to tolerate the weight of my body after a few lively evenings out on the town.
The trouble was that on this occasion I had to be up at 5.30 in the morning to edit the evening rag, sorry, paper and could have done with the extra 40 minutes to cook some supper and prepare myself for an early night.
The truth is I never volunteered to do the letters so it came as a huge surprise to me that Orson, our Head of Production, managed to find an old and, it must be said, very unflattering, picture of me in the system and next minute, hey presto, I was appearing right there at the bottom of the page. I will NEVER hear the last of it and chances of blending into the background are now slim to nil.
The Fat Kid and Big Boy came to visit me at the weekend, and Wren was over, too, to discuss bridesmaid dresses and the like. It felt like an ambush.
The weather was rubbish so despite all the talk of going to parks, we ended up having one quick whiz around Roath Park before heading into town for some shopping (outnumbered 2-1 again, I would have rather watched the footie results unfolding, but never mind).
The Big Boy has still got a huge appetite on him but having said that the two ladies in my life aren't far behind in the gnoshing stakes.
At one stage we came across a big pick'n'mix presentation in the St David's Centre and their eyes lit up at once. The next thing I knew they were filling a big yellow bag up with everything you could imagine from toffees to jelly babies, things that looked like pebbles and sugar-coated multi-coloured things.
Then I was handed the bag to give to the man on the scales. Total cost? £8.10! Pick n fix, if you ask me.
Later that afternoon we watched a good New York Cop/Russian Gangster DVD called We Own The Night with Mark Wahlberg, Joaquin Phoenix and the great Robert Duvall. Excellent.
Later I rustled up a carbonara and by the time that was done it was time for bed.
Next morning I took the Fat Kid and Big Boy over to see my Dad and Stepmum. My stepmum Jean got on famously with the Big Boy and he was soon admiring her antiques.
He reminds me a bit of the bloke in the Monty Python sketch who offers people arguments. Having picked up speaking only recently, he now knows how to disagree like an old timer.
Remember the sketch when the bloke walks in and pays to have an argument?
My afternoon went something like this:
Me: That's nice isn't it?
BB: No it isn't
Me: Yes, it is
BB: No it isn't.
I felt like saying: "This isn't an argument, you're just contradicting me."
But I know the answer would have been: "No, I'm not!"
After all that energy used up it was back to Cardiff to watch Manchester United draw their first Premiership game of the season at home to Newcastle and then rest up for the night on the couch.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
One cigarette
IT appears the Transylvannia fortune has finally run out. The Prince of Darkness admitted on Friday before his two-week break scouring the countryside for young virgins that he was on his bare bones.
"I have no money and don't get paid for a week. As I've got the week off I am going to stay in bed (for bed, read coffin) until next Friday and survive on the ten cigarettes I've got left."
Once he had survived that ordeal, the Prince revealed he would be going to the Green Man festival and making hay with hippies the following weekend.
"I suppose a Friday night drink is out of the question then?" I asked in tones conveying my deepest sympathy.
"Absolutely. Straight home to bed for me," he said, picking up his cloak and blending into the night.
A couple of hours later I went off to join the Bad Manners leaving do. She and the gang had taken up residence in the new micro-boozer, Zero Degrees. Joining a table containing Smashy, Paps and Danny Boy (the Poipes, the Poipes) I went to sit down on a chair, noticing that the dregs of a pint were left there.
"You can't sit there," Smashy informed me, "that's the Prince's seat."
Turned out the Dark Lord had bumbed £20 from the wannabe DJ so that he could inbibe. I should have guessed.
Later, standing outside having a smoke, I was joined by the Prince. "I'm off home in a minute, I'm skint again," he revealed.
"Well, at least you have your 10 fags for the week," I ventured.
"Um, no. Now I've only got one left."
It's gonna be a pretty rough week of cold turkey for the Dark one. I have visions of him lying in the crypt, sweating, while dead babies walk across his roof. Or, worst still, visions of Withers spinning his head 180 degrees wearing a nappy.
Friday was a pretty good night and though I said I would be home by 11 on the basis of taking charge of WoS on Saturday, by the time Wren and I crawled through the door it was about 1.30am. Oh well.
We moved on from the Manners farewell to the Nickers Birthday Bash in a new club called Calcutta. And it felt like going back to the days of the Raj with Mensahib Shutts holding court like some latter-day Viceroy lording it over his BBC subjects.
Shutts was full of himself (makes a change) having secured himself tickets to see the New York Yankees play one of their last-ever games at Yankee Stadium - some consolation, at least, for the fact he booked his hols in order to see Joe Calzaghe fight in the Big Apple, only for Joe to cancel the bout and put it back to a later date.
Saturday was a big day on WoS - first day of the football season - and I managed to shake off my hangover to get the paper out. Sunday, therefore, turned into a day of rest as I plonked myself in front of the TV to watch England and South Africa battle it out at the Oval.
I was up early in the morning, though, to watch Nicole Cooke's fantastic tactical ride to win Olympic gold - the first Welsh sports person to achieve the feat in 32 years. It was a stunning performance and I couldn't help jumping up and down with joy as she crossed the line.
Later, I watched the offshoot of Spooks, one of my new favourite programmes having secured the first three series on DVD. What a pile of poo! Called Spooks [Code 9], I don't think you could come across worse writing, stilted acting or dire dialogue if you searched for months. Utter tripe, made all the more disappointing because the original is possibly the only drama made in Britain over the last few years to go anywhere near matching what the Americans achieve with The Sopranos, the West Wing, Prison Break, Lost and Dexter.
Monday night I went the whole hog and made myself and Wren a full-on curry. I decided to do a few sample dishes with nan and pilau rice. The fiery lamb did what it said on the tin while the Peppers and Paneer were a little bit hotter than expected and the potato dhal also had a bit of a nip to it. When Wren turned red and started choking, steam coming out of her ears, I realised I might have overdone the chillis slightly but, being the stoic type she is, Wren battled through and finished the lot. I must get her that medal.
"I have no money and don't get paid for a week. As I've got the week off I am going to stay in bed (for bed, read coffin) until next Friday and survive on the ten cigarettes I've got left."
Once he had survived that ordeal, the Prince revealed he would be going to the Green Man festival and making hay with hippies the following weekend.
"I suppose a Friday night drink is out of the question then?" I asked in tones conveying my deepest sympathy.
"Absolutely. Straight home to bed for me," he said, picking up his cloak and blending into the night.
A couple of hours later I went off to join the Bad Manners leaving do. She and the gang had taken up residence in the new micro-boozer, Zero Degrees. Joining a table containing Smashy, Paps and Danny Boy (the Poipes, the Poipes) I went to sit down on a chair, noticing that the dregs of a pint were left there.
"You can't sit there," Smashy informed me, "that's the Prince's seat."
Turned out the Dark Lord had bumbed £20 from the wannabe DJ so that he could inbibe. I should have guessed.
Later, standing outside having a smoke, I was joined by the Prince. "I'm off home in a minute, I'm skint again," he revealed.
"Well, at least you have your 10 fags for the week," I ventured.
"Um, no. Now I've only got one left."
It's gonna be a pretty rough week of cold turkey for the Dark one. I have visions of him lying in the crypt, sweating, while dead babies walk across his roof. Or, worst still, visions of Withers spinning his head 180 degrees wearing a nappy.
Friday was a pretty good night and though I said I would be home by 11 on the basis of taking charge of WoS on Saturday, by the time Wren and I crawled through the door it was about 1.30am. Oh well.
We moved on from the Manners farewell to the Nickers Birthday Bash in a new club called Calcutta. And it felt like going back to the days of the Raj with Mensahib Shutts holding court like some latter-day Viceroy lording it over his BBC subjects.
Shutts was full of himself (makes a change) having secured himself tickets to see the New York Yankees play one of their last-ever games at Yankee Stadium - some consolation, at least, for the fact he booked his hols in order to see Joe Calzaghe fight in the Big Apple, only for Joe to cancel the bout and put it back to a later date.
Saturday was a big day on WoS - first day of the football season - and I managed to shake off my hangover to get the paper out. Sunday, therefore, turned into a day of rest as I plonked myself in front of the TV to watch England and South Africa battle it out at the Oval.
I was up early in the morning, though, to watch Nicole Cooke's fantastic tactical ride to win Olympic gold - the first Welsh sports person to achieve the feat in 32 years. It was a stunning performance and I couldn't help jumping up and down with joy as she crossed the line.
Later, I watched the offshoot of Spooks, one of my new favourite programmes having secured the first three series on DVD. What a pile of poo! Called Spooks [Code 9], I don't think you could come across worse writing, stilted acting or dire dialogue if you searched for months. Utter tripe, made all the more disappointing because the original is possibly the only drama made in Britain over the last few years to go anywhere near matching what the Americans achieve with The Sopranos, the West Wing, Prison Break, Lost and Dexter.
Monday night I went the whole hog and made myself and Wren a full-on curry. I decided to do a few sample dishes with nan and pilau rice. The fiery lamb did what it said on the tin while the Peppers and Paneer were a little bit hotter than expected and the potato dhal also had a bit of a nip to it. When Wren turned red and started choking, steam coming out of her ears, I realised I might have overdone the chillis slightly but, being the stoic type she is, Wren battled through and finished the lot. I must get her that medal.
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Carling Lager
WHEN a big story breaks there is sometimes only one person you can send to cover it... particularly if you have a staff of two men and a dog, like the Sunday Peeps.
Hence, with the other man on his summer holidays and the dog otherwise engaged sniffing around some scantily-clad celebrity, it was left to the Fab BB to make the journey to Wales to pick up the threads of the biggest story of the week.
However, en route to Cardiff Airport on Friday night he just happened to pop into The Yard to waive his expenses allowance in our faces and tell us about life in the big smoke. He was in fine form, too, it must be said.
While he regaled us of his tales of daring do, however, he was interrupted by a phone call, presumably from his boss on the Peeps newsdesk. And as he weaved an intricate tissue of fiction about why he hadn't actually reached the scene of the on-going news story yet he noticed that one of his erstwhile friends was offering him a top up.
Only hearing one side of the conversation, though, I must fall back on that cast-iron court defence of journalistic licence to tell you, my avid readers, of how I perceived this to sound from the other end of the phone.
Peeps big cheese: So, Baker boy, where do we stand with our lead story?
Fab BB: Just working on it, boss. Trouble is the plane doesn't land until about three in the morning, so I thought I would pop into town and gather some background.
PBC: Good idea, old son. So have we got anything so far?
FBB: I've spoken to a few people who seem to be in the know but it may cost us a bit to get them to talk. I will be heading down to the airport... Carling... soon."
Fortunately, I think the Peeps Big Cheese probably thought he said Darling, knowing what a vivacious and affectionate person the Fab One can be.
We, of course, know different.
Hence, with the other man on his summer holidays and the dog otherwise engaged sniffing around some scantily-clad celebrity, it was left to the Fab BB to make the journey to Wales to pick up the threads of the biggest story of the week.
However, en route to Cardiff Airport on Friday night he just happened to pop into The Yard to waive his expenses allowance in our faces and tell us about life in the big smoke. He was in fine form, too, it must be said.
While he regaled us of his tales of daring do, however, he was interrupted by a phone call, presumably from his boss on the Peeps newsdesk. And as he weaved an intricate tissue of fiction about why he hadn't actually reached the scene of the on-going news story yet he noticed that one of his erstwhile friends was offering him a top up.
Only hearing one side of the conversation, though, I must fall back on that cast-iron court defence of journalistic licence to tell you, my avid readers, of how I perceived this to sound from the other end of the phone.
Peeps big cheese: So, Baker boy, where do we stand with our lead story?
Fab BB: Just working on it, boss. Trouble is the plane doesn't land until about three in the morning, so I thought I would pop into town and gather some background.
PBC: Good idea, old son. So have we got anything so far?
FBB: I've spoken to a few people who seem to be in the know but it may cost us a bit to get them to talk. I will be heading down to the airport... Carling... soon."
Fortunately, I think the Peeps Big Cheese probably thought he said Darling, knowing what a vivacious and affectionate person the Fab One can be.
We, of course, know different.
Monday, August 04, 2008
(Out for a) duck
WREN, as her name suggests, loves birds. So at the weekend we drove down to the Slimbridge Wildlife Park in Gloucestershire to see what they had to offer (no Alan Partridge jokes please, Withers).
It was all good fun with plenty of swans, ducks, geese, cranes and even pink flamingoes to admire. There was even an exhibition of frogs - and grabbing particular attention was the aptly named Mr Custard, a huge yellow amphibian that we both thought was a plastic toy until we got close up. Eeew! Guess he was some kind of albino frog or something.
At the end of our little day out Wren decided to buy a fluffy toy cygnet from the gift shop. Quite a cute little thing, even if I say so myself. Then we had to come up with a name.
Well, she's already got a fluffy owl at home called Owzat! so I thought we should keep up the cricketing theme. Then it struck me... of course!
The cygnet is now called Graham after the Nottinghamshire spin bowler who has played a handful of games for England: Graham Swan.
