I would like to think the Prince of Darkness and I have a bit of respect among the chattering classes for our hard work, dedication and bon vivre attitude. Which is why I was a bit alarmed the other day when one of our head editorial honchos turned up at our place of work to see how Meeja Wales was progressing.
The Prince and I were busy, head down, when the Daily Snail Editor turned up and introduced us thus: "Here are the miserable twosome. They are like those two Muppets on the Balcony." Well, how dare he! Never had our flabber been so gasted, particularly as we view ourselves more in terms of a great double act like Torville and Dean, Cannon and Ball or Herman and hermit (he's the Hermit).
Meanwhile, the Fugitive has turned up with his hair completely shorn, like he's about to head off to Iraq to fight the insurgents. The Wonderful One has a theory that the angry Fugitive got so angry with himself while looking in the mirror that he started hacking away at himself with a pair of scissors, shouting: "Bloody Abbo!"
I prefer to think he looks like the deposed English cricket captain Kevin Pietersen who, in a quite moment, probably acted the same way after throwing away the chance to lead his adopted country.
The Fugitive admits he has had plenty of comments about his new looks, like "Brad Pitt gone wrong". I think I'll just change his nickname on the blog yet again. "Jarhead" will do nicely.
I'd like to talk to you about Monday night but it brings back painful memories. The night had started quite eventfully in the new old O'Neill's. The boozer itself, having burnt to a crisp not that long ago (hence why I call it new), developed a pretty monumental leak while Withers and I were sitting there, sipping at our ales. In fact we were in pretty serious danger of drowning as a pipe overhead burst and splashed dripped down inches away from our table.
Eventually we had no option than to move, and somehow got drawn into the pub quiz, to be joined soon afterwards by the Prince.
Myself, the Wonderful One and the Prince actually did pretty well, thanks to a bit of help from a ringer called Nia who was desperately searching for a team to join and proved a . The barmaid, too, having set the questions, was pretty keen that we beat a group of quiz big heads on the table nearest us so kept accidentally correcting our answers. And, shock of shocks, we won.
By the time the result was announced I was heading for home and some tea. It was only at three the next morning that I decided I might have made a big mistake, running full length to the sanctuary of the toilet.
I spent the next day under the duvet, feeling rather unwell.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Birthday booze
WELL, that's it. One to go before the big 5-O. Friday marked my glorious 49th year on this planet and the usual suspects were up for the party. Had some really great presents from Wren, including a set of knives which, knowing my track record, could represent a serious handicap in my ability to keep my digits intact over the next few months.
So Friday night started with a few bevvies in Zero Degrees with one of our marketing gurus Mr Jonathan "show me the" Munnery, who was out with some of his acquantainces and clients on the basis it was his birthday the day before.
Having knocked down a few swifties we then departed for the new old O'Neills, rather than the old new O'Neills which the Fugitive always gets confused about (God knows why!). And as the drinks flowed Smashy led us in a rendition of what is fast becoming our signature tune "Are we drinkiiing... or are we f***ing drinking".
Wren joined us and after that it was a trip to the City Arms where, shock of shocks, my own personal DJ had gone awol. I had to asked the barman where he was. "Jase, he's just a lazy b***tard," was the reply. How inconvenient.
Anyway, next stop was the New Model Army Inn where the Karaoke was going great guns. The Wonderful One, who has on numerous occasions remarked about how he HATED karaoke and would NEVER get involved, was desperately trying to persuade me to go up on stage. "Go on, we can do Senses Working Overtime, he said. I agreed, thinking there was no way they would have the track. Unfortunately they did. The good luck, though, was that there were so many people in the queue in front of it that we never did get on stage.
By that time I had drunk enough, anyway. And the evidence hit me the next morning when my body felt it was loosely held together with string while a woodpecker banged on my head in a bid to crack it open.
It took a while to come around, yet there were important things to be done... like drag Wren to watch the Gas play Colchester.
What a birthday thriller. Nil-bloody-nil. Still, better than a loss I suppose. The surprise of the day came later.
I used to doubt Wren's credentials as a true blue Rovers fan, thinking she just went along to please me. But at the final whistle she dragged me into the shop and bought a lovely hoodie sweatshirt for herself with the name of the illustrious Bristol Rovers stamped across the front. She knows the way to a man's heart.
She was obviously pleased with her day because she told me afterwards: "It was great that it only cost £10 to get in, too!"
"Umm, it actually cost me £17," I told her.
Then it dawned on me. She had gone through the Juveniles turnstyle and passed for an Under-14. God, I thought. Does that make me a pervert?
Sunday was a pretty quiet day and on Monday I went to see the guru, who I had last seen staggering around Cardiff unable to pronounce his name or even let himself out of The Yard. He was in a much better state this time, thank God. He could tell I was a bit stressed out, he said. Can't think why. Oh yeah, there is a wedding just a few months away, maybe that's it. Or maybe it was the fear the Gas would get dragged into a relegation battle. Whichever, the treatment was great.
So Friday night started with a few bevvies in Zero Degrees with one of our marketing gurus Mr Jonathan "show me the" Munnery, who was out with some of his acquantainces and clients on the basis it was his birthday the day before.
Having knocked down a few swifties we then departed for the new old O'Neills, rather than the old new O'Neills which the Fugitive always gets confused about (God knows why!). And as the drinks flowed Smashy led us in a rendition of what is fast becoming our signature tune "Are we drinkiiing... or are we f***ing drinking".
Wren joined us and after that it was a trip to the City Arms where, shock of shocks, my own personal DJ had gone awol. I had to asked the barman where he was. "Jase, he's just a lazy b***tard," was the reply. How inconvenient.
Anyway, next stop was the New Model Army Inn where the Karaoke was going great guns. The Wonderful One, who has on numerous occasions remarked about how he HATED karaoke and would NEVER get involved, was desperately trying to persuade me to go up on stage. "Go on, we can do Senses Working Overtime, he said. I agreed, thinking there was no way they would have the track. Unfortunately they did. The good luck, though, was that there were so many people in the queue in front of it that we never did get on stage.
By that time I had drunk enough, anyway. And the evidence hit me the next morning when my body felt it was loosely held together with string while a woodpecker banged on my head in a bid to crack it open.
It took a while to come around, yet there were important things to be done... like drag Wren to watch the Gas play Colchester.
What a birthday thriller. Nil-bloody-nil. Still, better than a loss I suppose. The surprise of the day came later.
I used to doubt Wren's credentials as a true blue Rovers fan, thinking she just went along to please me. But at the final whistle she dragged me into the shop and bought a lovely hoodie sweatshirt for herself with the name of the illustrious Bristol Rovers stamped across the front. She knows the way to a man's heart.
She was obviously pleased with her day because she told me afterwards: "It was great that it only cost £10 to get in, too!"
"Umm, it actually cost me £17," I told her.
Then it dawned on me. She had gone through the Juveniles turnstyle and passed for an Under-14. God, I thought. Does that make me a pervert?
Sunday was a pretty quiet day and on Monday I went to see the guru, who I had last seen staggering around Cardiff unable to pronounce his name or even let himself out of The Yard. He was in a much better state this time, thank God. He could tell I was a bit stressed out, he said. Can't think why. Oh yeah, there is a wedding just a few months away, maybe that's it. Or maybe it was the fear the Gas would get dragged into a relegation battle. Whichever, the treatment was great.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Roasted Cockerels
OH what an evening's entertainment we had last night. Popping into the O'Neill's bar just around the corner from work we settled in for an enjoyable night watching Spurs take on Burnley in the second leg of the Carling Cup semi-final at Turf Moor.
It doesn't sound like the most thrilling evening out, I have to admit. But if you are in the company of mad Tottenham fans Wathanovski and Danny Boy 'the Poipes, the Poipes' it certainly gets interesting - particularly when Spurs throw away a three goal lead from the first leg against their impoverished opponents.
At first Wathanovski and the Poipes were quite chipper. Tottingham were on their way to Wembley, as former White Hart Lane favourite Ossie Ardiles once sang. But gradually their enthusiasm seeped away as first their goalkeeper was completely beaten by a near post free kick. Into the second half and Spurs were on the back foot, Wathanovski and the Poipes shouting at the screen, urging their idols into some kind of action.
Next thing you knew their defence folded like a collapsible deckchair again and it was 2-0 to Burnley. Surely the unthinkable couldn't happen.
Oh yes it could. With minutes to go it was 3-0 to Burnley and the scorn was pouring forth from Wathanovski's mouth. The manager Harry Redknapp was in the firing line, as well as Welsh superkid Gareth Bale. "We're going to lose this, we are terrible," they were shouting while the rest of us jigged around. The face of the Poipes, leaning forlornly against the cigarette machine, had gone the colour of the Burnley shirts, Claret with embarrassment.
Three minutes to go in extra time and Spurs were on the way out of the tournament and Wathanovski was wishing he hadn't booked that Wembley day out after all. But their mood changed when one of the subjects of their ire, Pavlichenko, grabbed a goal to send them ahead. Suddenly they were jumping around the table singing, laughing and dancing. When Spurs made it 5-3 on aggregate they insisted the result had never been in doubt.
Of course, we knew different.
It doesn't sound like the most thrilling evening out, I have to admit. But if you are in the company of mad Tottenham fans Wathanovski and Danny Boy 'the Poipes, the Poipes' it certainly gets interesting - particularly when Spurs throw away a three goal lead from the first leg against their impoverished opponents.
At first Wathanovski and the Poipes were quite chipper. Tottingham were on their way to Wembley, as former White Hart Lane favourite Ossie Ardiles once sang. But gradually their enthusiasm seeped away as first their goalkeeper was completely beaten by a near post free kick. Into the second half and Spurs were on the back foot, Wathanovski and the Poipes shouting at the screen, urging their idols into some kind of action.
Next thing you knew their defence folded like a collapsible deckchair again and it was 2-0 to Burnley. Surely the unthinkable couldn't happen.
Oh yes it could. With minutes to go it was 3-0 to Burnley and the scorn was pouring forth from Wathanovski's mouth. The manager Harry Redknapp was in the firing line, as well as Welsh superkid Gareth Bale. "We're going to lose this, we are terrible," they were shouting while the rest of us jigged around. The face of the Poipes, leaning forlornly against the cigarette machine, had gone the colour of the Burnley shirts, Claret with embarrassment.