On Saturday we met with Wren's auntie, who had come all the way from Canada, and her husband Roger and had an enjoyable, but rather pricey, meal at our future wedding venue The Avon Gorge Hotel in Bristol. It was a beautiful day - hope its the same conditions come next May. Later that day we went to the Bristol Harbourside festival but, typically, the drunks were out in style by the time we got there and the seething mass of humanity was a bit too much to bare... even for the firework display (which I don't give a monkeys for, anyway).
Winding our way home we looked for the old Bristol nightclub I used to frequent - The Dug Out - but failed to recall where it used to be. Instead we popped into the White Hart for a quick drink before going home via the curry house.
On Friday we had to say goodbye to Bad Manners. She has been a great colleague, a hard worker and forever reliable. It's a crying shame that she has to go but her contract to cover for Captain Mainwaring's maternity leave is up and that's that. Still, hopefully we will send her off in good style at a leaving do this Friday.
Have you ever been attacked by your kitchen? Happened to me the other day. Admittedly I was extremely hungover, but I just kept dropping things, or banging my head on cupboard doors and the like.
It all came to a conclusion when I reached to get something out of the cupboard, a plastic container fell out, landed on a plate that then catapulted a fork towards my stockinged feet. Jumping quickly to prevent serious injury I forgot to let go of the cupboard door and pulled it out of its socket. It took some explaining to Scooby the landlord, I can tell you!
Reminded me of that old board game Mousetrap, where a chain reaction ended up trapping a plastic rodent in an oversized washing-up basket.
It was all good fun with plenty of swans, ducks, geese, cranes and even pink flamingoes to admire. There was even an exhibition of frogs - and grabbing particular attention was the aptly named Mr Custard, a huge yellow amphibian that we both thought was a plastic toy until we got close up. Eeew! Guess he was some kind of albino frog or something.
At the end of our little day out Wren decided to buy a fluffy toy cygnet from the gift shop. Quite a cute little thing, even if I say so myself. Then we had to come up with a name.
Well, she's already got a fluffy owl at home called Owzat! so I thought we should keep up the cricketing theme. Then it struck me... of course!
The cygnet is now called Graham after the Nottinghamshire spin bowler who has played a handful of games for England: Graham Swan.
On Saturday we met with Wren's auntie, who had come all the way from Canada, and her husband Roger and had an enjoyable, but rather pricey, meal at our future wedding venue The Avon Gorge Hotel in Bristol. It was a beautiful day - hope its the same conditions come next May. Later that day we went to the Bristol Harbourside festival but, typically, the drunks were out in style by the time we got there and the seething mass of humanity was a bit too much to bare... even for the firework display (which I don't give a monkeys for, anyway).
Winding our way home we looked for the old Bristol nightclub I used to frequent - The Dug Out - but failed to recall where it used to be. Instead we popped into the White Hart for a quick drink before going home via the curry house.
On Friday we had to say goodbye to Bad Manners. She has been a great colleague, a hard worker and forever reliable. It's a crying shame that she has to go but her contract to cover for Captain Mainwaring's maternity leave is up and that's that. Still, hopefully we will send her off in good style at a leaving do this Friday.
Have you ever been attacked by your kitchen? Happened to me the other day. Admittedly I was extremely hungover, but I just kept dropping things, or banging my head on cupboard doors and the like.
It all came to a conclusion when I reached to get something out of the cupboard, a plastic container fell out, landed on a plate that then catapulted a fork towards my stockinged feet. Jumping quickly to prevent serious injury I forgot to let go of the cupboard door and pulled it out of its socket. It took some explaining to Scooby the landlord, I can tell you!
Reminded me of that old board game Mousetrap, where a chain reaction ended up trapping a plastic rodent in an oversized washing-up basket.
Friday, August 01, 2008
Tortellini with Milanese Sauce
THE Prince of Darkness this week celebrated the 10,000th birthday since his immortal life began in Transylvania all that time ago. He did so by staying out until 3am on a school night in the favourite haunt of the undead, Six Feet Under.
Joining him on his wild night out were record-breaker Jamie and Danny Boy (the Poipes the Poipes). Fortunately I was tucked up in bed at that time on account of having to get up early to work on the Eggo.
Next morning the signs were there for all to see.
Poor old record-breaker had never been lured into the Dark Lord's company before and was certainly looking the worst for wear. "Uh, I stayed out a bit too long last night," he informed me. "Your mate doesn't half force the pace (he obviously doesn't realise that is the main benefit of being a disciple of the great Satan).
"It was only him and I and I definitely should have left much earlier."
Then the Poipes piped up.
"No it wasn't... I was there too," he said, beaming from ear to ear and looking as bright as a button.
"Come on," I chided. "Why don't you look like sh** today then? Or are you still p***ed."
"No," confided the Poipes. "I have found the secret of avoiding the morning hangover."
Now this snippet of news must be worth thousands to the boy from Newtown. I felt honoured he was prepared to share his secrets with me.
"What is it?" I asked in hushed tones.
He beckoned me in confidentially and whispered: "Two glasses of whisky before you go to bed. It works, you know. I tried it last night."
Not sure whether it will catch on, really.
There is a rumour the Prince is not too happy. He had a visitor to the mausoleum the other day and, shock of shocks, she OPENED THE WINDOWS! He looked all shook up about it when I saw him. Must have been worried a ray of natural sunlight would strike him and turn him to dust or, at least, a pool of vodka.
Other news. Smashy and the Wonderful One were knocked back to fourth place in the Brains quiz. But mutterings of illegal goings-on have been going on ever since, particularly from defending champion Smashy.
"All the Celtic lot, about nine of them, sat together. It was only supposed to be four in each team but they were swapping answers and marking their own papers."
The Wonderful One threw his ten pen'eth in. "Yeh, and guess who was at the centre of it all - Raffles, the gentleman thief. Explains it all."
What about the team that finished first, then, the one led by Son of Bono? "They had a book with them that told them everything they needed to know about Brains beer. Came in very handy in the last round, which was all about that particular tipple," said Smashy (or rather would have done if he talked in that sort of Pompous, upper-class way).
Anyway, the upshot is that I hear they are demanding drug tests, urine samples and truth serums to be administered forthwith. And maybe an anal probe for Raffles, just for the sheer hell of it.
Ingredients:
Fresh tortellini with Spinach and Ricotta (a bargain in Morrisons)
1 chopped onion
1 chopped celery stick
1 diced red pepper
1-2 garlic cloves, crushed
2/3 cup chicken stock
Four vine tomatoes, liquidised
1 tsp tomato puree
1 tsp sugar
dried herbs
1/4 tsp dry white wine
button mushrooms
cooked roast chicken
salt and pepper
chopped parsley
TO DO:
Put onion, celery, pepper and garlic in saucepan
add stock and bring to the boil
Cook for five minutes
Add tomatoes, puree, sugar and herbs. Season.
Bring to boil and simmer for 30 minutes until sauce thickens.
Cook pasta in salted water
Drain
Put mushrooms in pan with wine, cook until wine is gone
Stir mushrooms and chunks of roast chicken into tomato sauce
Gently heat through
Put on pasta and add parsley as garnish
Joining him on his wild night out were record-breaker Jamie and Danny Boy (the Poipes the Poipes). Fortunately I was tucked up in bed at that time on account of having to get up early to work on the Eggo.
Next morning the signs were there for all to see.
Poor old record-breaker had never been lured into the Dark Lord's company before and was certainly looking the worst for wear. "Uh, I stayed out a bit too long last night," he informed me. "Your mate doesn't half force the pace (he obviously doesn't realise that is the main benefit of being a disciple of the great Satan).
"It was only him and I and I definitely should have left much earlier."
Then the Poipes piped up.
"No it wasn't... I was there too," he said, beaming from ear to ear and looking as bright as a button.
"Come on," I chided. "Why don't you look like sh** today then? Or are you still p***ed."
"No," confided the Poipes. "I have found the secret of avoiding the morning hangover."
Now this snippet of news must be worth thousands to the boy from Newtown. I felt honoured he was prepared to share his secrets with me.
"What is it?" I asked in hushed tones.
He beckoned me in confidentially and whispered: "Two glasses of whisky before you go to bed. It works, you know. I tried it last night."
Not sure whether it will catch on, really.
There is a rumour the Prince is not too happy. He had a visitor to the mausoleum the other day and, shock of shocks, she OPENED THE WINDOWS! He looked all shook up about it when I saw him. Must have been worried a ray of natural sunlight would strike him and turn him to dust or, at least, a pool of vodka.
Other news. Smashy and the Wonderful One were knocked back to fourth place in the Brains quiz. But mutterings of illegal goings-on have been going on ever since, particularly from defending champion Smashy.
"All the Celtic lot, about nine of them, sat together. It was only supposed to be four in each team but they were swapping answers and marking their own papers."
The Wonderful One threw his ten pen'eth in. "Yeh, and guess who was at the centre of it all - Raffles, the gentleman thief. Explains it all."
What about the team that finished first, then, the one led by Son of Bono? "They had a book with them that told them everything they needed to know about Brains beer. Came in very handy in the last round, which was all about that particular tipple," said Smashy (or rather would have done if he talked in that sort of Pompous, upper-class way).
Anyway, the upshot is that I hear they are demanding drug tests, urine samples and truth serums to be administered forthwith. And maybe an anal probe for Raffles, just for the sheer hell of it.
Ingredients:
Fresh tortellini with Spinach and Ricotta (a bargain in Morrisons)
1 chopped onion
1 chopped celery stick
1 diced red pepper
1-2 garlic cloves, crushed
2/3 cup chicken stock
Four vine tomatoes, liquidised
1 tsp tomato puree
1 tsp sugar
dried herbs
1/4 tsp dry white wine
button mushrooms
cooked roast chicken
salt and pepper
chopped parsley
TO DO:
Put onion, celery, pepper and garlic in saucepan
add stock and bring to the boil
Cook for five minutes
Add tomatoes, puree, sugar and herbs. Season.
Bring to boil and simmer for 30 minutes until sauce thickens.
Cook pasta in salted water
Drain
Put mushrooms in pan with wine, cook until wine is gone
Stir mushrooms and chunks of roast chicken into tomato sauce
Gently heat through
Put on pasta and add parsley as garnish
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Shaken not stirred
OUR roving sports reporter Wathanovski has been dropping some Seismic stories of late - in fact, there is a good chance that the next time he is scheduled for a trip abroad, the country he is heading for will be evacuated.
Just over a month ago Wathanovski travelled to Iceland with the Wales football squad for a friendly international. After landing on terra ferma he suddenly found the terra was not so ferma after all. In fact, the island recorded an earthquake at 6.5 on the Richter Scale - not small by any means. Just like any good reporter he was straight on the phone to give us the news and it appeared as the lead story on the next day's Snail.
Move forward to last week and this time Wathanovski was saying Ola to Spain, joining Swansea City on their pre-season trip to Barcelona. Ordering a drink from the bar he shot out onto the terrace to soak up a bit of costa Sun. Sipping away, he suddenly noticed the rest of his entourage were standing up, casting their eyes around in confusion.
Staring up to the balcony, the Swansea City players had also emerged to scour the horizon.
"Did you feel that?" said one of Wathanovski's cohorts.
Staring deeply into his San Miguel he wondered whether their drinks had been spiked.
"No, what's up?"
"Well, it felt pretty much to me like an earthquake," said his fellow hack.
And he was right. This one wasn't so strong, probably about 3.5, in a volcanic area of Spain.
One wonders if the earth moves for the teacher when Wathanovski is at home, too.
Meantime, the wonderful Withers has asked me to clarify one of my more recent blog entries. I am happy to do so. Apparently it wasn't his head from which I shot the balloon apple at my engagement party, but that of Gareth the Builder. I'm happy to correct the mistake which was, I confess, the result of me remembering very little about the whole affair. I can now say, though, that I have the pictures to prove he was right.
However, I am informed from more than one source that the Wonderful One was in true teeth-breaking form on Saturday night at Gavin "the beard" Allen's birthday party on Saturday night. On the same day the Prince of Darkness was greeted by two young ladies who claimed he was the spitting image of Hugh Grant, the British actor with a hankering for American down-at-heel prostitutes.
Turning on all his bashful charm the Prince was ready to lap this up as a compliment. The girls, however, made their excuses and left. Perhaps they noticed the vodka-tainted saliva dripping from his fangs.
The clean desk policy at the new Thomson Towers begins tonight. Apparently if you leave ANYTHING on your desk it will be cleared away, according to AP Fazza. Already people are talking about bringing in their old lawnmowers, TV sets and green bin bags for immediate disposal.
For myself, I have been informed I have a whole cupboard in which to store things. I am thinking of putting Withers in there.
On Tuesday I took a well-earned day off to spend with Wren. We decided to go and see the new Batman film The Dark Knight. Well worth watching.
On Saturday night, feeling rather peckish after a longer than usual WoS shift, I raided my cookbooks and came up with a recipe for Tomato noodles with Fried Egg.
Ingredients:
Two servings of dried egg noodles
Vegetable Oil
2 garlic cloves, finely chopped
2 chopped shallots
1/2 tsp of chilli powder
1 tsp paprika
A diced carrot
4 ozs button mushrooms, quartered
1/2 cup peas (frozen, but thawed)
1 tsp tomato ketchup
2 tsp tomato puree
salt and black pepper
butter, for frying
2 eggs
What I did:
Cook the noodles in salted water, then after four minutes rinse with cold water and leave to stand.
Heat oil in wok then add garlic, shallots, chilli powder and paprika.
Stir fry for a minute, then add carrots, mushrooms and peas.
Continue to stir fry until veg is cooked. Stir in the ketchup and puree.
Add the noodles and cook, stirring over medium heat until the dish is heated through.
Meanwhile, fry the eggs in the melted butter in a frying pan.
Season the noodles, divide onto plates and top with an egg each or, in my case, put the whole lot on one plate and scoff away merrily.
Just over a month ago Wathanovski travelled to Iceland with the Wales football squad for a friendly international. After landing on terra ferma he suddenly found the terra was not so ferma after all. In fact, the island recorded an earthquake at 6.5 on the Richter Scale - not small by any means. Just like any good reporter he was straight on the phone to give us the news and it appeared as the lead story on the next day's Snail.
Move forward to last week and this time Wathanovski was saying Ola to Spain, joining Swansea City on their pre-season trip to Barcelona. Ordering a drink from the bar he shot out onto the terrace to soak up a bit of costa Sun. Sipping away, he suddenly noticed the rest of his entourage were standing up, casting their eyes around in confusion.
Staring up to the balcony, the Swansea City players had also emerged to scour the horizon.
"Did you feel that?" said one of Wathanovski's cohorts.
Staring deeply into his San Miguel he wondered whether their drinks had been spiked.
"No, what's up?"
"Well, it felt pretty much to me like an earthquake," said his fellow hack.
And he was right. This one wasn't so strong, probably about 3.5, in a volcanic area of Spain.
One wonders if the earth moves for the teacher when Wathanovski is at home, too.
Meantime, the wonderful Withers has asked me to clarify one of my more recent blog entries. I am happy to do so. Apparently it wasn't his head from which I shot the balloon apple at my engagement party, but that of Gareth the Builder. I'm happy to correct the mistake which was, I confess, the result of me remembering very little about the whole affair. I can now say, though, that I have the pictures to prove he was right.
However, I am informed from more than one source that the Wonderful One was in true teeth-breaking form on Saturday night at Gavin "the beard" Allen's birthday party on Saturday night. On the same day the Prince of Darkness was greeted by two young ladies who claimed he was the spitting image of Hugh Grant, the British actor with a hankering for American down-at-heel prostitutes.
Turning on all his bashful charm the Prince was ready to lap this up as a compliment. The girls, however, made their excuses and left. Perhaps they noticed the vodka-tainted saliva dripping from his fangs.
The clean desk policy at the new Thomson Towers begins tonight. Apparently if you leave ANYTHING on your desk it will be cleared away, according to AP Fazza. Already people are talking about bringing in their old lawnmowers, TV sets and green bin bags for immediate disposal.
For myself, I have been informed I have a whole cupboard in which to store things. I am thinking of putting Withers in there.
On Tuesday I took a well-earned day off to spend with Wren. We decided to go and see the new Batman film The Dark Knight. Well worth watching.
On Saturday night, feeling rather peckish after a longer than usual WoS shift, I raided my cookbooks and came up with a recipe for Tomato noodles with Fried Egg.
Ingredients:
Two servings of dried egg noodles
Vegetable Oil
2 garlic cloves, finely chopped
2 chopped shallots
1/2 tsp of chilli powder
1 tsp paprika
A diced carrot
4 ozs button mushrooms, quartered
1/2 cup peas (frozen, but thawed)
1 tsp tomato ketchup
2 tsp tomato puree
salt and black pepper
butter, for frying
2 eggs
What I did:
Cook the noodles in salted water, then after four minutes rinse with cold water and leave to stand.
Heat oil in wok then add garlic, shallots, chilli powder and paprika.
Stir fry for a minute, then add carrots, mushrooms and peas.
Continue to stir fry until veg is cooked. Stir in the ketchup and puree.
Add the noodles and cook, stirring over medium heat until the dish is heated through.
Meanwhile, fry the eggs in the melted butter in a frying pan.
Season the noodles, divide onto plates and top with an egg each or, in my case, put the whole lot on one plate and scoff away merrily.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Breakfast surprise
NOW when your nickname is the Prince of Darkness you wouldn't expect anything to spook you too much. But that wasn't the case with our own Dark Lord on Sunday morning.
Stirring in his crypt, the night creature suddenly became aware of noises going on outside. At first he thought they were coming from the flat downstairs, but on venturing into the living room he got the shock of his life.
"Waaah!" he screamed, leaping into action like a vampire launching himself onto an unsuspecting victim.
"Waaaah!" shouted Withers, equally traumatised at the early morning greeting, having emerged from a booze-filled kip on the Prince's sofa.
Somehow the Prince had completely forgotten that after rounding off last Saturday night's party with a curry and a few more drinks he had kindly consented to let the Wonderful One bed down for the night at his gaffe.
It reminds me of the time, having been out until the early hours at a party in Newcastle, I returned to the house where I was supposed to be staying, only to find that my host had gone to bed hours earlier and was sleeping the sleep of the damned.
Having thrown numerous bricks of varying sizes at her window it dawned on me that I was destined to spend a bitterly cold night on the streets of this northerly outpost.
Thankfully, I managed to flag down a taxi to take me to a local hotel where I was able to check-in at a little after 3.30am in the morning.
The next day, however, I woke with alarm to hear someone moving about the room. I opened my eyes to see a figure in white, bathed in a celestial glow.
"Waaaah!" I shouted, and for the briefest of moments thought I had passed into the afterlife.
"Sorry, duck," said the cleaner, "Didn't realise the room was occupied."
Stirring in his crypt, the night creature suddenly became aware of noises going on outside. At first he thought they were coming from the flat downstairs, but on venturing into the living room he got the shock of his life.
"Waaah!" he screamed, leaping into action like a vampire launching himself onto an unsuspecting victim.
"Waaaah!" shouted Withers, equally traumatised at the early morning greeting, having emerged from a booze-filled kip on the Prince's sofa.
Somehow the Prince had completely forgotten that after rounding off last Saturday night's party with a curry and a few more drinks he had kindly consented to let the Wonderful One bed down for the night at his gaffe.
It reminds me of the time, having been out until the early hours at a party in Newcastle, I returned to the house where I was supposed to be staying, only to find that my host had gone to bed hours earlier and was sleeping the sleep of the damned.
Having thrown numerous bricks of varying sizes at her window it dawned on me that I was destined to spend a bitterly cold night on the streets of this northerly outpost.
Thankfully, I managed to flag down a taxi to take me to a local hotel where I was able to check-in at a little after 3.30am in the morning.
The next day, however, I woke with alarm to hear someone moving about the room. I opened my eyes to see a figure in white, bathed in a celestial glow.
"Waaaah!" I shouted, and for the briefest of moments thought I had passed into the afterlife.
"Sorry, duck," said the cleaner, "Didn't realise the room was occupied."
Monday, July 21, 2008
Hangover cure
I have just added another string to my bow. Not satisfied with being world-renowned letters editor on the South Wales Egg Cup, Meeja Wales exec ed and the only bloke who can operate the computer on the hub, I have now become a champion balloon archer.
What?
You may well ask. And I will try to remember as much about it as I can.
It all began on Friday night when the Wonderful One and I were downing more than a few hard earned beers. At some point in the evening, as I chugged down The Yard's pitifully flat Carling Lager, I came up with a brainwave - in my case, more like a brainstorm.
"What if we held a surprise engagement party for Wren?" I suggested to my erstwhile sidekick and future best man (oh Lordy, whatever possessed me!)
"Good idea," he volunteered on the basis that if there was a party he would at least have something to do rather than sit in alone mumbling miserably to himself on a Saturday night.
All agreed, I went through my entire mobile 'friends' list hoping that I would at least get some takers - it all sounded promising, now all I had to do was keep my gob shut and not blurt out my secret in the traditional drunken call to the fiancee on Friday night.
Hmm, seemed to get away with it anyway. Saturday morning I stayed in watching England getting savaged by the South Africans at cricket, and waited for Wren to finish her Saturday stint on the Bristol Evening Post. She duly turned up at 4 and I suggested we nip around to the Tut that evening for a quiet drink.
We had a tasty tea of spag bol (of which I am sure I have printed my recipe on this blog at some stage) then got dressed up for the evening. At 7.30 we entered the pub, bought a beer and a glass of wine, then sat down.
The first clue Wren had was when the Fugitive stared in through the window, but I don't think she knew exactly what was going on, putting it down as a pure coincidence, even though he lives about three miles from our chosen venue.
Then I had a bit of a shock. The Internet jukebox started banging out the opening bars of XTC's Senses Working Overtime and I wondered if The Wonderful Withers had already arrived.
Going outside I bumped into Scooby, the Fugitive and former flatmate Gareth puffing away on ciggies. It was time to unveil the surprise.
I must admit Wren was pretty shocked and, I think, delighted. The guests kept coming: Smashy, Paps, Prince of Darkness, Wathanovski, Paddy the Clown...
Now you may notice a startling co-incidence here. All those turning up were male (apart from the teacher, who accompanied Wathanovski). "Why are there no women," I whispered to the Wonderful One.
"Because we don't know any, or they don't like us," he replied.
Well, not sure if that's really the case. Truth is that if you arrange a "surprise" party you must schedule it 10 weeks in advance to get women to attend. They are either doing their hair, or must have time to buy a new dress or have already made a really important appointment with the manicurist. Spontaneous? Of course, but give me six months notice, for God's sake.
Guess I'm being a bit unfair, and at least Wren could discuss everything with the Wedding Planner. That's the barmaid at the Tut who I haven't forgiven since she introduced Wren to the Wedding channel on Sky. Now every time I go back into the front room to catch up on the cricket I find the channel has been mysteriously changed and the TV dibber is nowhere to be seen.
Anyway the night wore on. Paps had not brought his camera, shock of shocks! Apparently he had tried about eight batteries in the house and they were all spent. Can't imagine what he does with them all.
Everyone enjoyed the juke box, though, singing along to XTC's Sergeant Rock. It was then the turn of the Prince to turn wowy wowy as Sonic Youth blasted out through the speakers.
Finally, Paddy the Clown introduced balloons to the proceedings. The man has certainly perfected his technique and made Wren a bowl of tulips, and a crown that looked like some bizarre boxing aid, a mini punchbag drooping down in front of your eyes when you were wearing said device.
Eventually he ordered the Wonderful One to sit down, blew up a green balloon and placed it on his head.
Then, by clever trickery, he made me a bow and a sausage shaped arrow and allowed me to become William Tell for the night. Fine, though a proper bow and arrow would have been more amusing.
My first two attempts were pathetic, embarrassing really seeing that the whole of the pub now seemed interested in the impromptu sporting event. But with a bit of gentle coxing from Paddy I pulled back and let fly... sending the balloon-arrow sailing across the pub to knock the balloon-apple from the Wonderful One's head. Magnificent performance, if I say so myself, accompanied by a round of applause.
After that there were a few more drinks before Wren and I tottered off home, weighed down by balloons, while the others disappeared into the night.
What?
You may well ask. And I will try to remember as much about it as I can.
It all began on Friday night when the Wonderful One and I were downing more than a few hard earned beers. At some point in the evening, as I chugged down The Yard's pitifully flat Carling Lager, I came up with a brainwave - in my case, more like a brainstorm.
"What if we held a surprise engagement party for Wren?" I suggested to my erstwhile sidekick and future best man (oh Lordy, whatever possessed me!)
"Good idea," he volunteered on the basis that if there was a party he would at least have something to do rather than sit in alone mumbling miserably to himself on a Saturday night.
All agreed, I went through my entire mobile 'friends' list hoping that I would at least get some takers - it all sounded promising, now all I had to do was keep my gob shut and not blurt out my secret in the traditional drunken call to the fiancee on Friday night.
Hmm, seemed to get away with it anyway. Saturday morning I stayed in watching England getting savaged by the South Africans at cricket, and waited for Wren to finish her Saturday stint on the Bristol Evening Post. She duly turned up at 4 and I suggested we nip around to the Tut that evening for a quiet drink.
We had a tasty tea of spag bol (of which I am sure I have printed my recipe on this blog at some stage) then got dressed up for the evening. At 7.30 we entered the pub, bought a beer and a glass of wine, then sat down.
The first clue Wren had was when the Fugitive stared in through the window, but I don't think she knew exactly what was going on, putting it down as a pure coincidence, even though he lives about three miles from our chosen venue.
Then I had a bit of a shock. The Internet jukebox started banging out the opening bars of XTC's Senses Working Overtime and I wondered if The Wonderful Withers had already arrived.
Going outside I bumped into Scooby, the Fugitive and former flatmate Gareth puffing away on ciggies. It was time to unveil the surprise.
I must admit Wren was pretty shocked and, I think, delighted. The guests kept coming: Smashy, Paps, Prince of Darkness, Wathanovski, Paddy the Clown...