Three minutes to go in extra time and Spurs were on the way out of the tournament and Wathanovski was wishing he hadn't booked that Wembley day out after all. But their mood changed when one of the subjects of their ire, Pavlichenko, grabbed a goal to send them ahead. Suddenly they were jumping around the table singing, laughing and dancing. When Spurs made it 5-3 on aggregate they insisted the result had never been in doubt.
Of course, we knew different.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Lost in the supermarket
WELL, this blog entry isn't exactly contemporaneous, but knowing how my large following eats up anything to do with the Wonderful Withers (formerly known as the Wonderful Withers on WoS) I thought I ought to tell the story anyway.
This involves the self-confessed snob from Crewe actually spending a day at the World Darts Championship over the new year with his buddy Becks. You see, though the Wonderful One masquerades as some kind of landed gentry, every now and then he cannot help but let his working class roots slip out, and none more so than when it comes to those big bloated fellas approaching the oche every year.
Mind you, he is still a snob even in this most base of all sports. He won't watch anything to do with the PDC (probably because he hasn't got Sky Sports - too stingy!) and insists that the WDO is the only darts organisation out there. It is all about tradition and the PDC, though possessing probably the three or four best darts players in the world, is an ungracious upstart that shouldn't be given the time of day.
Anyway, I digress. Withers and Becks spent an enjoyable day at the darts watching some of our lesser talented arrowsmiths perform. Rather than the One hundreeeeeeed and aye-teeeee! cries every third or fourth throw most of the afternoon they were hearing "40, 25, 37, 60". But Withers was in his element.
As the time went on he got into the drinking business, too, and the party continued back at his hotel. At one stage, though, the Wonderful One dipped into his ciggie packet and realised the cupboard was bare. "Where can I get some cigarettes?" he asked the hotel staff. They told him they didn't sell them but sent him off to the 24-hour garage of the local supermarket.
Off he trotted, informing pal Becks that he would be back "in the blink of an eye". Ummm, quite. About 40 minutes later Becks answered his mobile phone. "Yes, mate?" he asked.
A rather emotionally overcharged Withers spouted: "Can yoush come and get me. Iyam in the garage carpark at Teschko and can't find the way out."
Good mate that Becks is, he eventually turned up to drag the chastened Withers stumbling back to their hotel.
And this bloke is right hand man at my wedding? I'm already having nightmares.
This involves the self-confessed snob from Crewe actually spending a day at the World Darts Championship over the new year with his buddy Becks. You see, though the Wonderful One masquerades as some kind of landed gentry, every now and then he cannot help but let his working class roots slip out, and none more so than when it comes to those big bloated fellas approaching the oche every year.
Mind you, he is still a snob even in this most base of all sports. He won't watch anything to do with the PDC (probably because he hasn't got Sky Sports - too stingy!) and insists that the WDO is the only darts organisation out there. It is all about tradition and the PDC, though possessing probably the three or four best darts players in the world, is an ungracious upstart that shouldn't be given the time of day.
Anyway, I digress. Withers and Becks spent an enjoyable day at the darts watching some of our lesser talented arrowsmiths perform. Rather than the One hundreeeeeeed and aye-teeeee! cries every third or fourth throw most of the afternoon they were hearing "40, 25, 37, 60". But Withers was in his element.
As the time went on he got into the drinking business, too, and the party continued back at his hotel. At one stage, though, the Wonderful One dipped into his ciggie packet and realised the cupboard was bare. "Where can I get some cigarettes?" he asked the hotel staff. They told him they didn't sell them but sent him off to the 24-hour garage of the local supermarket.
Off he trotted, informing pal Becks that he would be back "in the blink of an eye". Ummm, quite. About 40 minutes later Becks answered his mobile phone. "Yes, mate?" he asked.
A rather emotionally overcharged Withers spouted: "Can yoush come and get me. Iyam in the garage carpark at Teschko and can't find the way out."
Good mate that Becks is, he eventually turned up to drag the chastened Withers stumbling back to their hotel.
And this bloke is right hand man at my wedding? I'm already having nightmares.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Prime ribbing
THE gossip was circulating all week: Someone important was coming to Meeja Wales.
As a result, on Friday the normally scruffy, unwashed and slightly dazed all turned out in their best bib and tucker. Even Smashy had a tie balanced on his well-dressed paunch.
It made no difference to me, of course. I was the usual figure of sartorial elegance.
My first clue that this celeb was going to be a bit out of the ordinary was when a couple of Men In Black (special branch, I reckon) were loitering outside the tradesman's entrance, eyeing me suspiciously as I puffed on a roll up.
Moments later, back at my desk, a media scrum emerged when all the bright, beautiful and incredibly important people from Twee Bee C Wales and ITV gathered in our news room, making it incredibly difficult to concentrate on ones work or, more to the point, get a sneaky 40 winks in.
Then, to a fanfare of trumpets, HE arrived. Gordon Brown. Prime Minister. Former Chancellor. Lord of all he surveys. And he was surrounded by all the "Yes Minister" entourage you would expect, plus a couple of additions - our very own Editorial Director and MD.
Fair play to Mr Brown. Rather than make for the minor B list Welsh celebrities present - rugby player Neil Jenkins and WRU chief executive Roger "the Dodger" Lewis - he decided he would talk with some of the journalistic staff in our esteemed sports section.
Big mistake.
For some ill-thought-out reason he chose Tucker to have a conflab with. Now, our resident stand-up comedian may have a bit of a liking for Cardiff City, but he wouldn't know a rugby ball if it pounded him in his not insubstantial beer gut.
"So how do you think Wales will get on in the Six Nations," inquired Mr Brown.
"Um... um... oh... um".
Fortunately the boy Wathanovski stepped in to save the day, beguiling the VIP with his sporting knowledge and informing him of the vast array of Scots now in the Bluebirds ranks. To be fair, the PM showed a fair bit of sporting knowledge himself.
He later moved around the office and finally plocked himself in front of my desk, thrust out his hand and said "You must be Rippers. I read your blog." Well, no, actually he didn't. But he did ask how I was and how I enjoyed my new job. I lied, of course - understandable with the powers-that-be in earshot.
It was a great shame that Mr Brown couldn't stay a bit longer. I would have shown him the vast array of intelligent letters in the Echo mailbox that day, including the one from the irate former ASW worker who was blasting Mr Brown for spending taxpayers' money for his jaunt across Britain with his "muppets and puppets".
But good Gord was already deep in conversation with the Prince of Darkness. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the security guards getting edgy. They kept touching those concealed earpieces and reaching behind them so their tasers were ready for operation.
Gord was undaunted by his meeting with the Prince. "So you put all your stories on the internet now, do you?"
"Yes," said the Prince eloquently, doing a passable impression of a rabbit caught in some particularly high-beamed headlights.
"What even your exclusives?"
"Well... er... no, not them," conceded the dark one.
At this moment the Boss felt it only right to leap to the Prince's aid.
"Och aye, the noo, Aam the Soonday editor. We ne'er share our stories with anyone, particularly our exclusives."
The PM nodded vaguely and moved on.
"I'm shocked, the noo, that he didn't recognise ma Scoootish accent," said the Boss miserably.
Of course, we who know better, are well aware that the Boss is, in fact, from the emerald isle. Maybe Brown was perplexed by his blarney.
Mind you, I wasn't surprised to see the British establishment's No 1 figure being whisked away. They had obviously been tipped off in advance about the danger posed by Wales on Sunday's version of Martin McGuiness.
I did find the Prince's comments a bit bizarre, too.
"I couldn't understand a word Gordon Brown said. It was his thick Scottish accent."
This from a man who has to deal with The Boss on a daily basis and has been seen in dark corners of dodgy drinking establishments locked in whispered conversation with him on many occasion. If you can understand The Boss in those circumstances, you can understand anyone.
As a result, on Friday the normally scruffy, unwashed and slightly dazed all turned out in their best bib and tucker. Even Smashy had a tie balanced on his well-dressed paunch.
It made no difference to me, of course. I was the usual figure of sartorial elegance.
My first clue that this celeb was going to be a bit out of the ordinary was when a couple of Men In Black (special branch, I reckon) were loitering outside the tradesman's entrance, eyeing me suspiciously as I puffed on a roll up.
Moments later, back at my desk, a media scrum emerged when all the bright, beautiful and incredibly important people from Twee Bee C Wales and ITV gathered in our news room, making it incredibly difficult to concentrate on ones work or, more to the point, get a sneaky 40 winks in.
Then, to a fanfare of trumpets, HE arrived. Gordon Brown. Prime Minister. Former Chancellor. Lord of all he surveys. And he was surrounded by all the "Yes Minister" entourage you would expect, plus a couple of additions - our very own Editorial Director and MD.
Fair play to Mr Brown. Rather than make for the minor B list Welsh celebrities present - rugby player Neil Jenkins and WRU chief executive Roger "the Dodger" Lewis - he decided he would talk with some of the journalistic staff in our esteemed sports section.
Big mistake.
For some ill-thought-out reason he chose Tucker to have a conflab with. Now, our resident stand-up comedian may have a bit of a liking for Cardiff City, but he wouldn't know a rugby ball if it pounded him in his not insubstantial beer gut.
"So how do you think Wales will get on in the Six Nations," inquired Mr Brown.
"Um... um... oh... um".
Fortunately the boy Wathanovski stepped in to save the day, beguiling the VIP with his sporting knowledge and informing him of the vast array of Scots now in the Bluebirds ranks. To be fair, the PM showed a fair bit of sporting knowledge himself.
He later moved around the office and finally plocked himself in front of my desk, thrust out his hand and said "You must be Rippers. I read your blog." Well, no, actually he didn't. But he did ask how I was and how I enjoyed my new job. I lied, of course - understandable with the powers-that-be in earshot.
It was a great shame that Mr Brown couldn't stay a bit longer. I would have shown him the vast array of intelligent letters in the Echo mailbox that day, including the one from the irate former ASW worker who was blasting Mr Brown for spending taxpayers' money for his jaunt across Britain with his "muppets and puppets".
But good Gord was already deep in conversation with the Prince of Darkness. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the security guards getting edgy. They kept touching those concealed earpieces and reaching behind them so their tasers were ready for operation.
Gord was undaunted by his meeting with the Prince. "So you put all your stories on the internet now, do you?"