Now you may notice a startling co-incidence here. All those turning up were male (apart from the teacher, who accompanied Wathanovski). "Why are there no women," I whispered to the Wonderful One.
"Because we don't know any, or they don't like us," he replied.
Well, not sure if that's really the case. Truth is that if you arrange a "surprise" party you must schedule it 10 weeks in advance to get women to attend. They are either doing their hair, or must have time to buy a new dress or have already made a really important appointment with the manicurist. Spontaneous? Of course, but give me six months notice, for God's sake.
Guess I'm being a bit unfair, and at least Wren could discuss everything with the Wedding Planner. That's the barmaid at the Tut who I haven't forgiven since she introduced Wren to the Wedding channel on Sky. Now every time I go back into the front room to catch up on the cricket I find the channel has been mysteriously changed and the TV dibber is nowhere to be seen.
Anyway the night wore on. Paps had not brought his camera, shock of shocks! Apparently he had tried about eight batteries in the house and they were all spent. Can't imagine what he does with them all.
Everyone enjoyed the juke box, though, singing along to XTC's Sergeant Rock. It was then the turn of the Prince to turn wowy wowy as Sonic Youth blasted out through the speakers.
Finally, Paddy the Clown introduced balloons to the proceedings. The man has certainly perfected his technique and made Wren a bowl of tulips, and a crown that looked like some bizarre boxing aid, a mini punchbag drooping down in front of your eyes when you were wearing said device.
Eventually he ordered the Wonderful One to sit down, blew up a green balloon and placed it on his head.
Then, by clever trickery, he made me a bow and a sausage shaped arrow and allowed me to become William Tell for the night. Fine, though a proper bow and arrow would have been more amusing.
My first two attempts were pathetic, embarrassing really seeing that the whole of the pub now seemed interested in the impromptu sporting event. But with a bit of gentle coxing from Paddy I pulled back and let fly... sending the balloon-arrow sailing across the pub to knock the balloon-apple from the Wonderful One's head. Magnificent performance, if I say so myself, accompanied by a round of applause.
After that there were a few more drinks before Wren and I tottered off home, weighed down by balloons, while the others disappeared into the night.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Seagull supper
REMEMBER the Alfred Hitchcock film The Birds? Well, it appears one particular feathered menace has got it in for my poor old white Corsa, Basil. The other day this vicious fiend went out and stuffed himself with every purple and red berry he could get his beak around and then decided to relieve himself all over Bas' back window.
Even a super-duper grade 5 car wash, costing an extortionate amount of money, couldn't clear up all the mess.
Now this morning I come out to find that this soaring swine has been at the blackcurrants, and once again Basil is the target of his bullying. Well, I've had enough of it, I can tell you.
The seagulls around Cardiff are becoming a real pain in the backside, or should I say their backsides are becoming a real pain. But more than that, these city dwelling tyrants are getting fatter and fatter and cheekier and cheekier every day.
Put your bin bags out late on Monday night, by Tuesday morning the whole street looks like war-torn Baghdad on a bad day. Not to mention the extreme care you have to take walking to work.
I lived in London for five years and I must admit it was a much cleaner place than Cardiff. The streets of the town are filthy, and the gulls must take some responsibility, the swines.
Last night, sitting outside The Yard with Shutts, Wathanovski, Withers, the Fugitive and Nickers, making a surprise appearance, there was suddenly a loud crash behind us. I assumed a waiter at the nearby Nando's had dropped his tray and turned around to see what had happened.
There were two gulls, lets call them Snappy and Crappy, who were taking turns to divebomb from the top of the Pancake stall onto the outside tables at Nandos and "clearing" the dirty plates left by some customers who had attended earlier in the evening. I blame the restaurant in some ways, for not clearing the tables sooner, but I think I could see one of the waiters cowering inside from these giant flying menaces. Later one of the gulls, I think it was Snappy, strutted past just inches from our table like he owned the entire brewery quarter.
It has also come to my attention that the Style Nazi had to chase off a sadistic gull from outside the new building. It had swooped down and grabbed a pigeon by the neck, and was trying to fly off with its haul. Outrageous.
Got in last night and, thanks to Wren's promptings, enjoyed a very nice King Prawn Balti ready meal, and cooked rice to accompany it. I wouldn't normally entertain such things, it feels like cheating, but Wren thought that in these busy times it might make life easier. Spot on, babe.
Even a super-duper grade 5 car wash, costing an extortionate amount of money, couldn't clear up all the mess.
Now this morning I come out to find that this soaring swine has been at the blackcurrants, and once again Basil is the target of his bullying. Well, I've had enough of it, I can tell you.
The seagulls around Cardiff are becoming a real pain in the backside, or should I say their backsides are becoming a real pain. But more than that, these city dwelling tyrants are getting fatter and fatter and cheekier and cheekier every day.
Put your bin bags out late on Monday night, by Tuesday morning the whole street looks like war-torn Baghdad on a bad day. Not to mention the extreme care you have to take walking to work.
I lived in London for five years and I must admit it was a much cleaner place than Cardiff. The streets of the town are filthy, and the gulls must take some responsibility, the swines.
Last night, sitting outside The Yard with Shutts, Wathanovski, Withers, the Fugitive and Nickers, making a surprise appearance, there was suddenly a loud crash behind us. I assumed a waiter at the nearby Nando's had dropped his tray and turned around to see what had happened.
There were two gulls, lets call them Snappy and Crappy, who were taking turns to divebomb from the top of the Pancake stall onto the outside tables at Nandos and "clearing" the dirty plates left by some customers who had attended earlier in the evening. I blame the restaurant in some ways, for not clearing the tables sooner, but I think I could see one of the waiters cowering inside from these giant flying menaces. Later one of the gulls, I think it was Snappy, strutted past just inches from our table like he owned the entire brewery quarter.
It has also come to my attention that the Style Nazi had to chase off a sadistic gull from outside the new building. It had swooped down and grabbed a pigeon by the neck, and was trying to fly off with its haul. Outrageous.
Got in last night and, thanks to Wren's promptings, enjoyed a very nice King Prawn Balti ready meal, and cooked rice to accompany it. I wouldn't normally entertain such things, it feels like cheating, but Wren thought that in these busy times it might make life easier. Spot on, babe.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Country Pork with Parsley Cobbler
WELL here I am on the new shiny hub in the new building, imaginatively called 6, Park Street, after a poll of employees obviously climbed over themselves to come up with a name for the Meeja Wales HQ.
First impressions are great, with the air conditioning a major bonus after the sweatshop next door at Thompson Towers. Not sure about the new phone system, though. Have already lost 10 "customers" trying to transfer them to different departments. The sounds eminating from my desk have been something like this:
"Hello, Meeja Wales. Echo Newsdesk? I'll try to put you through," followed by, "bugger, what does that light mean?" followed by "bugger, lost them." I imagine our loyal readers must be getting pretty p***ed off, let alone the PR girls called Jemima and Jezebella who make up 90 per cent of the calls, inquiring whether you have received a press release that hasn't a hope in hell of going into the paper and has already been sent to every other department in the building.
Still, I am sure we will master it.
And the new swipe card to get through the football-style turnstyle is fantastic. You just leave it in your wallet, then waive said wallet in the approximate vicinity of the little grey thingy on the side and... hey presto, the light turns green and you are granted admission. Wooh, little things please little minds, I know.
It's going to be a largely paperless office apparently, though I managed to sneak two metal trays containing half a rain forest past the anal police (well, Fazza anyway).
AP Fazza is looking pretty pleased with himself, as well he should. I haven't the heart to tell him that the giant screen everyone was raving about is miles away from the hub and you need one of those gimmicky plastic things containing mirrors to see it from where I sit. I used to have one when my dad took me on the football terraces as a wee six year old so that I could see over the crowds.
At least I can look straight at the big spelling mistake on the glass wall opposite me, designed to "inspire" us in our work. Someone even had the guts to tell AP Fazza that the quote from Gandhi was fine, it was just the fact that Gandhi was spelt wrong!
Anyway it has all been such a shock to the system I feel a resurrection of Boozeday Tuesday coming on.
I was bringing out WoS in the absence of the editor this weekend, so I decided to have an early night on Friday - and failed miserably. We ended up in the City Arms, all the usual suspects - Smashy, Withers, the Prince and yours truly.
And there was a magnificent surprise in store... my personal DJ Jase has managed to finally get hold of more than the two tracks by XTC that he previously owned. I was so excited when I heard the first bars of Sergeant Rock that I wrapped my tie around my head, forgetting completely that I was still wearing my baseball cap.
Next day, and I had a pretty bad hangover. But once I was in work, and fortified by a lunchtime trip to the House of Lard for Chicken Curry arf and arf, it all passed off ok (well, apart from the fact that the press knew nothing about the eight-page Jehovahs Witnesses supplement we were supposed to be doing, so we had to rip up half the paper and start again!)
After that it was essential to have a drink so I rang Wren at the flat and she kindly agreed to accompany me to the City Arms where we were meeting the Prince and Withers, who had been out and about since 3pm, together with Paps, who had been news editing the WoS and desperately needed a drink.
It has to be said the Wonderful One was not in good shape (in fact, you could say he looked in exactly the same shape he was when he lost his front teeth). Taking on the appearance of a Zombie, he staggered off down the road in the direction of home.
Not so, the Prince. After making some clandestine phone calls to his hareem he continued until well into the night... as the Prince is want to do, living up to his nickname in true style.
Next morning and I was once again feeling a bit ropey, but I could tell Wren was itching to go out for some fresh air. I walked to the paper shop and on the way back my heart skipped a beat. Where was the car? Had some local ragamuffin half-inched it again?
It took me about a minute to register the fact in my fuzzy brain that I had actually left the car at the office in order to go out on the pop.
So Wren and I walked into town to collect it. I decreed that on no account were we to go shopping with pay day still two days away. But I was obviously speaking Swahili because 10 minutes later she was trying on shoes in the sale at Clarks, emerging with two "bargains".
Once we collected the car it was off to Penarth to enjoy the sunshine, though my heart was still at Lord's and England's attempt to beat the South Africans in the first Test. I put on a brave face, though, and when we couldn't get a parking spot on Penarth sea front we ended up going to Barry Island.
Now the Island gets a bad press - though far better now Gavin and Stacey have hit the screens - yet I must say the beach was lovely, the ice cream splendid and the views enjoyable. Even the sounds of the toons emerging from the amusement arcades were oldie worldy sea-front fun.
We spent an hour there before popping home for tea. An enjoyable day.
The other night Wren and I enjoyed a meal from her No Fat Cookbook: Country Pork with Parsley cobbler. Couldn't be bothered to make the pastry, though, so picked up some ready made from Morrisons.
INGREDIENTS:
1lb boneless pork shoulder, diced.
Diced butternut squash (the recipe called for a small swede but I didn't have one)
2 sliced carrots
2 sliced leeks
2 sliced celery sticks
1 1/2 pints of beef stock
2 tbsp tomato puree
1/2 cup pearl barley
2 tbsp chopped parsley
salt and black pepper
Topping: Rolled out ready-made pastry
WHAT I DID:
Pre-heat oven to 180C/gas mark 4
Fry pork in a little butter in non-stick pan until lightly browned
Add veggies to pan, stir over medium heat until veg starts to soften
Stir in stock, tomato puree, parsley and pearl barley.
Season.
Transfer to large casserole dish and place in oven for an hour to an hour and a half
Then remove and put up temperature to 220C/gas mark 7.
Cut pastry into triangles and place over the top of the pork and veg mixture.
Return to oven and bake for 15 to 20 minutes.
Serve. A bit of Dijon mustard is nice with this.
First impressions are great, with the air conditioning a major bonus after the sweatshop next door at Thompson Towers. Not sure about the new phone system, though. Have already lost 10 "customers" trying to transfer them to different departments. The sounds eminating from my desk have been something like this:
"Hello, Meeja Wales. Echo Newsdesk? I'll try to put you through," followed by, "bugger, what does that light mean?" followed by "bugger, lost them." I imagine our loyal readers must be getting pretty p***ed off, let alone the PR girls called Jemima and Jezebella who make up 90 per cent of the calls, inquiring whether you have received a press release that hasn't a hope in hell of going into the paper and has already been sent to every other department in the building.
Still, I am sure we will master it.
And the new swipe card to get through the football-style turnstyle is fantastic. You just leave it in your wallet, then waive said wallet in the approximate vicinity of the little grey thingy on the side and... hey presto, the light turns green and you are granted admission. Wooh, little things please little minds, I know.
It's going to be a largely paperless office apparently, though I managed to sneak two metal trays containing half a rain forest past the anal police (well, Fazza anyway).
AP Fazza is looking pretty pleased with himself, as well he should. I haven't the heart to tell him that the giant screen everyone was raving about is miles away from the hub and you need one of those gimmicky plastic things containing mirrors to see it from where I sit. I used to have one when my dad took me on the football terraces as a wee six year old so that I could see over the crowds.
At least I can look straight at the big spelling mistake on the glass wall opposite me, designed to "inspire" us in our work. Someone even had the guts to tell AP Fazza that the quote from Gandhi was fine, it was just the fact that Gandhi was spelt wrong!
Anyway it has all been such a shock to the system I feel a resurrection of Boozeday Tuesday coming on.
I was bringing out WoS in the absence of the editor this weekend, so I decided to have an early night on Friday - and failed miserably. We ended up in the City Arms, all the usual suspects - Smashy, Withers, the Prince and yours truly.
And there was a magnificent surprise in store... my personal DJ Jase has managed to finally get hold of more than the two tracks by XTC that he previously owned. I was so excited when I heard the first bars of Sergeant Rock that I wrapped my tie around my head, forgetting completely that I was still wearing my baseball cap.
Next day, and I had a pretty bad hangover. But once I was in work, and fortified by a lunchtime trip to the House of Lard for Chicken Curry arf and arf, it all passed off ok (well, apart from the fact that the press knew nothing about the eight-page Jehovahs Witnesses supplement we were supposed to be doing, so we had to rip up half the paper and start again!)
After that it was essential to have a drink so I rang Wren at the flat and she kindly agreed to accompany me to the City Arms where we were meeting the Prince and Withers, who had been out and about since 3pm, together with Paps, who had been news editing the WoS and desperately needed a drink.
It has to be said the Wonderful One was not in good shape (in fact, you could say he looked in exactly the same shape he was when he lost his front teeth). Taking on the appearance of a Zombie, he staggered off down the road in the direction of home.
Not so, the Prince. After making some clandestine phone calls to his hareem he continued until well into the night... as the Prince is want to do, living up to his nickname in true style.
Next morning and I was once again feeling a bit ropey, but I could tell Wren was itching to go out for some fresh air. I walked to the paper shop and on the way back my heart skipped a beat. Where was the car? Had some local ragamuffin half-inched it again?
It took me about a minute to register the fact in my fuzzy brain that I had actually left the car at the office in order to go out on the pop.
So Wren and I walked into town to collect it. I decreed that on no account were we to go shopping with pay day still two days away. But I was obviously speaking Swahili because 10 minutes later she was trying on shoes in the sale at Clarks, emerging with two "bargains".
Once we collected the car it was off to Penarth to enjoy the sunshine, though my heart was still at Lord's and England's attempt to beat the South Africans in the first Test. I put on a brave face, though, and when we couldn't get a parking spot on Penarth sea front we ended up going to Barry Island.
Now the Island gets a bad press - though far better now Gavin and Stacey have hit the screens - yet I must say the beach was lovely, the ice cream splendid and the views enjoyable. Even the sounds of the toons emerging from the amusement arcades were oldie worldy sea-front fun.
We spent an hour there before popping home for tea. An enjoyable day.
The other night Wren and I enjoyed a meal from her No Fat Cookbook: Country Pork with Parsley cobbler. Couldn't be bothered to make the pastry, though, so picked up some ready made from Morrisons.
INGREDIENTS:
1lb boneless pork shoulder, diced.
Diced butternut squash (the recipe called for a small swede but I didn't have one)
2 sliced carrots
2 sliced leeks
2 sliced celery sticks
1 1/2 pints of beef stock
2 tbsp tomato puree
1/2 cup pearl barley
2 tbsp chopped parsley
salt and black pepper
Topping: Rolled out ready-made pastry
WHAT I DID:
Pre-heat oven to 180C/gas mark 4
Fry pork in a little butter in non-stick pan until lightly browned
Add veggies to pan, stir over medium heat until veg starts to soften
Stir in stock, tomato puree, parsley and pearl barley.
Season.
Transfer to large casserole dish and place in oven for an hour to an hour and a half
Then remove and put up temperature to 220C/gas mark 7.
Cut pastry into triangles and place over the top of the pork and veg mixture.
Return to oven and bake for 15 to 20 minutes.
Serve. A bit of Dijon mustard is nice with this.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Pie in the Sky
IN the middle of his sixth pint of SA bitter the Wonderful One had a great idea for a wedding gift that he could bestow on myself and Wren. There we were, outside the Yard, bantering about this and that when the subject somehow came around to the legendary Blues player Buddy Guy.
For your information, during a trip to Chicago a few years back I infamously bumped into the Windy City's own Minister for Blues, who took us along to a nightclub called Legends. He gave out free t-shirts and on the back of mine was a picture of a Hendrix lookalike playing licks on the guitar.
His name, I was informed by said Minister for Blues, was Buddy Guy.
Well, two weeks ago I saw Buddy playing a fantastic set at Glastonbury and I have been waxing lyrical about the great man ever since.
Anyway, back to the present day and the Wonderful One announced: "I know. As a present I will get Buddy Guy to play a set at your wedding."
At this, Danny Boy (the Poipes, the Poipes), Roly Rowland and Myself spat out our booze in unison. "How the hell are you going to do that," we chorused.
"Oh, it shouldn't be that difficult. I'll just ring up his people and get him along."
Yeh, right, Withers.
I can just picture the scene. "Right, Buddy," his agent announces. "We have the itinerary for your next few gigs. You are playing Madison Square Gardens, followed by Carnegie Hall, then over to Britain for V2009 and then on to Bristol for Rippers wedding. Ok with that?"
Still, I decided it was an opportunity not to be missed - him being well on the way to inebriation.
"I bet you £50 you won't be able to get him."
At this, Withers railed. "Course I will, I will make it my prime task. In fact, I could write a book about my progress, a bit like that bloke who wrote 'Around Ireland with a fridge'."
Can't quite see the similarities, but why look a gift horse in the mouth? Having made sure the witnesses were watching, we shook hands on the deal.
A day on and Withers looked up from his googling activities. "The good news," he announced, "is that Buddy Guy does do private functions."
And the bad news?
"To book him for your do you have to pay $50,000."
Well, there goes that little plan then. Grease my hands with silver, young man.
"Oh, I'm not defeated yet," announced Withers, a bit like that bloke in Monty Python's Holy Grail who has just had his arms and legs cut off. "If you pretended you had some terminal disease..."
Now, I'm sorry, but I would rather forego the Buddy Guy experience than spend the whole of my wedding day wandering around with a jaundiced look on my face, like the youngster in Shameless who had to pretend he had cancer so that they could have a fundraiser.
Talking of jaundiced expressions, the Prince of Darkness looked like he had seen a ghost when I entered the office this morning. Not so the people around him. They were rolling around on the floor having a good laugh at his expense.
I had to find out what had happened from the Horse's Mouth. "I just had a call from Louis Walsh," he said. That's Louis Walsh, X-Factor judge and manager of that wimpish Oirish boy band Westloif.
"Oh yeah?"
"He had me on the phone for 20 minutes ranting on about a story that Monsieur Le Debussier did for us at the weekend."
"Really?"
"He was having a right rant, then he mentioned Shirley Bassey and started singing. I thought: What a nutter! I tried to calm him down and then he said, 'Wayne, why don't you sing me a song'?"
At this the Prince objected vehemently. "I'm not singing a song for you, Louis. No way."
Then came the punchline. The Louis Walsh character was actually some DJ from Radio Glasgow who had seen our X factor story on the web. The nerve!
Still, I think the Prince now fancies himself as an X factor judge. Think of all the new blood he could tap into...
This week has been pie week. Having fallen for the bargain offer of four steak and kidney pies in Morrison's on Saturday, I am now trying desperately to get through them all. Hard work, but someone has got to do it.
For your information, during a trip to Chicago a few years back I infamously bumped into the Windy City's own Minister for Blues, who took us along to a nightclub called Legends. He gave out free t-shirts and on the back of mine was a picture of a Hendrix lookalike playing licks on the guitar.
His name, I was informed by said Minister for Blues, was Buddy Guy.
Well, two weeks ago I saw Buddy playing a fantastic set at Glastonbury and I have been waxing lyrical about the great man ever since.
Anyway, back to the present day and the Wonderful One announced: "I know. As a present I will get Buddy Guy to play a set at your wedding."
At this, Danny Boy (the Poipes, the Poipes), Roly Rowland and Myself spat out our booze in unison. "How the hell are you going to do that," we chorused.
"Oh, it shouldn't be that difficult. I'll just ring up his people and get him along."
Yeh, right, Withers.
I can just picture the scene. "Right, Buddy," his agent announces. "We have the itinerary for your next few gigs. You are playing Madison Square Gardens, followed by Carnegie Hall, then over to Britain for V2009 and then on to Bristol for Rippers wedding. Ok with that?"
Still, I decided it was an opportunity not to be missed - him being well on the way to inebriation.
"I bet you £50 you won't be able to get him."
At this, Withers railed. "Course I will, I will make it my prime task. In fact, I could write a book about my progress, a bit like that bloke who wrote 'Around Ireland with a fridge'."
Can't quite see the similarities, but why look a gift horse in the mouth? Having made sure the witnesses were watching, we shook hands on the deal.
A day on and Withers looked up from his googling activities. "The good news," he announced, "is that Buddy Guy does do private functions."
And the bad news?
"To book him for your do you have to pay $50,000."
Well, there goes that little plan then. Grease my hands with silver, young man.
"Oh, I'm not defeated yet," announced Withers, a bit like that bloke in Monty Python's Holy Grail who has just had his arms and legs cut off. "If you pretended you had some terminal disease..."
Now, I'm sorry, but I would rather forego the Buddy Guy experience than spend the whole of my wedding day wandering around with a jaundiced look on my face, like the youngster in Shameless who had to pretend he had cancer so that they could have a fundraiser.
Talking of jaundiced expressions, the Prince of Darkness looked like he had seen a ghost when I entered the office this morning. Not so the people around him. They were rolling around on the floor having a good laugh at his expense.
I had to find out what had happened from the Horse's Mouth. "I just had a call from Louis Walsh," he said. That's Louis Walsh, X-Factor judge and manager of that wimpish Oirish boy band Westloif.
"Oh yeah?"
"He had me on the phone for 20 minutes ranting on about a story that Monsieur Le Debussier did for us at the weekend."
"Really?"
"He was having a right rant, then he mentioned Shirley Bassey and started singing. I thought: What a nutter! I tried to calm him down and then he said, 'Wayne, why don't you sing me a song'?"
At this the Prince objected vehemently. "I'm not singing a song for you, Louis. No way."
Then came the punchline. The Louis Walsh character was actually some DJ from Radio Glasgow who had seen our X factor story on the web. The nerve!
Still, I think the Prince now fancies himself as an X factor judge. Think of all the new blood he could tap into...
This week has been pie week. Having fallen for the bargain offer of four steak and kidney pies in Morrison's on Saturday, I am now trying desperately to get through them all. Hard work, but someone has got to do it.
Monday, July 07, 2008
The perfect dunking biscuit
I MUST admit I felt a bit out of my depth on Friday night, surrounded as I was by the great political minds of Meeja Wales. The self-proclaimed writer and broadcaster Withers was there, and we were joined by Dave "the suit" and "Marvellous" David. In fact, Smashy and I felt a bit out of place as the big discussion of our time began.
Here is an example of the kind of deep political insight we were forced to try to get our heads around - just in case we showed up our ignorance on all things Assembly and Parliamentary.
Withers began the big debate which, I must admit, wouldn't have looked out of place in the House of Commons, perhaps at PM's question time.
"Why on earth do people dunk biscuits in their tea?" he demanded of the honourable crew gathered around him.
"Because it tastes really good," intoned The Suit dismissively.
"I should say. Maaaaaarvellllous!" chimed in Marvellous David.
"But why would you put a biscuit, which is food, in your tea, which is drink?" said an uncomprehending Withers. "You don't mix food and drink like that. The biscuit will just fall apart!"
"Not if you use the right ones. Those digestives, they're maaaaarveelllous!" argued Marvellous David.
"I agree," said The Suit, carrying the air of a young Lloyd George as he looked at Withers as if there was a nasty whiff, probably of the wonderful one's sweaty armpits, under his nostrils. "You put sauce on your chips, don't you?"
"Well, yes, but that's different!" moaned Withers.
"How is it different?"
"Because it is. You wouldn't dream of drinking a bottle of sauce, would you?"
Now here was my chance to get involved in an intriguing discussion with men who, just by the power of thought, can bring countries to their knees, wars to an end and vanquish the threat of global warming.
"I once ate a whole spoonful of lime pickle," I revealed.
Silence.
I decided it was time to leave them to it.
At the weekend Wren visited and we went to see Wanted, the new film with James McAvoy and Angelina Jolie. I can't get used to these Saturdays off. You have to mix with that horrible breathing mass of slime known as the General Public.
The car park at the Red Dragon Centre down the Bay was packed. In the rain we had to leave Basil literally hundreds of yards away from the entrance then make a run for it. After that we had to queue at least 10 minutes to hand over 14 QUID! for two cinema tickets.
The film was ok if you like lots of blood and seeing in graphic detail a bullet pop out of a man's forehead in slow motion. Yuk! Plot was far fatched but I guess it was better than sitting in watching the rain come down. Mind you, for the sake of 14 quid...
On Sunday Wren had to work and I settled down for an afternoon of sport. First there was Lewis Hamilton's tremendous British Grand Prix victory in the rain at Silverstone, then the Wimbledon men's final that lasted six and a half hours off and on because of showers. Great match though as Rafael Nadal ended Roger Federer's run of five consecutive Wimbledon victories.