"Yes," said the Prince eloquently, doing a passable impression of a rabbit caught in some particularly high-beamed headlights.
"What even your exclusives?"
"Well... er... no, not them," conceded the dark one.
At this moment the Boss felt it only right to leap to the Prince's aid.
"Och aye, the noo, Aam the Soonday editor. We ne'er share our stories with anyone, particularly our exclusives."
The PM nodded vaguely and moved on.
"I'm shocked, the noo, that he didn't recognise ma Scoootish accent," said the Boss miserably.
Of course, we who know better, are well aware that the Boss is, in fact, from the emerald isle. Maybe Brown was perplexed by his blarney.
Mind you, I wasn't surprised to see the British establishment's No 1 figure being whisked away. They had obviously been tipped off in advance about the danger posed by Wales on Sunday's version of Martin McGuiness.
I did find the Prince's comments a bit bizarre, too.
"I couldn't understand a word Gordon Brown said. It was his thick Scottish accent."
This from a man who has to deal with The Boss on a daily basis and has been seen in dark corners of dodgy drinking establishments locked in whispered conversation with him on many occasion. If you can understand The Boss in those circumstances, you can understand anyone.
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
Port and Brandy (happy new year!)
The temperature was -3, the streets pretty empty, and only a fool could be dancing around in the middle of a serious cold snap without their shirt on this New Year's Eve.
You've guessed it, I was that fool. I guess sometimes people expect you to live up to your reputation.
Early in the afternoon Smashy had predicted to fellow Meeja Wales inmates that this would come to pass. Clairvoyant? I don't think so. The fact that I overheard this conversation must have stuck in my mind because however much I told myself that this New Year I would definitely not be shedding my clothing, a nagging little gnome inside me was saying: "Go on, go on, go on." Or maybe it was Withers. To tell you the truth I can't remember.
And it had all started off so sedately, too. The great and the good had gathered in The Yard at about 6.30 to warm up for the big event. Smashy, The Fugitive, the Baker Boy (once again visiting Cardiff for his holidays), Danny Boy "the poipes, the poipes", the Wonderful One, the Prince of Darkness and Mad Liz were all on hand for the occasion.
Later, Paps was to join us. He was thinking himself a picture of sartorial elegance in his pinstriped suit jacket and jeans until a cool dude came in dressed in the same manner, but topping it off with a superb pork pie hat. It was only right to comment on this fashion faux pas.
"Not many people can carry off a pinstriped jacket with jeans," I said, pointing to the cool dude. "He can." Poor Paps looked crestfallen.
Not feeling at my best by that point I decided to indulge in a port and brandy, which a mate told me a long time ago had certain medicinal qualities. By the time I reached old O'Neill's I was well into the swing of things.
And finally it was on to the City Arms to see in the New Year with DJ Jase, "Senses Working Overtime", discarded shirt and cardboard pirate hat. The Prince, too, was in full flow with some limbo-style wowy wowy dancing while Smashy could quite easily passed for a TV Cop (anyone remember Cannon?) in his cardboard police cap. Apparently there are pictures, but I've yet to see them and am dreading the moment.
Believe it or not, I was home by 12.30. Unlike some.
Rumour has it that the Prince, fearful of oversleeping when he was due in to work on New Year's Day, stayed out all night just so that he could turn up for work on time. What a trooper!
For me, New Year's Day was spent lying on the couch, watching an inane series of TV programmes mainly featuring Poirot and Miss Marple (with a James Bond thrown in somewhere) and thinking I could never feel so bad again, but knowing that I probably will.
You've guessed it, I was that fool. I guess sometimes people expect you to live up to your reputation.
Early in the afternoon Smashy had predicted to fellow Meeja Wales inmates that this would come to pass. Clairvoyant? I don't think so. The fact that I overheard this conversation must have stuck in my mind because however much I told myself that this New Year I would definitely not be shedding my clothing, a nagging little gnome inside me was saying: "Go on, go on, go on." Or maybe it was Withers. To tell you the truth I can't remember.
And it had all started off so sedately, too. The great and the good had gathered in The Yard at about 6.30 to warm up for the big event. Smashy, The Fugitive, the Baker Boy (once again visiting Cardiff for his holidays), Danny Boy "the poipes, the poipes", the Wonderful One, the Prince of Darkness and Mad Liz were all on hand for the occasion.
Later, Paps was to join us. He was thinking himself a picture of sartorial elegance in his pinstriped suit jacket and jeans until a cool dude came in dressed in the same manner, but topping it off with a superb pork pie hat. It was only right to comment on this fashion faux pas.
"Not many people can carry off a pinstriped jacket with jeans," I said, pointing to the cool dude. "He can." Poor Paps looked crestfallen.
Not feeling at my best by that point I decided to indulge in a port and brandy, which a mate told me a long time ago had certain medicinal qualities. By the time I reached old O'Neill's I was well into the swing of things.
And finally it was on to the City Arms to see in the New Year with DJ Jase, "Senses Working Overtime", discarded shirt and cardboard pirate hat. The Prince, too, was in full flow with some limbo-style wowy wowy dancing while Smashy could quite easily passed for a TV Cop (anyone remember Cannon?) in his cardboard police cap. Apparently there are pictures, but I've yet to see them and am dreading the moment.
Believe it or not, I was home by 12.30. Unlike some.
Rumour has it that the Prince, fearful of oversleeping when he was due in to work on New Year's Day, stayed out all night just so that he could turn up for work on time. What a trooper!
For me, New Year's Day was spent lying on the couch, watching an inane series of TV programmes mainly featuring Poirot and Miss Marple (with a James Bond thrown in somewhere) and thinking I could never feel so bad again, but knowing that I probably will.
Monday, January 05, 2009
Xmas dinner with Paps
THERE is something rather odd about a man who has to take photographs of every item on the Christmas Day menu before you can sit down to eat the bloody thing. Mind you, few would deny there is something odd about Paps.
Because the two of us were spending the entire Christmas week in work, with only December 25 off, the candid camera specialist and I arranged to go arf and arf, as the Welsh say, and did half a Xmas dinner each before sitting down in his house in Splott for a festive nosh up.
I cooked Gammon to my favourite Nigel Slater recipe, and also provided the roast potatoes, pigs in blanket, chestnut stuffing from Cardiff market and the gravy, preferring to experiment with my own (complete with red wine) rather than go down the granules route.
For his part Paps busied himself with roast beef, honey roasted vegetables, the compulsory brussell sprouts and the starter, a moorish little number called Babaganouj (forgive the spelling) with crusty bread.
He picked me up at 12.30 to deliver my offerings to the table and we then spent an interesting hour at the local boozer, the Royal Oak. That had come about due to my first communication of Xmas morning - not from any member of the family but from the Prince who inquired enthusiastically "Are you guys going for a little drink before dinner? (translated: Are we having a Christmas drink or are we having a f*!&ing Christmas drink?!"
In fairness, we had an enjoyable couple of pints of lager in the company of the Prince of Darkness and Steve "Ned Flanders" Jones. Okely dokeyly.
Returning back to the house at just past two I then proceeded to attempt to amputate my finger with one of the very sharp knives that Paps keeps in his possession (something very strange about a man who keeps such dangerous implements in his kitchen). Having sliced straight through the gammon and into my digit I proceeded to bleed all over his kitchen floor, worktop, and sink. "I must have struck an artery", I opined, wrapping a plaster around the wound as quickly as I could.
When I eventually removed the plaster a couple of hours later there was a mere scratch where a gaping hole had once appeared. Either I am a quick healer or my threshold for blood is very low indeed. No doubt Paps took some surreptitious shots of my injury to put on some sadistic website after I had left.
Still, the dinner itself was quite magnificent and afterwards we slobbed out watching Sharks Tale before I wandered home for an afternoon kip.
Highlight of the evening, however, was the new Wallace and Grommit A Matter of Loaf and Death. Excellent.
On the presents front I had some great gifts, including a new steel wok which I will certainly make good use of in the coming weeks. I also had a new MP3 player, even smaller and easier to lose than the last one, which disappeared into the black hole that is the City Arms.
Two days before Christmas we all had a quick drink in the new old O'Neills. It was a very ambient atmosphere with the usual array of suspects turning up to wish each other merry xmas. For my part I provided the wonderful Withers and the Fugitive with black santa hats, inscribed with the message: "Bah, Humbug!" I also bought one for myself and I must say we looked very dapper in a miserable bastards kind of way...
It was only when I got home that night that I discovered the king prawn in my pocket. My thoughts immediately turned to the person who might have slipped the offending object into my jacket. It was a no brainer. Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes)... you're a twat.
Next instalment will involve ringing in the New Year at the City Arms in freezing temperatures.
Meanwhile, here is how I produced the pigs in blankets and roast potatoes.
Pretty easy really, but very time consuming.
I like to mix it up a bit, cutting pieces of streaky bacon in two then wrapping them around cocktail sausages or rolling them around stuffing. They then go in the oven at around 180 and need to be continually checked until nice and crisp.
For the roast potatoes I brought a saucepan of water to the boil with salt and pepper, then added peeled potatoes, large ones preferably that have been chopped in two. After 7-10 minutes remove from the heat and pour off the water, then return to a low heat and shake around the pan to scuff up the edges.
Meanwhile, you should be heating goose fat in the oven until hot. When it is hot enough add the potatoes, cover in oil and then put in the oven on around 180-200, turning now and again so they crisp up and brown. Right at the end sprinkle salt over them and return to the oven before removing ready to serve.
Because the two of us were spending the entire Christmas week in work, with only December 25 off, the candid camera specialist and I arranged to go arf and arf, as the Welsh say, and did half a Xmas dinner each before sitting down in his house in Splott for a festive nosh up.
I cooked Gammon to my favourite Nigel Slater recipe, and also provided the roast potatoes, pigs in blanket, chestnut stuffing from Cardiff market and the gravy, preferring to experiment with my own (complete with red wine) rather than go down the granules route.
For his part Paps busied himself with roast beef, honey roasted vegetables, the compulsory brussell sprouts and the starter, a moorish little number called Babaganouj (forgive the spelling) with crusty bread.
He picked me up at 12.30 to deliver my offerings to the table and we then spent an interesting hour at the local boozer, the Royal Oak. That had come about due to my first communication of Xmas morning - not from any member of the family but from the Prince who inquired enthusiastically "Are you guys going for a little drink before dinner? (translated: Are we having a Christmas drink or are we having a f*!&ing Christmas drink?!"
In fairness, we had an enjoyable couple of pints of lager in the company of the Prince of Darkness and Steve "Ned Flanders" Jones. Okely dokeyly.
Returning back to the house at just past two I then proceeded to attempt to amputate my finger with one of the very sharp knives that Paps keeps in his possession (something very strange about a man who keeps such dangerous implements in his kitchen). Having sliced straight through the gammon and into my digit I proceeded to bleed all over his kitchen floor, worktop, and sink. "I must have struck an artery", I opined, wrapping a plaster around the wound as quickly as I could.
When I eventually removed the plaster a couple of hours later there was a mere scratch where a gaping hole had once appeared. Either I am a quick healer or my threshold for blood is very low indeed. No doubt Paps took some surreptitious shots of my injury to put on some sadistic website after I had left.
Still, the dinner itself was quite magnificent and afterwards we slobbed out watching Sharks Tale before I wandered home for an afternoon kip.
Highlight of the evening, however, was the new Wallace and Grommit A Matter of Loaf and Death. Excellent.
On the presents front I had some great gifts, including a new steel wok which I will certainly make good use of in the coming weeks. I also had a new MP3 player, even smaller and easier to lose than the last one, which disappeared into the black hole that is the City Arms.
Two days before Christmas we all had a quick drink in the new old O'Neills. It was a very ambient atmosphere with the usual array of suspects turning up to wish each other merry xmas. For my part I provided the wonderful Withers and the Fugitive with black santa hats, inscribed with the message: "Bah, Humbug!" I also bought one for myself and I must say we looked very dapper in a miserable bastards kind of way...
It was only when I got home that night that I discovered the king prawn in my pocket. My thoughts immediately turned to the person who might have slipped the offending object into my jacket. It was a no brainer. Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes)... you're a twat.
Next instalment will involve ringing in the New Year at the City Arms in freezing temperatures.
Meanwhile, here is how I produced the pigs in blankets and roast potatoes.
Pretty easy really, but very time consuming.
I like to mix it up a bit, cutting pieces of streaky bacon in two then wrapping them around cocktail sausages or rolling them around stuffing. They then go in the oven at around 180 and need to be continually checked until nice and crisp.
For the roast potatoes I brought a saucepan of water to the boil with salt and pepper, then added peeled potatoes, large ones preferably that have been chopped in two. After 7-10 minutes remove from the heat and pour off the water, then return to a low heat and shake around the pan to scuff up the edges.
Meanwhile, you should be heating goose fat in the oven until hot. When it is hot enough add the potatoes, cover in oil and then put in the oven on around 180-200, turning now and again so they crisp up and brown. Right at the end sprinkle salt over them and return to the oven before removing ready to serve.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Wos Not Wos
SO the great and the good gathered together in solemn contemplation as the Xmas party took place to celebrate, or was it to commisserate, the end of Wales on Sunday as a separate entity in the new era of Meeja Wales.
Well, to be fair, there weren't too many miserable faces as past and present members of that great institution got together again to consume vast quantities of alcohol and then forget everything that went on. The London WoS contingent turned out in force - the fabulous Baker Boy, Rosey, Becks and Ballsy Ballinger were all there to sip a few sherbets with the rest of us. Also present, if I can remember, were lifetime membership WoS-ite Bram 'the little Bowling Ball' Humphries, wacky old Woody, myself, the Prince of Darkness, Shutts, Mad Liz, Danny Boy (the Poipes, the poipes), the wonderful Withers of WoS, Monsieur de La Busier and Wathanovski.
One of the biggest mistakes was to get into a round with this lot in possibly the most expensive drinking establishments in Wales. The Yard was selling the Italian Brew Peroni for an astonishing £3.85 which even had the Baker Boy exclaiming: "It's even more expensive than London!"
As the beer flowed we began to get more boisterous, well I know I did, and later we went on to Six Feet Under where things all got a bit silly. At some stage, in short order, I managed to go barmy and sack my best man and Wathanovski somehow succeeded in abusing a barman and getting himself chucked out. In sympathy, we all walked out en masse and headed for the City Arms. Horror of horrors it was shut - on a Sunday night!
There was only one place that would take us in our stumbling form after that: The Lava Lounge. And though I didn't see out the evening it appears that Rosey, the only man among us who was able to recall anything, gave a full progress report to Coggsy on the phone the day afterwards.
When Wren and I visited Coggs and his Mrs Kempy the day after we were told a string of things which I had no recollection of at all.
And there were others that were completely denied - like the fact that the Wonderful Withers locked lips with a certain member of our group, and I don't mean Ballsy or the fab BB. Not true! said Withers, although his vehement denial prompted me to suggest: "Methinks, tho doth protest too much."
I guess it all depends on who you believe - storyteller Rosey or forgetful drunk Withers.
Next instalment, Xmas dinner at the House of Paps.
Well, to be fair, there weren't too many miserable faces as past and present members of that great institution got together again to consume vast quantities of alcohol and then forget everything that went on. The London WoS contingent turned out in force - the fabulous Baker Boy, Rosey, Becks and Ballsy Ballinger were all there to sip a few sherbets with the rest of us. Also present, if I can remember, were lifetime membership WoS-ite Bram 'the little Bowling Ball' Humphries, wacky old Woody, myself, the Prince of Darkness, Shutts, Mad Liz, Danny Boy (the Poipes, the poipes), the wonderful Withers of WoS, Monsieur de La Busier and Wathanovski.
One of the biggest mistakes was to get into a round with this lot in possibly the most expensive drinking establishments in Wales. The Yard was selling the Italian Brew Peroni for an astonishing £3.85 which even had the Baker Boy exclaiming: "It's even more expensive than London!"
As the beer flowed we began to get more boisterous, well I know I did, and later we went on to Six Feet Under where things all got a bit silly. At some stage, in short order, I managed to go barmy and sack my best man and Wathanovski somehow succeeded in abusing a barman and getting himself chucked out. In sympathy, we all walked out en masse and headed for the City Arms. Horror of horrors it was shut - on a Sunday night!
There was only one place that would take us in our stumbling form after that: The Lava Lounge. And though I didn't see out the evening it appears that Rosey, the only man among us who was able to recall anything, gave a full progress report to Coggsy on the phone the day afterwards.
When Wren and I visited Coggs and his Mrs Kempy the day after we were told a string of things which I had no recollection of at all.
And there were others that were completely denied - like the fact that the Wonderful Withers locked lips with a certain member of our group, and I don't mean Ballsy or the fab BB. Not true! said Withers, although his vehement denial prompted me to suggest: "Methinks, tho doth protest too much."
I guess it all depends on who you believe - storyteller Rosey or forgetful drunk Withers.
Next instalment, Xmas dinner at the House of Paps.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Party fodder
PEOPLE vowing everlasting love to their colleagues and threatening to leave their wives and children, others snogging people they shouldn't be, people falling over in the street, others ranting and raving at their best chums... ah, my good readers, it must be Xmas party time again.
Never let it be said that the good people of Meeja Wales couldn't organise a piss-up in a brewery. In fact, judging by the Xmas work rotas and the complete confusion surrounding who is doing what, I would suggest it is about the only thing we CAN organise.
You may have noticed that it has been two weeks since I last added an entry to this much-loved real-life serial of everyday newspaper folk.
A brief explanation.
The first week I spent away from work doing my Christmas shopping and recovering from copious hangovers. If the truth were told I was barely coherent enough to get my thoughts together, and my hand shook so much I was in danger of pressing three computer keys at once.
On the second week I came back to work and was so busy sorting out the delightful pile of Eggo letters in front of me that I didn't have a chance to scream, let alone think.
In which case, I have a lot of catching up to do and shall attempt to split this blog up into different sections running on different days to give you the full feel of how we humble folk spent the festive period.
It's probably best to start on the first Wednesday night when the usual suspects - Smashy, Paps, the Fugitive, the Prince of Darkness, the Wonderful One and I met up for a few sneaky ones in old O'Neill's. It was a generally decent night, from what I recall, and even the Fugitive managed to enter into the spirit of it without foaming at the mouth too much and repeating the words "kill, kill, kill..." as his mind focussed on the head honcho at the Welsh Rugby Union (If I was he I would be bolting my doors and windows and employing former SAS men as security guards this Christmas).
In fact, it's fair to say we were all in a pretty jolly mood, even my best man the Wonderful Withers, who was looking pleasingly coy when people started asking him about his apparent tryst with some mystery beauty at the Equinox do. Did I say mystery? Well, it was certainly a mystery to him the next day when the Boss chimed up: "Aye Withers, I hear ye were snoggin' that girly Rhiannon at the Equinox dooo". Apparently, onlookers tell me a terrible expression of doubt crossed the Wonderful One's features and he was later heard muttering to a colleague. "Who did I snog last night?"
Fortunately, Stormin' Norman put him right. His memory hadn't failed him, the boss had just identified the wrong girly.
The rest of the night passed pretty pleasantly, although I must admit it took some powers of recovery to be ready for The Big Event on the Friday night.
Come the Meeja Wales do and we all packed into the upstairs cupboard that represents the Function Room of O'Neill's. In a year's time, with the rate of redundancies and departures, it will probably feel like a grand hall to us, but at the current time - with three newspaper staffs all now incorporated under the same roof - it was a tight squeeze.
The company had contributed £20 a head to the affair behind the bar and the little Bowling Ball didn't help matters by inviting his entire entourage of cronies from the Boar's Backside to join us.
We only realised this fact when I was talking with Chalkie White and Picture Editor Rob Roy and glanced over to see this unfamiliar character, resplendent in red flashing nose and reindeer headgear tucking into our sandwiches with great gusto. "Who's that?" I inquired of my colleagues. They both shook their heads in denial.
Shortly afterwards this strange creature, tucking into his free pints and free food, was joined by our friend the Bowling Ball. Ah, I thought. I raised the question with the rotund one himself.
"Oh, yeah," he said. "My friends bought me drinks over the road (in the Boars) and I decided to use my £20 behind the bar to return the favour".
"So as soon as they finish their drinks they're leaving?" I asked.
He looked at me sheepishly. "I imagine so," he said.
Only the richest man in the building could have come up with such a cheepskate idea of treating his friends to a christmas drink (I'm sure the Greek, Steve "Ned Flanders" Jones and maybe even the wonderful One will soon catch on).