Here is an example of the kind of deep political insight we were forced to try to get our heads around - just in case we showed up our ignorance on all things Assembly and Parliamentary.
Withers began the big debate which, I must admit, wouldn't have looked out of place in the House of Commons, perhaps at PM's question time.
"Why on earth do people dunk biscuits in their tea?" he demanded of the honourable crew gathered around him.
"Because it tastes really good," intoned The Suit dismissively.
"I should say. Maaaaaarvellllous!" chimed in Marvellous David.
"But why would you put a biscuit, which is food, in your tea, which is drink?" said an uncomprehending Withers. "You don't mix food and drink like that. The biscuit will just fall apart!"
"Not if you use the right ones. Those digestives, they're maaaaarveelllous!" argued Marvellous David.
"I agree," said The Suit, carrying the air of a young Lloyd George as he looked at Withers as if there was a nasty whiff, probably of the wonderful one's sweaty armpits, under his nostrils. "You put sauce on your chips, don't you?"
"Well, yes, but that's different!" moaned Withers.
"How is it different?"
"Because it is. You wouldn't dream of drinking a bottle of sauce, would you?"
Now here was my chance to get involved in an intriguing discussion with men who, just by the power of thought, can bring countries to their knees, wars to an end and vanquish the threat of global warming.
"I once ate a whole spoonful of lime pickle," I revealed.
Silence.
I decided it was time to leave them to it.
At the weekend Wren visited and we went to see Wanted, the new film with James McAvoy and Angelina Jolie. I can't get used to these Saturdays off. You have to mix with that horrible breathing mass of slime known as the General Public.
The car park at the Red Dragon Centre down the Bay was packed. In the rain we had to leave Basil literally hundreds of yards away from the entrance then make a run for it. After that we had to queue at least 10 minutes to hand over 14 QUID! for two cinema tickets.
The film was ok if you like lots of blood and seeing in graphic detail a bullet pop out of a man's forehead in slow motion. Yuk! Plot was far fatched but I guess it was better than sitting in watching the rain come down. Mind you, for the sake of 14 quid...
On Sunday Wren had to work and I settled down for an afternoon of sport. First there was Lewis Hamilton's tremendous British Grand Prix victory in the rain at Silverstone, then the Wimbledon men's final that lasted six and a half hours off and on because of showers. Great match though as Rafael Nadal ended Roger Federer's run of five consecutive Wimbledon victories.
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Dodgy olives and Viva Espana
THE Prince of Darkness was laid up in his coffin on Monday, suffering from a bad case of stomach cramps and sickness.
It followed a rather hectic Sunday night in which we met up at the Irish bar Dempseys to watch Spain and Germany in the European Championship final.
Good Brits as we are, most of us were supporting Spain. Not the Wonderful Withers, though. He had on his Red, Yellow and Black wristband to show affinity to his Fuhrer, Michael Ballack.
Others making an appearance were the Prince, Paps and Smashy.
Well, Spain took the honours with the only goal of the game from Fernando Torres. It left everyone bar me biting their nails for the next 60 minutes, mainly because they feared losing the quid they had invested in the mini sweep. I'd managed to lose mine the moment Spain scored their goal, having taken the pessimistic option of backing the Krauts to win 1-0.
The Prince let out a howl moments after the only goal of the game - he had been outside puffing on a tab and missed it.
After the game we sauntered off to his favourite haunt for stalking young Virgins - 6ft Under - and he was greeted like a long-lost friend by the bouncers on the door, who hadn't seen him since, oh, Friday night?
At that stage the alcohol was having a warming, wowie wowie affect on the Dark Lord, a signal that it was immediately time for him to switch to vodka. Meanwhile, Paps decided it would be a good idea to invest £5 in two huge bowls of mixed olives, and we preceded to devour them while enjoying conversations about our favourite albums, songs, dance moves, drum solos, you name it... I think Withers was being a bit disingenuous when he said his favourite band were The Struts and his favourite song "Waiting in the Dole Queue", which he delivered with a typically bad impression of yours truly.
Later, while outside smoking a tab with the Prince, a group of celebrating Spanish supporters arrived, complete with shirts and capes. Fantastic. My memory of the Spanish at France 98 is still vivid, especially the time they took me out on the razz until five in the morning. I would not go as far as to say it was a heavenly night, but one of the guys was called Jesus.
Anyway, as these partying fans turned up to liven up the proceedings the fun was immediately killed stone dead. The bouncers refused to admit the Spanish on the basis that it was "company policy" not to allow anyone in wearing footie shirts.
What a crying shame! Surely these guys should have been allowed to celebrate in a city that claims to be the capital of Wales and on a par with London, but which spends more time than any other place I know acting like killjoys and failing to show any sort of sense or initiative. Apparently the party line is that people in football shirts are bound to cause trouble. Come off it! I've seen the best dressed people in town having a bundle at 2pm on a Saturday night. And this was a quiet Sunday in Cardiff in June, completely devoid of any rival gangs of football nutters.
The other thing that heartily annoys me, now I'm on a Rippers rant, is the fact that if this was at the height of the Six Nations Championship you can guarantee legless, rugby shirt wearing fans would be piling through the doors with the blessing of the management, who could see pound signs flashing before their eyes. The bouncer disputed this, claiming that rugby fans would be treated in exactly the same way. We'll see if they turn them away come next February.
Anyway, the only Spanish thing left to connect us with a party night were the olives, so we tucked in with gusto.
The Prince, obviously, paid the penalty. Should have stuck to blood.
I had a frightening dream the other night - one of those dreams that you panic when you wake up and come down slowly once the realisation that it is just a nightmare slowly dawns on you.
I can't recall all the dream, just the fact that I ended up sharing a flat with the Prince! Can you imagine? All those empty wine bottles lying around, it would be like living with Albert Steptoe (for those who remember him). Other things that happened in this rather scattered dream: I was lying in bed and opened a packet of crisps, only for loads of hundreds and thousands to pour out. Then there was a ring of the doorbell at 2 in the morning. A loved-up couple turned up saying they were mates of Glyn Gully (our circulation manager, how the hell he got involved in my dream I'll never know) and that the Prince had said it was ok for them to stay.
Yes, readers, in the words of Malcolm McDowell in Clockwork Orange, it was "pure horrorshow".
If there are any dream interpreters who can explain it, please let me know.
Monday involved a bit of a hangover and a long walk. I had to go to Cardiff Registry Office to give Notice of Marriage. You get some oddballs in there I've got to tell you. And being kept waiting 20 minutes to see the head honcho wasn't much fun.
I was a bit nervous and did a lot of revising. "Shit, what's Wren's name? Can't call her just Wren. And what's her date of birth? My God, what do I know of this woman?"
I must have looked a bit shifty, squirming on my chair at the easiest of questions, getting worried I would be "caught out". What for?
Anyway it's done now. The notice is posted. Exciting!
Withers may still get banned from being best man, though, if he keeps threatening to deliver his speech in his "Rippers" voice which, as I have said many times before, is just a poor imitation of Zippy from Rainbow.
It followed a rather hectic Sunday night in which we met up at the Irish bar Dempseys to watch Spain and Germany in the European Championship final.
Good Brits as we are, most of us were supporting Spain. Not the Wonderful Withers, though. He had on his Red, Yellow and Black wristband to show affinity to his Fuhrer, Michael Ballack.
Others making an appearance were the Prince, Paps and Smashy.
Well, Spain took the honours with the only goal of the game from Fernando Torres. It left everyone bar me biting their nails for the next 60 minutes, mainly because they feared losing the quid they had invested in the mini sweep. I'd managed to lose mine the moment Spain scored their goal, having taken the pessimistic option of backing the Krauts to win 1-0.
The Prince let out a howl moments after the only goal of the game - he had been outside puffing on a tab and missed it.
After the game we sauntered off to his favourite haunt for stalking young Virgins - 6ft Under - and he was greeted like a long-lost friend by the bouncers on the door, who hadn't seen him since, oh, Friday night?
At that stage the alcohol was having a warming, wowie wowie affect on the Dark Lord, a signal that it was immediately time for him to switch to vodka. Meanwhile, Paps decided it would be a good idea to invest £5 in two huge bowls of mixed olives, and we preceded to devour them while enjoying conversations about our favourite albums, songs, dance moves, drum solos, you name it... I think Withers was being a bit disingenuous when he said his favourite band were The Struts and his favourite song "Waiting in the Dole Queue", which he delivered with a typically bad impression of yours truly.
Later, while outside smoking a tab with the Prince, a group of celebrating Spanish supporters arrived, complete with shirts and capes. Fantastic. My memory of the Spanish at France 98 is still vivid, especially the time they took me out on the razz until five in the morning. I would not go as far as to say it was a heavenly night, but one of the guys was called Jesus.
Anyway, as these partying fans turned up to liven up the proceedings the fun was immediately killed stone dead. The bouncers refused to admit the Spanish on the basis that it was "company policy" not to allow anyone in wearing footie shirts.
What a crying shame! Surely these guys should have been allowed to celebrate in a city that claims to be the capital of Wales and on a par with London, but which spends more time than any other place I know acting like killjoys and failing to show any sort of sense or initiative. Apparently the party line is that people in football shirts are bound to cause trouble. Come off it! I've seen the best dressed people in town having a bundle at 2pm on a Saturday night. And this was a quiet Sunday in Cardiff in June, completely devoid of any rival gangs of football nutters.
The other thing that heartily annoys me, now I'm on a Rippers rant, is the fact that if this was at the height of the Six Nations Championship you can guarantee legless, rugby shirt wearing fans would be piling through the doors with the blessing of the management, who could see pound signs flashing before their eyes. The bouncer disputed this, claiming that rugby fans would be treated in exactly the same way. We'll see if they turn them away come next February.
Anyway, the only Spanish thing left to connect us with a party night were the olives, so we tucked in with gusto.
The Prince, obviously, paid the penalty. Should have stuck to blood.
I had a frightening dream the other night - one of those dreams that you panic when you wake up and come down slowly once the realisation that it is just a nightmare slowly dawns on you.
I can't recall all the dream, just the fact that I ended up sharing a flat with the Prince! Can you imagine? All those empty wine bottles lying around, it would be like living with Albert Steptoe (for those who remember him). Other things that happened in this rather scattered dream: I was lying in bed and opened a packet of crisps, only for loads of hundreds and thousands to pour out. Then there was a ring of the doorbell at 2 in the morning. A loved-up couple turned up saying they were mates of Glyn Gully (our circulation manager, how the hell he got involved in my dream I'll never know) and that the Prince had said it was ok for them to stay.
Yes, readers, in the words of Malcolm McDowell in Clockwork Orange, it was "pure horrorshow".
If there are any dream interpreters who can explain it, please let me know.
Monday involved a bit of a hangover and a long walk. I had to go to Cardiff Registry Office to give Notice of Marriage. You get some oddballs in there I've got to tell you. And being kept waiting 20 minutes to see the head honcho wasn't much fun.
I was a bit nervous and did a lot of revising. "Shit, what's Wren's name? Can't call her just Wren. And what's her date of birth? My God, what do I know of this woman?"
I must have looked a bit shifty, squirming on my chair at the easiest of questions, getting worried I would be "caught out". What for?
Anyway it's done now. The notice is posted. Exciting!
Withers may still get banned from being best man, though, if he keeps threatening to deliver his speech in his "Rippers" voice which, as I have said many times before, is just a poor imitation of Zippy from Rainbow.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Burnt offering
THE Prince of Darkness has found himself in a battle that he may not win. He has taken on the Beautiful People in a byline war that wouldn't look out of place in Lord of the Rings.
The scenario goes something like this... Not knowing which of the Beautiful People had written which features for this week's Wales on Sunday the Prince had a novel idea. It involved putting all the names in a hat, throwing the hat in the air and catching individual monikers as they came to land. A bit like a lottery, really.
The result: Everyone had the wrong bylines on the wrong pieces and there was grumblings of great discontent around in the features hub. So much so that Princess Margaret of O'Reillyshire was straight on to us at Mission Control.
"Where's our 'preshhhhious' bylines?" she inquired in the manner of Gollum of Rings fame.
Behind her the cries of anguish could be heard. "Yessh, where's our precious? We loves our precious."
Unfortunately the Prince had retired to his lair for the day and so yours truly had to appease the Beautiful Ones. "You'd better speak to the Prince," I said keenly. "He's in tomorrow."
On Tuesday night the war nearly broke out at the NUJ yearly party - or wake would probably be more to the point.
Somehow the Wonderful Withers, back from his trip to Corsica (not Sardinia, as previously stated on these pages) managed to persuade myself and the Prince to step into the Enemy's den. The Prince, appreciating the fact Zync was dark and dingy and sold alcohol, didn't take too much persuading and I tagged along dutifully with Smashy.
Those great Union men the honorable Viscount Shippo and the freeloading Sniffer, along with Steve "Flanders" Jones were dancing their hearts out at Zync. Um, well, maybe not. They were, in fact, huddled in a corner muttering about injustice for the workers and sowing dark seeks of rebellion.