Later in the night and Steffan Ap Glyndwr Rees, our token rabid nationalist, turned on his erstwhile pal, cockney cheeky chappie snapper Rob "Kneeseupmuther" Brown.
"Bye Steff," ventured Rob as he set off for home.
"Don't speak to me you English @!*!@!" ranted Kommandant Ap Rees, stamping his Swansea jack boots up and down and making strange salutes in the air.
He was a little bit on the sheepish side when he turned up for work the following Monday to be told that the English-speaking side of the office had sent him to Coventry, a place he would never dream of going of his own accord (too far from Aberystwyth).
Meanwhile, the Boss was doing his usual job of geeing up the staff with motivational Christmas one-on-ones. "Oi, ya wee wassack. Ye've not doon anythin' good for a month, ye lazy Sassenach. Yer resting on yer laurels," he said in his soothing Irish brogue to one of the hardest working reporters in the building.
Still, the reply from The Barrow Boy was priceless. "F*** off! I don't care, it's my last day next week. I'm leaving to do PR."
And, off we trotted to the City Arms. Well, I say trotted. Withers was last seen stumbling. I had to hold the poor dab up to stop him hurting himself irreparably in the teeth region once more. "Lezzgoshittyyams," he spat at me, his eyes rolling in his head, his trouser buckle for some unknown reason hanging lower than his knees.
It took me five minutes to interpret before I got him to stand reasonably straight and concentrate like a grand chess master on getting past the two bouncers on the door. Later I poured him into a taxi and dropped him off home... just to save the Heath hospital nurses the time and trouble of trying to patch up his dental work again.
Next stop, the Wos Not Wos do, and more scary revelations...
Never let it be said that the good people of Meeja Wales couldn't organise a piss-up in a brewery. In fact, judging by the Xmas work rotas and the complete confusion surrounding who is doing what, I would suggest it is about the only thing we CAN organise.
You may have noticed that it has been two weeks since I last added an entry to this much-loved real-life serial of everyday newspaper folk.
A brief explanation.
The first week I spent away from work doing my Christmas shopping and recovering from copious hangovers. If the truth were told I was barely coherent enough to get my thoughts together, and my hand shook so much I was in danger of pressing three computer keys at once.
On the second week I came back to work and was so busy sorting out the delightful pile of Eggo letters in front of me that I didn't have a chance to scream, let alone think.
In which case, I have a lot of catching up to do and shall attempt to split this blog up into different sections running on different days to give you the full feel of how we humble folk spent the festive period.
It's probably best to start on the first Wednesday night when the usual suspects - Smashy, Paps, the Fugitive, the Prince of Darkness, the Wonderful One and I met up for a few sneaky ones in old O'Neill's. It was a generally decent night, from what I recall, and even the Fugitive managed to enter into the spirit of it without foaming at the mouth too much and repeating the words "kill, kill, kill..." as his mind focussed on the head honcho at the Welsh Rugby Union (If I was he I would be bolting my doors and windows and employing former SAS men as security guards this Christmas).
In fact, it's fair to say we were all in a pretty jolly mood, even my best man the Wonderful Withers, who was looking pleasingly coy when people started asking him about his apparent tryst with some mystery beauty at the Equinox do. Did I say mystery? Well, it was certainly a mystery to him the next day when the Boss chimed up: "Aye Withers, I hear ye were snoggin' that girly Rhiannon at the Equinox dooo". Apparently, onlookers tell me a terrible expression of doubt crossed the Wonderful One's features and he was later heard muttering to a colleague. "Who did I snog last night?"
Fortunately, Stormin' Norman put him right. His memory hadn't failed him, the boss had just identified the wrong girly.
The rest of the night passed pretty pleasantly, although I must admit it took some powers of recovery to be ready for The Big Event on the Friday night.
Come the Meeja Wales do and we all packed into the upstairs cupboard that represents the Function Room of O'Neill's. In a year's time, with the rate of redundancies and departures, it will probably feel like a grand hall to us, but at the current time - with three newspaper staffs all now incorporated under the same roof - it was a tight squeeze.
The company had contributed £20 a head to the affair behind the bar and the little Bowling Ball didn't help matters by inviting his entire entourage of cronies from the Boar's Backside to join us.
We only realised this fact when I was talking with Chalkie White and Picture Editor Rob Roy and glanced over to see this unfamiliar character, resplendent in red flashing nose and reindeer headgear tucking into our sandwiches with great gusto. "Who's that?" I inquired of my colleagues. They both shook their heads in denial.
Shortly afterwards this strange creature, tucking into his free pints and free food, was joined by our friend the Bowling Ball. Ah, I thought. I raised the question with the rotund one himself.
"Oh, yeah," he said. "My friends bought me drinks over the road (in the Boars) and I decided to use my £20 behind the bar to return the favour".
"So as soon as they finish their drinks they're leaving?" I asked.
He looked at me sheepishly. "I imagine so," he said.
Only the richest man in the building could have come up with such a cheepskate idea of treating his friends to a christmas drink (I'm sure the Greek, Steve "Ned Flanders" Jones and maybe even the wonderful One will soon catch on).
Later in the night and Steffan Ap Glyndwr Rees, our token rabid nationalist, turned on his erstwhile pal, cockney cheeky chappie snapper Rob "Kneeseupmuther" Brown.
"Bye Steff," ventured Rob as he set off for home.
"Don't speak to me you English @!*!@!" ranted Kommandant Ap Rees, stamping his Swansea jack boots up and down and making strange salutes in the air.
He was a little bit on the sheepish side when he turned up for work the following Monday to be told that the English-speaking side of the office had sent him to Coventry, a place he would never dream of going of his own accord (too far from Aberystwyth).
Meanwhile, the Boss was doing his usual job of geeing up the staff with motivational Christmas one-on-ones. "Oi, ya wee wassack. Ye've not doon anythin' good for a month, ye lazy Sassenach. Yer resting on yer laurels," he said in his soothing Irish brogue to one of the hardest working reporters in the building.
Still, the reply from The Barrow Boy was priceless. "F*** off! I don't care, it's my last day next week. I'm leaving to do PR."
And, off we trotted to the City Arms. Well, I say trotted. Withers was last seen stumbling. I had to hold the poor dab up to stop him hurting himself irreparably in the teeth region once more. "Lezzgoshittyyams," he spat at me, his eyes rolling in his head, his trouser buckle for some unknown reason hanging lower than his knees.
It took me five minutes to interpret before I got him to stand reasonably straight and concentrate like a grand chess master on getting past the two bouncers on the door. Later I poured him into a taxi and dropped him off home... just to save the Heath hospital nurses the time and trouble of trying to patch up his dental work again.
Next stop, the Wos Not Wos do, and more scary revelations...
Friday, December 05, 2008
Hospital food
Hello, and welcome to another episode of casualty. Oh no, sorry, it's just my blog.
It appears, though, that overnight the Meeja Wales sports department has turned into Emergency Ward 10.
The boy Wathanovski is sporting a cut above his eye that even Roy Jones Jnr would have thrown in the towel over, and deputy sports guru Blanchy has a huge bruise and cut on his forehead, too. My first thought was that perhaps the sports desk xmas booze up turned a bit nasty last night, but I was informed that the injuries occured in seperate incidents.
Fortunately I had stumbled home from PR agency Equinox's Xmas do at around 12.30 and turned down the chance to join the dirty stop outs in a dance club just down the road.
This, I am informed, is where Wathanovski, cutting some moves on the dance floor, slipped and cut his head on the DJ booth. Meanwhile, the Blanch-ster "did a Withers", a term now so universally used that I am told it is to appear in the next edition of Thesaurus. He fell and cracked his head on the pavement, but at least his teeth remained intact.
One of the other sports boys, Tucker, due to the Tropical conditions, actually developed sleeping sickness. I am reliably informed he was seen slumped in a chair outside said nightclub snoring to his hearts content.
I've got to say the Equinox bash - which was so good last year I stripped off my shirt and wrapped my tie around my head purely out of respect - was another pretty good night.
I hear the Wonderful One actually did a karaoke duet, though I must have missed that.
The Boss was out as was the editor of the Eggo, an approachable northerner from Barnsley who I shall from now on refer to as Trublat Hill. Apparently my parting shot to the man in charge of our loveable evening paper was "I gotta tell oo (wobble, wobble) aye ate the eggo. But s'ok cos I ate the Daily Snail more! Love WoS though."
As Wren says: "It's terrible when you end up going for a drink with your boss. It's like going for a night on the town with your parents." The Fat Kid should know: She actually had to put me to bed after one infamous Independent Xmas party when I ended up surfing on our stodgy northern soccer writer's briefcase.
Today we were paging up the wonderful evening rag when someone mentioned that we were going to do a rip-roaring feature on 16 Cardiff dancers who are appearing in Pantomime at the new Theatre. My mind raced back 30 years. "Oh my god, not the Olive Guppy dancers - they are shit!" I exclaimed before I realised I had actually opened my mouth.
Of course, no one knew what I was talking about but around 30 years ago I was sent to the very same Pantomime while at journalism college and asked to write a review. At some stage these young local dancers wobbled onto the stage and then appeared to dance in the most unsynchronised, un-choreographed way imaginable. That was my abiding recollection of the Olive Guppy Dancers.
Fast forward to now and later I was talking to Gerry Holt "Who goes there?" and Katie Stormin' Norman and it turns out that my fears were greatly exaggerated. The kids in question were actually from the LORRI Guppy School of Dancing. Phew that's a relief.
It appears, though, that overnight the Meeja Wales sports department has turned into Emergency Ward 10.
The boy Wathanovski is sporting a cut above his eye that even Roy Jones Jnr would have thrown in the towel over, and deputy sports guru Blanchy has a huge bruise and cut on his forehead, too. My first thought was that perhaps the sports desk xmas booze up turned a bit nasty last night, but I was informed that the injuries occured in seperate incidents.
Fortunately I had stumbled home from PR agency Equinox's Xmas do at around 12.30 and turned down the chance to join the dirty stop outs in a dance club just down the road.
This, I am informed, is where Wathanovski, cutting some moves on the dance floor, slipped and cut his head on the DJ booth. Meanwhile, the Blanch-ster "did a Withers", a term now so universally used that I am told it is to appear in the next edition of Thesaurus. He fell and cracked his head on the pavement, but at least his teeth remained intact.
One of the other sports boys, Tucker, due to the Tropical conditions, actually developed sleeping sickness. I am reliably informed he was seen slumped in a chair outside said nightclub snoring to his hearts content.
I've got to say the Equinox bash - which was so good last year I stripped off my shirt and wrapped my tie around my head purely out of respect - was another pretty good night.
I hear the Wonderful One actually did a karaoke duet, though I must have missed that.
The Boss was out as was the editor of the Eggo, an approachable northerner from Barnsley who I shall from now on refer to as Trublat Hill. Apparently my parting shot to the man in charge of our loveable evening paper was "I gotta tell oo (wobble, wobble) aye ate the eggo. But s'ok cos I ate the Daily Snail more! Love WoS though."
As Wren says: "It's terrible when you end up going for a drink with your boss. It's like going for a night on the town with your parents." The Fat Kid should know: She actually had to put me to bed after one infamous Independent Xmas party when I ended up surfing on our stodgy northern soccer writer's briefcase.
Today we were paging up the wonderful evening rag when someone mentioned that we were going to do a rip-roaring feature on 16 Cardiff dancers who are appearing in Pantomime at the new Theatre. My mind raced back 30 years. "Oh my god, not the Olive Guppy dancers - they are shit!" I exclaimed before I realised I had actually opened my mouth.
Of course, no one knew what I was talking about but around 30 years ago I was sent to the very same Pantomime while at journalism college and asked to write a review. At some stage these young local dancers wobbled onto the stage and then appeared to dance in the most unsynchronised, un-choreographed way imaginable. That was my abiding recollection of the Olive Guppy Dancers.
Fast forward to now and later I was talking to Gerry Holt "Who goes there?" and Katie Stormin' Norman and it turns out that my fears were greatly exaggerated. The kids in question were actually from the LORRI Guppy School of Dancing. Phew that's a relief.
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Feeding the Fat Kid
Friday night, and the Essex girls were in town. The Fat Kid descended on us with her good mate Carly, and Cardiff didn't know what had hit it.
Now, as you may already know, the Fat Kid isn't actually fat. It's more that she used to call everyone else by that unusual moniker and somehow it stuck. Having said that she can certainly put the food away.
After nipping out for a quick drink with Paps, the Prince, Smashy and Withers at the new, old O'Neills (the famous scene of St Paddy's night which has since burned down and been built up anew) I legged it home in time for Wren's arrival at eight.
The Fat Kid, having left Southend at around 3pm, was expected any minute but didn't arrive until 10. Why? She got lost. How? Well, her excuse was the fog but I can imagine she and her partner in crime were gassing all the way up the M4 and missed the junction.
When they eventually turned up they were quick to tuck into the wine with Wren and by the end of the evening had managed to drink the equivalent of a bottle each. The Fat Kid had also managed to help herself to some of our Chinese, even though she said she had only eaten a couple of hours before on a motorway service station.
Anyway, the upshot is that, rather than Wren's maturity rubbing off on the Essex girls, they managed to turn her into an honorary one for the weekend.
While I was working, they went for a bottle of wine and some food in the Spanish restaurant La Tasca where, apparently, Carly got chatted up by one of the waiters who told her if she returned that night he would give her a free bottle.
By the time I met up with them in the Thai Edge on Saturday night they were well into the bevvies, Wren sporting a brand new shade of eye shadow having had coaching lessons on "how to look good" by the deadly Essex duo.
Immediately they were pleading with me to take them out on the town, even though it was full of Welsh rugby fans three sheets to the wind after their astonishing 21-18 victory over Australia. I decided to be wise for once and thought that, with the weather so cold and so many people about, I would refrain from drinking so that I could drive them home rather than wait out in the cold for a taxi for hours.
Mind you, I am not a good designated driver. In fact, I am a terrible designated driver. And seeing people in alcohol-induced euphoria just makes me incredibly grumpy. If I can't join them I just want to get as far away from them as possible.
At one stage Wren was imploring me to go down into the depths of some rank club in St Mary Street where hundreds of stumbling, rugby-shirt wearing oiks were queueing. "Come on, it will be fun!" she demanded. Like a hole in the head, I thought.
Eventually we settled on cocktails in Pikey, Pikey (as the ex-Eggo crew call it). By this time the Essex whirlwinds were well into their stride, giggling and talking away at ten to the dozen and trying to lure the barman into giving them free cocktails. Their best line was "Guess where we are from?". Bearing in mind they believe Southend to be the centre of the Universe they were greatly disappointed when people couldn't work it out. One woman even suggested Ireland. "Do you always talk in a squeaky voice, like a couple of rats?" she asked them.
Normally the Fat Kid has a bit of a temper when provoked (who knows where she gets that from?) but her senses were so slowed by the copious amounts of alcohol she had been swallowing that she didn't realise it could be construed as an insult until about an hour later in the car on the way home. A night out with these two is like an audience with French and Saunders, and I told them so.
They both looked at each other, pointed simultaneously, and shouted in a high pitched squeal: "You're French then, the fat one." Got to love the Essex Girls.
Next day, as the Fat Kid had promised her mucca, I cooked up a pretty filling fried breakfast with scrambled eggs and a giant mushroom, together with sausages, bacon, beans, tomatoes, fried potatoes and freshly baked baguettes. It went down a treat.
Scrambled egg, by the way, is pretty easy in the microwave. You just mix up as many eggs as you think you need (I used seven for four people) add a good glug of milk, mix in salt and pepper, then turn it on full power for about three minutes (for an 800 watt microwave anyway). Keep checking and stirring until it rises light and fluffy and you can dish it up. A good trick that my flatmate Scooby showed me.
Once they had set off for home at one, I breathed a sigh of relief and Wren and I recuperated for the afternoon in front of the TV. Of course, the girls will be back... for poor Wren's stag night. By the time she returns she will be chewing gum, wearing micro skirts and shouting "Guess Where I'm from" while slurping from an alcopop. Brrrrrr, doesn't bare thinking about.
Now, as you may already know, the Fat Kid isn't actually fat. It's more that she used to call everyone else by that unusual moniker and somehow it stuck. Having said that she can certainly put the food away.
After nipping out for a quick drink with Paps, the Prince, Smashy and Withers at the new, old O'Neills (the famous scene of St Paddy's night which has since burned down and been built up anew) I legged it home in time for Wren's arrival at eight.
The Fat Kid, having left Southend at around 3pm, was expected any minute but didn't arrive until 10. Why? She got lost. How? Well, her excuse was the fog but I can imagine she and her partner in crime were gassing all the way up the M4 and missed the junction.
When they eventually turned up they were quick to tuck into the wine with Wren and by the end of the evening had managed to drink the equivalent of a bottle each. The Fat Kid had also managed to help herself to some of our Chinese, even though she said she had only eaten a couple of hours before on a motorway service station.
Anyway, the upshot is that, rather than Wren's maturity rubbing off on the Essex girls, they managed to turn her into an honorary one for the weekend.
While I was working, they went for a bottle of wine and some food in the Spanish restaurant La Tasca where, apparently, Carly got chatted up by one of the waiters who told her if she returned that night he would give her a free bottle.
By the time I met up with them in the Thai Edge on Saturday night they were well into the bevvies, Wren sporting a brand new shade of eye shadow having had coaching lessons on "how to look good" by the deadly Essex duo.
Immediately they were pleading with me to take them out on the town, even though it was full of Welsh rugby fans three sheets to the wind after their astonishing 21-18 victory over Australia. I decided to be wise for once and thought that, with the weather so cold and so many people about, I would refrain from drinking so that I could drive them home rather than wait out in the cold for a taxi for hours.
Mind you, I am not a good designated driver. In fact, I am a terrible designated driver. And seeing people in alcohol-induced euphoria just makes me incredibly grumpy. If I can't join them I just want to get as far away from them as possible.
At one stage Wren was imploring me to go down into the depths of some rank club in St Mary Street where hundreds of stumbling, rugby-shirt wearing oiks were queueing. "Come on, it will be fun!" she demanded. Like a hole in the head, I thought.
Eventually we settled on cocktails in Pikey, Pikey (as the ex-Eggo crew call it). By this time the Essex whirlwinds were well into their stride, giggling and talking away at ten to the dozen and trying to lure the barman into giving them free cocktails. Their best line was "Guess where we are from?". Bearing in mind they believe Southend to be the centre of the Universe they were greatly disappointed when people couldn't work it out. One woman even suggested Ireland. "Do you always talk in a squeaky voice, like a couple of rats?" she asked them.
Normally the Fat Kid has a bit of a temper when provoked (who knows where she gets that from?) but her senses were so slowed by the copious amounts of alcohol she had been swallowing that she didn't realise it could be construed as an insult until about an hour later in the car on the way home. A night out with these two is like an audience with French and Saunders, and I told them so.
They both looked at each other, pointed simultaneously, and shouted in a high pitched squeal: "You're French then, the fat one." Got to love the Essex Girls.
Next day, as the Fat Kid had promised her mucca, I cooked up a pretty filling fried breakfast with scrambled eggs and a giant mushroom, together with sausages, bacon, beans, tomatoes, fried potatoes and freshly baked baguettes. It went down a treat.
Scrambled egg, by the way, is pretty easy in the microwave. You just mix up as many eggs as you think you need (I used seven for four people) add a good glug of milk, mix in salt and pepper, then turn it on full power for about three minutes (for an 800 watt microwave anyway). Keep checking and stirring until it rises light and fluffy and you can dish it up. A good trick that my flatmate Scooby showed me.
Once they had set off for home at one, I breathed a sigh of relief and Wren and I recuperated for the afternoon in front of the TV. Of course, the girls will be back... for poor Wren's stag night. By the time she returns she will be chewing gum, wearing micro skirts and shouting "Guess Where I'm from" while slurping from an alcopop. Brrrrrr, doesn't bare thinking about.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Lapin Aux Olives
REGULAR readers of this unmissable blog may have noticed that you can now listen to me reading it in an American accent. This, rather than my brizzle tones, must have come about after my trip to Boston and my fascination with all things on the other side of the Atlantic. On the other hand, it may be down to a fantastic piece of software that I was alerted to by Mr Sion "The Bizz" Barry. And very good it is, too.