And the first people we bumped into were the ones the Prince had so badly wronged.
It must be said the flame-haired Claire Voyant and her goth-like mysterious mate Morticia Richards look worthy adversaries. I can just imagine them now, standing around the cauldron, throwing in eye of toad and tail of Newt, and whisking up a potion to send the Prince into a coma. Come to think of it, looking at him today I think it has worked already.
My lovely wife-to-be Wren made me a terrific shepherd's pie on Monday while I was in work, and there was a whole load of it. I ate half on Monday night for my tea and put the other half in the fridge.
Returning home far too late from the NUJ do, I decided I would reheat said pie and put it in the oven for 15 minutes.
Did I say 15 minutes? Well, that was the intention. I thought I would just relax on the sofa in the meantime and listen to my latest CD purchase, the first Editors album.
Four hours later I woke to the sound of Run DMC, the discs on my CD player having gone around in a loop three or four times. What was I doing still up? Why hadn't I come straight in and gone to bed. Then a nagging thought crossed my alcohol-saturated brain. I wonder...
When I got to the kitchen my Wren's lovely pie had been well and truly cremated. Feeling guilty though, I tried to eat as much as I could. Putting aside the bitter taste of charcoal I think I could detect the odd bit of carrot and potato.
Having gnawed my way through three quarters of it, leaving the bits that were too hard to swallow, I finally gave up and went to bed.
The scenario goes something like this... Not knowing which of the Beautiful People had written which features for this week's Wales on Sunday the Prince had a novel idea. It involved putting all the names in a hat, throwing the hat in the air and catching individual monikers as they came to land. A bit like a lottery, really.
The result: Everyone had the wrong bylines on the wrong pieces and there was grumblings of great discontent around in the features hub. So much so that Princess Margaret of O'Reillyshire was straight on to us at Mission Control.
"Where's our 'preshhhhious' bylines?" she inquired in the manner of Gollum of Rings fame.
Behind her the cries of anguish could be heard. "Yessh, where's our precious? We loves our precious."
Unfortunately the Prince had retired to his lair for the day and so yours truly had to appease the Beautiful Ones. "You'd better speak to the Prince," I said keenly. "He's in tomorrow."
On Tuesday night the war nearly broke out at the NUJ yearly party - or wake would probably be more to the point.
Somehow the Wonderful Withers, back from his trip to Corsica (not Sardinia, as previously stated on these pages) managed to persuade myself and the Prince to step into the Enemy's den. The Prince, appreciating the fact Zync was dark and dingy and sold alcohol, didn't take too much persuading and I tagged along dutifully with Smashy.
Those great Union men the honorable Viscount Shippo and the freeloading Sniffer, along with Steve "Flanders" Jones were dancing their hearts out at Zync. Um, well, maybe not. They were, in fact, huddled in a corner muttering about injustice for the workers and sowing dark seeks of rebellion.
And the first people we bumped into were the ones the Prince had so badly wronged.
It must be said the flame-haired Claire Voyant and her goth-like mysterious mate Morticia Richards look worthy adversaries. I can just imagine them now, standing around the cauldron, throwing in eye of toad and tail of Newt, and whisking up a potion to send the Prince into a coma. Come to think of it, looking at him today I think it has worked already.
My lovely wife-to-be Wren made me a terrific shepherd's pie on Monday while I was in work, and there was a whole load of it. I ate half on Monday night for my tea and put the other half in the fridge.
Returning home far too late from the NUJ do, I decided I would reheat said pie and put it in the oven for 15 minutes.
Did I say 15 minutes? Well, that was the intention. I thought I would just relax on the sofa in the meantime and listen to my latest CD purchase, the first Editors album.
Four hours later I woke to the sound of Run DMC, the discs on my CD player having gone around in a loop three or four times. What was I doing still up? Why hadn't I come straight in and gone to bed. Then a nagging thought crossed my alcohol-saturated brain. I wonder...
When I got to the kitchen my Wren's lovely pie had been well and truly cremated. Feeling guilty though, I tried to eat as much as I could. Putting aside the bitter taste of charcoal I think I could detect the odd bit of carrot and potato.
Having gnawed my way through three quarters of it, leaving the bits that were too hard to swallow, I finally gave up and went to bed.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Curry on the hub
The Prince of Darkness has surpassed himself. We met up outside The Yard before the great and good of Meeja Wales gathered for a curry in the Spice Quarter. This was to celebrate the successful launch of this mega project which has turned our lives upside down.
And talking of upside down, the Prince appeared like he had been pulled through a bush backwards. It soon became clear why. "I couldn't be bothered to get up today," he admitted, "so I stayed in bed until about 4.30 this afternoon."
The Prince, Wren, Paps and myself had a couple of swift ones outside our usual haunt before braving the big curry get together, where we were met by the MD, the editors and the various Hub heads. I must admit I viewed it with some trepidation but it was an enjoyable evening, followed by the usual suspects getting together for a few drinks in Six Foot Under. Strangely, the Prince wasn't in his usual Wowy, wowy mood. "I've eaten too much to drink," said the waifer-thin executive editor, sipping on a drink which somewhat resembled the blood of a young virgin. So the night ended pretty swiftly by his standards.
I still can't get used to having Saturdays off. This weekend Wren and I went to see the new James McEvoy film Wanted. More to the point we had gone to the Odeon in the Bay hoping to see it. I had checked on her computer to discover that the film was showing at 3pm. Yeah, right. We arrived to find the place over-run with rugrats and members of that horrible group, the general public. Aargh! More to the point the film wasn't even on that day, which put me in a foul mood. In fact, there was a danger of life imitating art as I turned green, Incredible Hulk style.
Wren suggested we drive out into the Valleys (scary) to see if the Showcase cinema in Nantgarw was showing anything good. It wasn't. I can't stand it either when you have a cinema with 12 screens but about eight of them are showing the two most popular films. What's the point? Might as well just convert to four big cinemas rather than 12 tiny ones.
In the end, with the rain pouring down on another typical British summer's day, we opted for a drive through the Welsh heartland and, to be honest, it was pretty enjoyable. We went to Treorchy, Tonypandy (no sign of Fireman Sam, sadly) and then had an ice cream on a cold, rainy, blustery hill overlooking Tower Colliery. God knows what possessed Mr Whippy to open for business up there but despite the weather he appeared to be doing a roaring trade.
We then tried to find Joe Calzaghe's gym in Newbridge (without luck) and the Pot Noodle factory at Crumlin (even less luck), finally driving through Blackwood en route to Newport and home.
And talking of upside down, the Prince appeared like he had been pulled through a bush backwards. It soon became clear why. "I couldn't be bothered to get up today," he admitted, "so I stayed in bed until about 4.30 this afternoon."
The Prince, Wren, Paps and myself had a couple of swift ones outside our usual haunt before braving the big curry get together, where we were met by the MD, the editors and the various Hub heads. I must admit I viewed it with some trepidation but it was an enjoyable evening, followed by the usual suspects getting together for a few drinks in Six Foot Under. Strangely, the Prince wasn't in his usual Wowy, wowy mood. "I've eaten too much to drink," said the waifer-thin executive editor, sipping on a drink which somewhat resembled the blood of a young virgin. So the night ended pretty swiftly by his standards.
I still can't get used to having Saturdays off. This weekend Wren and I went to see the new James McEvoy film Wanted. More to the point we had gone to the Odeon in the Bay hoping to see it. I had checked on her computer to discover that the film was showing at 3pm. Yeah, right. We arrived to find the place over-run with rugrats and members of that horrible group, the general public. Aargh! More to the point the film wasn't even on that day, which put me in a foul mood. In fact, there was a danger of life imitating art as I turned green, Incredible Hulk style.
Wren suggested we drive out into the Valleys (scary) to see if the Showcase cinema in Nantgarw was showing anything good. It wasn't. I can't stand it either when you have a cinema with 12 screens but about eight of them are showing the two most popular films. What's the point? Might as well just convert to four big cinemas rather than 12 tiny ones.
In the end, with the rain pouring down on another typical British summer's day, we opted for a drive through the Welsh heartland and, to be honest, it was pretty enjoyable. We went to Treorchy, Tonypandy (no sign of Fireman Sam, sadly) and then had an ice cream on a cold, rainy, blustery hill overlooking Tower Colliery. God knows what possessed Mr Whippy to open for business up there but despite the weather he appeared to be doing a roaring trade.
We then tried to find Joe Calzaghe's gym in Newbridge (without luck) and the Pot Noodle factory at Crumlin (even less luck), finally driving through Blackwood en route to Newport and home.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Butter bean, leek, tomato and chorizo soup
I had a bit of a rude awakening on Sunday morning. There I was dozing away peacefully when a strange sound invaded my ears. No sooner did this annoying distraction wake me than my girlfriend Wren leapt into action, running into the front room like Marion Jones on drugs (well, like Marion Jones, I suppose).
Five minutes later she returned to the room and all became clear. You see, Wren has a new mobile phone, a state-of-the-art contraption which has a huge clockface on the front. Very 21st century. The sound was that of her phone alerting her to an urgent message.
"My phone has just told me I don't have to get up this morning because I'm not working," she informed me. What a useful message to get on a Sunday morning just after 8am.
It was a bit of a lazy day really after a rather long WoS shift on Saturday when I spent the first two hours answering various queries about things of which I knew absolutely nothing. The classic was some Wales on Sunday "reader" from the valleys who stormed: "I've got a complaint."
Another one? Ok, here we go, I thought.
"I was reading the TV pages of Wales on Sunday last week and it said 'International Rugby: 2.05". So I cancelled a trip out to watch the rugby, only to find out that it's on Sky!"
Oh dear.
I tried to explain that we had little to do with TV listings in the office as they were provided to us by the Press Association. "Oh, you lot have always got an excuse," he stormed. "Can I speak to someone important."
"Well, sir, I am executive editor, is that good enough?"
"Ok... well, I'm not blaming you, of course, but how can you say the rugby is on in your paper when it obviously isn't on? It's a lovely day and I had a chance to go on a day trip to Brecon."
Hmm. Then I had a thought. "Did it say what match was on?" I asked.
"Um, no. It just says International Rugby."
Grabbing for my Western Snail, I checked their listings in the Saturday Mag. "2.05: International Rugby," it said. "England v Australia: Under-20s World Cup."
All became clear and I told the ranting gentleman as such. "Oh... um... I see. Well I thought it would be Wales v South Africa."
"Yes, but I'm sure it will be a good game," I told him. He rang off rather sheepishly after that.
God, I'm fed up with complaints. Somehow, without any input from myself, I seem to have emerged as the South Wales Ego's Readers Champion and Letters page editor. It's a bit like being Lifeboat superintendent on the Titanic. The difference is the waves are made of Sh**.
On Friday Paps had a mate down so he demanded we attend Sh**ty O'Grimm's so he could prove he did have mates - to us, as well as his mate, I imagine.
During a cigarette break the Prince of Darkness watched a young girl in skimpy green skirt wobble down the street after partaking of far more alcohol than was good for her. She stumbled into Tony's chip shop and a few minutes later stumbled out. But she couldn't work out how to eat her chips while also holding her sausage in batter in the other hand. She ended up sitting on the ground in chip alley trying to nosh her supper.
It was quite a comic sight. Then seeing a fellow inbiber she stumbled across to the Prince and slurred: "Wanna buy me a drink, honey."
The Prince looked her up and down in his regal way and came to a conclusion. "Nah, you're all right," he said. Gutted, she wobbled off in the direction of home, sausage and chips tucked precariously under her arm.
"Mind you, if it had been Kate Moss in that state I may have come to a different decision," the Prince confided, conspiratorially.
The rest of Sunday turned into a relaxing rest day, watching Kevin Pietersen thump the New Zealanders in a one-sided cricket match, then being amazed at the brilliant comeback by the Turks in their European Championship winner-takes-all qualifier with the Czechs. Two-nil down with 15 minutes to go they managed to turn it around and win 3-2. Excellent.
And after all that there was the US Open with the injured Tiger Woods somehow grabbing an improbable birdie on the last hole to take the tournament to a play off. Poor old Rocco Mediate, who stood to be the oldest winner in the competition's history, ended up losing over the extra 18 holes on the Monday.
On the same day, I swam a mile and then visited the guru. In the evening I was planning to get the ironing done. Then The Fugitive rang, having returned from touring South Africa with the Welsh rugby team. With the sun still in the sky it was inevitable. "Fancy a beer?" I said. He turned up in shorts and sandals, a full two-weeks growth on his chinny chin chin. Apparently they don't have razors in the third world. He had also been on a big-game safari and was waxing lyrical about his close encounter with the King of the Jungle.
While in South Africa he also managed to arrive in Johannesburg without luggage and had to spend the afternoon shopping for pants in Woolworths.
Meanwhile, Rosey sent a text. "I hear you're getting married and Withers is the best man. Is that correct?" he inquired.
"You should know, you're on the nationals and they always get their gossip right," I informed him, remembering that just two weeks before he had rung me to inform me that I had already tied the knot. Some people...