I particularly like the way my American friend says "Wowy, wowy". In fact, so much so that I am going to say "wowy, wowy" again.
Apart from that it has been all quiet on the Meeja Wales front this week. The Prince of Darkness has been confined to his coffin this week, which is his way of making the most of his week off. I am reliably informed that the coffin also contains copious bottles of red wine, strong lagers and the odd measure or two of vodka. No doubt he will return to work in a week's time desperate for a rest.
Without my partner in journalistic crime it has left me to look after the letters for both the Daily Snail and the Eggo. It has been a monumental task and one I haven't enjoyed one little bit.
In fact, with the new hours, and no drinking buddy available by the time I leave work at 8, I have actually taken to driving in to work and home again afterwards. At least it should save some money with the Fat Kid and her mate about to descend on me this weekend.
Anyway, this gives me a chance to give you my rabbit with olives recipe. I will be interested to see how my American alter-ego copes with it.
A list of ingredients:
One rabbit, hopefully already prepared for cooking
1 small onion (coarsely chopped)
1 carrot (coarsely chopped)
1 celery rib (coarsely chopped)
4 garlic cloves (crushed)
2 bay leaves
a sprig of thyme and leaves from another sprig
a sprig of rosemary and leaves from another sprig
a sprig of parsley and leaves from another sprig
1 tablespoon of whole black peppercorns
1 and a half cups of white wine
salt and pepper
quarter of a cup of flour for dredging
plus 1 tablespoon of flour
2 tablespoons of olive oil
1 tablespoon of butter
1 tablespoon of tomato puree
half a cup of red wine vinegar
2 cups of chicken stock
Quarter of a pound of green olives
To do:
Prepare your rabbit by combining rabbit, onion, celery, carrot, garlic, bay leaves and the sprigs of rosemary, thyme and parsley, together with the peppercorns and white wine.
marinate this for two hours.
Then drain the marinade, saving the liquid and vegetables seperately.
Pat the rabbit dry, season with salt and pepper and dredge in quarter of a cup of flour.
Heat the oil over high heat in a thick based pan, then when hot add the butter.
Brown the rabbit on both sides until golden brown.
Remove it from the pot.
Add vegetables to the pot and cook on high heat until brown and caramelized.
Stir in the tomato paste and the rest of the flour and mix well.
Cook for one minute, then add the red wine vinegar and marinating liquid.
Cook until liquid is thick enough to coat the back of a spoon.
Then stir in the stock and bring to the boil.
Return the rabbit and reduce to a simmer. If you are cooking all the rabbit you will probably need to cook it for about an hour and a half.
Then remove the rabbit and set aside, strain the liquid and return to the pot, discarding the vegetables.
Return the rabbit and bring to the boil, then stir in the green olives and chopped leaves. Season and serve.
I served up my bunny with some lovely mashed potatoes...
I particularly like the way my American friend says "Wowy, wowy". In fact, so much so that I am going to say "wowy, wowy" again.
Apart from that it has been all quiet on the Meeja Wales front this week. The Prince of Darkness has been confined to his coffin this week, which is his way of making the most of his week off. I am reliably informed that the coffin also contains copious bottles of red wine, strong lagers and the odd measure or two of vodka. No doubt he will return to work in a week's time desperate for a rest.
Without my partner in journalistic crime it has left me to look after the letters for both the Daily Snail and the Eggo. It has been a monumental task and one I haven't enjoyed one little bit.
In fact, with the new hours, and no drinking buddy available by the time I leave work at 8, I have actually taken to driving in to work and home again afterwards. At least it should save some money with the Fat Kid and her mate about to descend on me this weekend.
Anyway, this gives me a chance to give you my rabbit with olives recipe. I will be interested to see how my American alter-ego copes with it.
A list of ingredients:
One rabbit, hopefully already prepared for cooking
1 small onion (coarsely chopped)
1 carrot (coarsely chopped)
1 celery rib (coarsely chopped)
4 garlic cloves (crushed)
2 bay leaves
a sprig of thyme and leaves from another sprig
a sprig of rosemary and leaves from another sprig
a sprig of parsley and leaves from another sprig
1 tablespoon of whole black peppercorns
1 and a half cups of white wine
salt and pepper
quarter of a cup of flour for dredging
plus 1 tablespoon of flour
2 tablespoons of olive oil
1 tablespoon of butter
1 tablespoon of tomato puree
half a cup of red wine vinegar
2 cups of chicken stock
Quarter of a pound of green olives
To do:
Prepare your rabbit by combining rabbit, onion, celery, carrot, garlic, bay leaves and the sprigs of rosemary, thyme and parsley, together with the peppercorns and white wine.
marinate this for two hours.
Then drain the marinade, saving the liquid and vegetables seperately.
Pat the rabbit dry, season with salt and pepper and dredge in quarter of a cup of flour.
Heat the oil over high heat in a thick based pan, then when hot add the butter.
Brown the rabbit on both sides until golden brown.
Remove it from the pot.
Add vegetables to the pot and cook on high heat until brown and caramelized.
Stir in the tomato paste and the rest of the flour and mix well.
Cook for one minute, then add the red wine vinegar and marinating liquid.
Cook until liquid is thick enough to coat the back of a spoon.
Then stir in the stock and bring to the boil.
Return the rabbit and reduce to a simmer. If you are cooking all the rabbit you will probably need to cook it for about an hour and a half.
Then remove the rabbit and set aside, strain the liquid and return to the pot, discarding the vegetables.
Return the rabbit and bring to the boil, then stir in the green olives and chopped leaves. Season and serve.
I served up my bunny with some lovely mashed potatoes...
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Roath farmers market
Friday night and The Yard was pretty quiet, considering the hordes of rugby wallahs who were descending on Cardiff in the misguided belief that Wales might actually be able to beat the All Blacks.
The roll call read Smashy, David "the Suit", Paps, Tapper, Withers and myself.
All pretty sane stuff for the first hour and a half before Wren turned up to join us and we ajourned to the City Arms for a few more beers and some mad dancing (well, mad dancing on my part, so I am told).
My own personal DJ actually had the affrontery to turn down one of my requests! I wobbled up to ask for the Ting Tings and he pointed out: "I don't play anything newer than the 70s and 80s." I don't believe him, mind. I am sure I have heard him play more recent stuff than that.
A few more drinks and I found myself in the middle of a Jagger impression to Start Me Up. So frenzied it became that I almost fell down of a heart attack after it and was left breathing heavily for the rest of the night.
Paps, as is his wont, was there to indiscretely capture the moments on his digital camera.
Then the Prince arrived, having been to see Primal Scream at the Students Union with some of the Boss's iffy mates - Griff, Diff, Jiff, Biff (and anything else ending in iff). At least one of them was there, anyway, as was our official wedding photographer Andy.
The Prince's appearance brought about a kind of tribal dance from the rest of us. We all got as low to the ground as possible, raised our hands in the air, wiggled them wildly like Kermit the Frog, then leapt three feet in the air shouting "wowy wowy". It's a move that even the best entrants on Strictly Come Dancing would find it hard to master.
Eventually Wren and I toddled off to chip alley and a rare visit to Dirty Dots. I went for risole and chips, while the bird opted for chips covered in grated cheese (an unusual little concoction, I think you'll agree - only to be attempted after eight pints of Fosters).
Saturday morning and we were both feeling a little bit peaky, but managed to haul ourselves up and walked around to the Roath Farmer's Market by the bowling club and tennis courts.
It proved to be a winning idea. There are plenty of stalls including a specialist curry outlet which we resisted.
But at the meat counter I couldn't help feasting my eyes on the rabbit, having never cooked it before, while wild boar and venison were also on offer. I eventually settled for the bunny.
We also had some lovely burgers and I bought a hot chilli relish, a tub full of various olives and bags of spices, together with some very fresh looking spinach. Wren settled for some tea cakes and chocolate brownies.
Saturday afternoon I watched Wales start well before fading badly to the expected rugby union defeat against the Kiwis, and in the evening I cooked the rabbit before we watched a DVD. Vantage Point was thrill-a-minute stuff, most entertaining.
I'll put the rabbit recipe on this blog later in the week...
The roll call read Smashy, David "the Suit", Paps, Tapper, Withers and myself.
All pretty sane stuff for the first hour and a half before Wren turned up to join us and we ajourned to the City Arms for a few more beers and some mad dancing (well, mad dancing on my part, so I am told).
My own personal DJ actually had the affrontery to turn down one of my requests! I wobbled up to ask for the Ting Tings and he pointed out: "I don't play anything newer than the 70s and 80s." I don't believe him, mind. I am sure I have heard him play more recent stuff than that.
A few more drinks and I found myself in the middle of a Jagger impression to Start Me Up. So frenzied it became that I almost fell down of a heart attack after it and was left breathing heavily for the rest of the night.
Paps, as is his wont, was there to indiscretely capture the moments on his digital camera.
Then the Prince arrived, having been to see Primal Scream at the Students Union with some of the Boss's iffy mates - Griff, Diff, Jiff, Biff (and anything else ending in iff). At least one of them was there, anyway, as was our official wedding photographer Andy.
The Prince's appearance brought about a kind of tribal dance from the rest of us. We all got as low to the ground as possible, raised our hands in the air, wiggled them wildly like Kermit the Frog, then leapt three feet in the air shouting "wowy wowy". It's a move that even the best entrants on Strictly Come Dancing would find it hard to master.
Eventually Wren and I toddled off to chip alley and a rare visit to Dirty Dots. I went for risole and chips, while the bird opted for chips covered in grated cheese (an unusual little concoction, I think you'll agree - only to be attempted after eight pints of Fosters).
Saturday morning and we were both feeling a little bit peaky, but managed to haul ourselves up and walked around to the Roath Farmer's Market by the bowling club and tennis courts.
It proved to be a winning idea. There are plenty of stalls including a specialist curry outlet which we resisted.
But at the meat counter I couldn't help feasting my eyes on the rabbit, having never cooked it before, while wild boar and venison were also on offer. I eventually settled for the bunny.
We also had some lovely burgers and I bought a hot chilli relish, a tub full of various olives and bags of spices, together with some very fresh looking spinach. Wren settled for some tea cakes and chocolate brownies.
Saturday afternoon I watched Wales start well before fading badly to the expected rugby union defeat against the Kiwis, and in the evening I cooked the rabbit before we watched a DVD. Vantage Point was thrill-a-minute stuff, most entertaining.