The Wonderful One, meanwhile, sunning himself on the Meditteranean during an away-from-it-all holiday in Sardinia, sent me an absurd text. "Am I an idiot?" he inquired. "I am sitting here looking out on the Med and thinking: 'I wish I was back in Wales because I could have done the story about the Assembly Member Alan Cairns resigning after referring to Italians as Greasy Wops'."
"Yes, you are an idiot," I assured him.
The other lunchtime I fancied a light snack so found a good recipe in a Sainsbury's mag.
It was for Butter bean, leak, tomato and chorizo soup and it just hit the spot, with a hunk of french bread to accompany it. So without further ado, here it is...
INGREDIENTS
Large chunk of chorizo
2 tbsp olive oil
2 leeks, trimmed and thinly sliced
2 sticks celery, sliced
2 tins butter beans, drained and rinsed
1 1/2 pints chicken stock
4 large ripe vine tomatoes
fresh flat leaf parsley leaves.
Cut 12 thin slices off the chorizo.
Chop up the rest of it.
Heat the oil in a large, wide-based pan or wok.
Fry the leeks, celery and the chopped chorizo
Whiz half the butter beans in a liquidizer with half the chicken stock. Add the mixture to the pan with tomatoes, remaining beans and stock and seasoning. Add salt and pepper to taste.
Bring to boil and simmer for 15 minutes.
Just before serving add the parsley and dry fry the 12 slices of chorizo for 3-4 minutes in a hot frying pan till crisp.
Pour soup into bowls, top with chorizo and serve with crusty French bread.
Five minutes later she returned to the room and all became clear. You see, Wren has a new mobile phone, a state-of-the-art contraption which has a huge clockface on the front. Very 21st century. The sound was that of her phone alerting her to an urgent message.
"My phone has just told me I don't have to get up this morning because I'm not working," she informed me. What a useful message to get on a Sunday morning just after 8am.
It was a bit of a lazy day really after a rather long WoS shift on Saturday when I spent the first two hours answering various queries about things of which I knew absolutely nothing. The classic was some Wales on Sunday "reader" from the valleys who stormed: "I've got a complaint."
Another one? Ok, here we go, I thought.
"I was reading the TV pages of Wales on Sunday last week and it said 'International Rugby: 2.05". So I cancelled a trip out to watch the rugby, only to find out that it's on Sky!"
Oh dear.
I tried to explain that we had little to do with TV listings in the office as they were provided to us by the Press Association. "Oh, you lot have always got an excuse," he stormed. "Can I speak to someone important."
"Well, sir, I am executive editor, is that good enough?"
"Ok... well, I'm not blaming you, of course, but how can you say the rugby is on in your paper when it obviously isn't on? It's a lovely day and I had a chance to go on a day trip to Brecon."
Hmm. Then I had a thought. "Did it say what match was on?" I asked.
"Um, no. It just says International Rugby."
Grabbing for my Western Snail, I checked their listings in the Saturday Mag. "2.05: International Rugby," it said. "England v Australia: Under-20s World Cup."
All became clear and I told the ranting gentleman as such. "Oh... um... I see. Well I thought it would be Wales v South Africa."
"Yes, but I'm sure it will be a good game," I told him. He rang off rather sheepishly after that.
God, I'm fed up with complaints. Somehow, without any input from myself, I seem to have emerged as the South Wales Ego's Readers Champion and Letters page editor. It's a bit like being Lifeboat superintendent on the Titanic. The difference is the waves are made of Sh**.
On Friday Paps had a mate down so he demanded we attend Sh**ty O'Grimm's so he could prove he did have mates - to us, as well as his mate, I imagine.
During a cigarette break the Prince of Darkness watched a young girl in skimpy green skirt wobble down the street after partaking of far more alcohol than was good for her. She stumbled into Tony's chip shop and a few minutes later stumbled out. But she couldn't work out how to eat her chips while also holding her sausage in batter in the other hand. She ended up sitting on the ground in chip alley trying to nosh her supper.
It was quite a comic sight. Then seeing a fellow inbiber she stumbled across to the Prince and slurred: "Wanna buy me a drink, honey."
The Prince looked her up and down in his regal way and came to a conclusion. "Nah, you're all right," he said. Gutted, she wobbled off in the direction of home, sausage and chips tucked precariously under her arm.
"Mind you, if it had been Kate Moss in that state I may have come to a different decision," the Prince confided, conspiratorially.
The rest of Sunday turned into a relaxing rest day, watching Kevin Pietersen thump the New Zealanders in a one-sided cricket match, then being amazed at the brilliant comeback by the Turks in their European Championship winner-takes-all qualifier with the Czechs. Two-nil down with 15 minutes to go they managed to turn it around and win 3-2. Excellent.
And after all that there was the US Open with the injured Tiger Woods somehow grabbing an improbable birdie on the last hole to take the tournament to a play off. Poor old Rocco Mediate, who stood to be the oldest winner in the competition's history, ended up losing over the extra 18 holes on the Monday.
On the same day, I swam a mile and then visited the guru. In the evening I was planning to get the ironing done. Then The Fugitive rang, having returned from touring South Africa with the Welsh rugby team. With the sun still in the sky it was inevitable. "Fancy a beer?" I said. He turned up in shorts and sandals, a full two-weeks growth on his chinny chin chin. Apparently they don't have razors in the third world. He had also been on a big-game safari and was waxing lyrical about his close encounter with the King of the Jungle.
While in South Africa he also managed to arrive in Johannesburg without luggage and had to spend the afternoon shopping for pants in Woolworths.
Meanwhile, Rosey sent a text. "I hear you're getting married and Withers is the best man. Is that correct?" he inquired.
"You should know, you're on the nationals and they always get their gossip right," I informed him, remembering that just two weeks before he had rung me to inform me that I had already tied the knot. Some people...
The Wonderful One, meanwhile, sunning himself on the Meditteranean during an away-from-it-all holiday in Sardinia, sent me an absurd text. "Am I an idiot?" he inquired. "I am sitting here looking out on the Med and thinking: 'I wish I was back in Wales because I could have done the story about the Assembly Member Alan Cairns resigning after referring to Italians as Greasy Wops'."
"Yes, you are an idiot," I assured him.
The other lunchtime I fancied a light snack so found a good recipe in a Sainsbury's mag.
It was for Butter bean, leak, tomato and chorizo soup and it just hit the spot, with a hunk of french bread to accompany it. So without further ado, here it is...
INGREDIENTS
Large chunk of chorizo
2 tbsp olive oil
2 leeks, trimmed and thinly sliced
2 sticks celery, sliced
2 tins butter beans, drained and rinsed
1 1/2 pints chicken stock
4 large ripe vine tomatoes
fresh flat leaf parsley leaves.
Cut 12 thin slices off the chorizo.
Chop up the rest of it.
Heat the oil in a large, wide-based pan or wok.
Fry the leeks, celery and the chopped chorizo
Whiz half the butter beans in a liquidizer with half the chicken stock. Add the mixture to the pan with tomatoes, remaining beans and stock and seasoning. Add salt and pepper to taste.
Bring to boil and simmer for 15 minutes.
Just before serving add the parsley and dry fry the 12 slices of chorizo for 3-4 minutes in a hot frying pan till crisp.
Pour soup into bowls, top with chorizo and serve with crusty French bread.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Coq Au Vin
FORGOT to mention on my last entry about how the Prince of Darkness managed to live up to his name at the weekend. On Sunday morning he awoke covered head-to-toe in blood. It was all pretty worrying for the dark lord. Had he enticed a young virgin back to his abode, taking a bite into her neck and then let her wander around Cardiff with a complexion resembling porcelain? He couldn't piece it together.
Then he looked at his hand and there lay the answer. His hand was covered in blood and he knew he had somehow got wounded during the night at Six Feet Under. Washing the blood away, he discovered a tiny pinprick and the truth came flooding back. He had, in fact, accidentally put his hand down on a tiny fleck of broken glass. For most of us it wouldn't be a problem but, you know what they say, vodka is thinner than blood (well, they don't but it appears it must be).
The wonderful Withers had been so troubled at the weekend that it was only fair the Prince and I accompanied him to see one of his favourite bands at the Buffalo Bar on Monday, although we both viewed the idea with trepidation.
Did I say band? We are talking about one rather strange geezer from Basildon, who waves around a hand puppet and sings disgusting songs - all in a vain attempt at humour. Still, the clue was in the band's title: K**t and the gang. We actually met up with K**t himself on the door as he took our £5 entry fee and invited us to join the other 12 saddos in the upstairs bar. Withers almost wet himself with excitement.
Once the guy started playing - clever ventriloquist act but devoid of musical talent - Withers didn't need to follow his instruction to "have a little w*nk", he had already made a rather sticky mess in his pants. The Prince and I, meanwhile, looked at each other in a completely baffled manner. What was this nonsense?
Eventually it was over. A bit of a gimmick act, quite fun really, but doing nothing that Splodginess Abounds hadn't done in the late 70s and early 80s.
The following day, though, I woke to find evidence of the night before on my wrist. There in indelible red ink was the legend "K**t". I failed to wash it off in the shower and I'm sure I got some dodgy looks in conference on Tuesday morning.
At the weekend Wren and I continued to make wedding plans, going to visit the lovely Avon Gorge Hotel in Bristol. I also had time to rustle up a rather nice little Coq Au Vin, adapted from a recipe in Nigel Slater's Real Food book.
Ingredients:
25g butter
tbsp olive oil
100g pancetta
1 small onion, peeled and chopped
2 cloves of garlic, peeled and chopped
2 large free-range chicken breasts
five or six brown mushrooms, halved or quartered
1/2 pint of medium dry white wine
300ml creme fraiche
3tbsp chopped parsley
TO DO:
Melt butter in heavy-based casserole and pour in oil. Put in pancetta and colour it, then add onion and garlic.
Leave to cook on moderate heat until onions soften but don't colour.
Scoop pancetta and onions out with draining spoon, leaving the juices in the pan, then add the chicken. Brown lightly on all sides.
Add mushrooms and cook for a few minutes, then return pancetta and onions to the pan. Turn up the heat, pour in the wine, bring it to the boil and simmer. Let it gently bubble for 25 minutes, turning chicken from time to time.
Then lift chicken out of pan and pour in the cream. Season with salt and black pepper and stir in parsley. Continue cooking at an enthusiastic bubble, until cream starts to thicken slightly. Return chicken to pan. When it is thoroughly hot and the sauce in thick, serve.
Then he looked at his hand and there lay the answer. His hand was covered in blood and he knew he had somehow got wounded during the night at Six Feet Under. Washing the blood away, he discovered a tiny pinprick and the truth came flooding back. He had, in fact, accidentally put his hand down on a tiny fleck of broken glass. For most of us it wouldn't be a problem but, you know what they say, vodka is thinner than blood (well, they don't but it appears it must be).
The wonderful Withers had been so troubled at the weekend that it was only fair the Prince and I accompanied him to see one of his favourite bands at the Buffalo Bar on Monday, although we both viewed the idea with trepidation.
Did I say band? We are talking about one rather strange geezer from Basildon, who waves around a hand puppet and sings disgusting songs - all in a vain attempt at humour. Still, the clue was in the band's title: K**t and the gang. We actually met up with K**t himself on the door as he took our £5 entry fee and invited us to join the other 12 saddos in the upstairs bar. Withers almost wet himself with excitement.
Once the guy started playing - clever ventriloquist act but devoid of musical talent - Withers didn't need to follow his instruction to "have a little w*nk", he had already made a rather sticky mess in his pants. The Prince and I, meanwhile, looked at each other in a completely baffled manner. What was this nonsense?
Eventually it was over. A bit of a gimmick act, quite fun really, but doing nothing that Splodginess Abounds hadn't done in the late 70s and early 80s.
The following day, though, I woke to find evidence of the night before on my wrist. There in indelible red ink was the legend "K**t". I failed to wash it off in the shower and I'm sure I got some dodgy looks in conference on Tuesday morning.
At the weekend Wren and I continued to make wedding plans, going to visit the lovely Avon Gorge Hotel in Bristol. I also had time to rustle up a rather nice little Coq Au Vin, adapted from a recipe in Nigel Slater's Real Food book.
Ingredients:
25g butter
tbsp olive oil
100g pancetta
1 small onion, peeled and chopped
2 cloves of garlic, peeled and chopped
2 large free-range chicken breasts
five or six brown mushrooms, halved or quartered
1/2 pint of medium dry white wine
300ml creme fraiche
3tbsp chopped parsley
TO DO:
Melt butter in heavy-based casserole and pour in oil. Put in pancetta and colour it, then add onion and garlic.
Leave to cook on moderate heat until onions soften but don't colour.
Scoop pancetta and onions out with draining spoon, leaving the juices in the pan, then add the chicken. Brown lightly on all sides.
Add mushrooms and cook for a few minutes, then return pancetta and onions to the pan. Turn up the heat, pour in the wine, bring it to the boil and simmer. Let it gently bubble for 25 minutes, turning chicken from time to time.
Then lift chicken out of pan and pour in the cream. Season with salt and black pepper and stir in parsley. Continue cooking at an enthusiastic bubble, until cream starts to thicken slightly. Return chicken to pan. When it is thoroughly hot and the sauce in thick, serve.
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