I'll put the rabbit recipe on this blog later in the week...
Friday, November 21, 2008
Teddy Bear's picnic
I GUESS I am like all go-ahead top newspaper execs.
I shout quite a bit, moan quite a lot, drink quite a lot, smoke too much...
and lately, at the tender age of 48, I have been going to bed alongside a big cuddly teddy bear called Fenway!
No, it's ok. I am not about to have a nervous breakdown, I think that started two years ago. But walking through BHS the other day with Wren she suddenly gasped, pointed and said: "I want one of those."
The upshot was that I bought the bear, originally called Benji, as an early Xmas present for Wren, but as she cannot have it until the appointed day it has been staying in my flat with me and, well, he IS pretty cuddly and I didn't want to leave him in the front room where he might become overcome with cigarette fumes and stink like an old ashtray.
So somehow he has found his way onto my bed.
That's my excuse, anyway.
He is called Fenway for obvious reasons, a tribute to our lovely holiday in Boston earlier this year. He has a woollen scarf around his neck and also a British passport attached to him.
I must admit I'll miss him when he is gone.
Last night The Prince and I managed to get time off for good behaviour and joined Roberts, Smashy and the Blair Witch (that's a new one, I know. One of our sports writers as it happens).
At one stage Roberts disappeared upstairs and seemed to be gone some time. First Blair when to check on him and when he failed to materialise, too, we thought maybe a black hole had swallowed them both.
Finally, traipsing up the Yard stairs, I uncovered the reason for the delay. There was Roberts, proudly taking charge of five Mojitas. And on a school night, too! Downing mine, I decided to go before the whole thing got wildly out of hand.
I shout quite a bit, moan quite a lot, drink quite a lot, smoke too much...
and lately, at the tender age of 48, I have been going to bed alongside a big cuddly teddy bear called Fenway!
No, it's ok. I am not about to have a nervous breakdown, I think that started two years ago. But walking through BHS the other day with Wren she suddenly gasped, pointed and said: "I want one of those."
The upshot was that I bought the bear, originally called Benji, as an early Xmas present for Wren, but as she cannot have it until the appointed day it has been staying in my flat with me and, well, he IS pretty cuddly and I didn't want to leave him in the front room where he might become overcome with cigarette fumes and stink like an old ashtray.
So somehow he has found his way onto my bed.
That's my excuse, anyway.
He is called Fenway for obvious reasons, a tribute to our lovely holiday in Boston earlier this year. He has a woollen scarf around his neck and also a British passport attached to him.
I must admit I'll miss him when he is gone.
Last night The Prince and I managed to get time off for good behaviour and joined Roberts, Smashy and the Blair Witch (that's a new one, I know. One of our sports writers as it happens).
At one stage Roberts disappeared upstairs and seemed to be gone some time. First Blair when to check on him and when he failed to materialise, too, we thought maybe a black hole had swallowed them both.
Finally, traipsing up the Yard stairs, I uncovered the reason for the delay. There was Roberts, proudly taking charge of five Mojitas. And on a school night, too! Downing mine, I decided to go before the whole thing got wildly out of hand.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Stir fried squid and ginger
More announcements across the newspaper industry of redundancies has got me thinking: If I need to change professions at this late stage in my career in which direction should I go?
Then listening to Snooze Radio (that's Radio Wails to you guys) it hit me. While the rest of the world seems to be diving headlong into a bottomless recession there is one job that seems to be thriving:
Somalian pirate.
Go out, steal the second-biggest oil tanker in the world then drive it back to a lawless country that hasn't had a government for 13 years and wait for the wealthy owners to pay the ransom. Job creation at its best, I say.
On Friday night the little Bowling Ball enjoyed his 200th birthday, or some such, in his favourite old haunt the Boars Backside. And fair play to the little man with the big beer belly, he had arranged for some "Brammy discounts" behind the bar. He was well ensconsed in his corner, waxing lyrical about the old days, by the time we wandered off for further beers at old O'Neills.
With a number of the regular crowd all off on Monday, we arranged a Sunday funday at the Yard. We just about made chorum with the Wonderful One, Paps and Smashy joining in the frivolities at The Yard. Mind you, it seems I was sensible to leave when I did on Friday night. Apparently Withers was in true teeth smashing mode (his own, not anyone elses), wandering around the City Arms with his eyes agog and arms stretched out in front of him like Frankenstein's Monster in search of his inventor.
Of course, the story can't have a happy ending. Although all his toothypegs remained intact, he did manage to lose both his jacket and his MP3 player. Now, as one who has lost a similar valuable item in the same establishment, I must say the City Arms has turned into a bit of a blackhole when it comes to portable music equipment of late.
The wedding suffered its first true test on Sunday afternoon. I got a text from Wren who was due to do a 60 second video newsclip on ThisisBristol, the Evening Post's website.
It read: "Aaaargh! I have to do the web video about that OTHER club. I am so sorry babe xx"
Now for those who know me that other club is commonly known by us Gasheads as the Sh**heads - Those hated fiends from the South of Bristol.
I tried to persuade her out of it, imploring her to tell her bosses she was a conscientious objector. If that failed I suggested she might be able to employ a speech impediment and read the word City with an S H at the front. But, loyal servant of the Bristol media that she is, she felt that wouldn't be professional.
Anyway, sorry Wren, but I will never see your work on video. Let us never speak of it again.
If you ever find yourself out with Smashy for the night, never leave him in charge of the seating arrangements while you disappear for a cigarette, or to use the facilities.
Spreading himself out in typical Smashy style he told us on Sunday: "Don't worry boys, I'll stay here and look after the seats."
By the time we returned they were taken up by guests attending a 40th birthday party. Priceless, Smashy.
On Monday night Withers and I went to see the interesting and worthy Baader Meinhoff Gang. I thought it was pretty good though a bit more explaining wouldn't have gone a miss.
Before that I cooked up a dish with squid.
It's always a bit of a chore preparing squid for what you end up with. They sell it half prepared at Morrisons and the rest is up to you.
To prepare the squid you pull the head from the body and then cut off the tentacles and keep them. Throw the head away.
Then pull out the spine from the squid, scrape away the outside pigment and slice up the rubbery body. It's then ready to cook.
INGREDIENTS:
4 0r 5 baby squid
1 tbsp vegetable oil
2 garlic cloves (finely chopped)
2 tbsp soy sauce (I used dark soy)
1inch ginger - chopped
Juice of half a lemon
1 ltbsp granulated sugar
2 spring onions (chopped)
TO DO:
Heat oil in work
Fry garlic til golden brown but don't burn
Add squid and stir fry on high heat for 30 seconds
Add the other ingredients and stir fry for another 30 seconds
Serve immediately on a bed of noodles
Then listening to Snooze Radio (that's Radio Wails to you guys) it hit me. While the rest of the world seems to be diving headlong into a bottomless recession there is one job that seems to be thriving:
Somalian pirate.
Go out, steal the second-biggest oil tanker in the world then drive it back to a lawless country that hasn't had a government for 13 years and wait for the wealthy owners to pay the ransom. Job creation at its best, I say.
On Friday night the little Bowling Ball enjoyed his 200th birthday, or some such, in his favourite old haunt the Boars Backside. And fair play to the little man with the big beer belly, he had arranged for some "Brammy discounts" behind the bar. He was well ensconsed in his corner, waxing lyrical about the old days, by the time we wandered off for further beers at old O'Neills.
With a number of the regular crowd all off on Monday, we arranged a Sunday funday at the Yard. We just about made chorum with the Wonderful One, Paps and Smashy joining in the frivolities at The Yard. Mind you, it seems I was sensible to leave when I did on Friday night. Apparently Withers was in true teeth smashing mode (his own, not anyone elses), wandering around the City Arms with his eyes agog and arms stretched out in front of him like Frankenstein's Monster in search of his inventor.
Of course, the story can't have a happy ending. Although all his toothypegs remained intact, he did manage to lose both his jacket and his MP3 player. Now, as one who has lost a similar valuable item in the same establishment, I must say the City Arms has turned into a bit of a blackhole when it comes to portable music equipment of late.
The wedding suffered its first true test on Sunday afternoon. I got a text from Wren who was due to do a 60 second video newsclip on ThisisBristol, the Evening Post's website.
It read: "Aaaargh! I have to do the web video about that OTHER club. I am so sorry babe xx"
Now for those who know me that other club is commonly known by us Gasheads as the Sh**heads - Those hated fiends from the South of Bristol.
I tried to persuade her out of it, imploring her to tell her bosses she was a conscientious objector. If that failed I suggested she might be able to employ a speech impediment and read the word City with an S H at the front. But, loyal servant of the Bristol media that she is, she felt that wouldn't be professional.
Anyway, sorry Wren, but I will never see your work on video. Let us never speak of it again.
If you ever find yourself out with Smashy for the night, never leave him in charge of the seating arrangements while you disappear for a cigarette, or to use the facilities.
Spreading himself out in typical Smashy style he told us on Sunday: "Don't worry boys, I'll stay here and look after the seats."
By the time we returned they were taken up by guests attending a 40th birthday party. Priceless, Smashy.
On Monday night Withers and I went to see the interesting and worthy Baader Meinhoff Gang. I thought it was pretty good though a bit more explaining wouldn't have gone a miss.
Before that I cooked up a dish with squid.
It's always a bit of a chore preparing squid for what you end up with. They sell it half prepared at Morrisons and the rest is up to you.
To prepare the squid you pull the head from the body and then cut off the tentacles and keep them. Throw the head away.
Then pull out the spine from the squid, scrape away the outside pigment and slice up the rubbery body. It's then ready to cook.
INGREDIENTS:
4 0r 5 baby squid
1 tbsp vegetable oil
2 garlic cloves (finely chopped)
2 tbsp soy sauce (I used dark soy)
1inch ginger - chopped
Juice of half a lemon
1 ltbsp granulated sugar
2 spring onions (chopped)
TO DO:
Heat oil in work
Fry garlic til golden brown but don't burn
Add squid and stir fry on high heat for 30 seconds
Add the other ingredients and stir fry for another 30 seconds
Serve immediately on a bed of noodles
Friday, November 14, 2008
Stagg chilli and rice
FOR the first time in living memory this blog holds its hands up and admits to a piece of glaring inaccuracy. How do I know? Because my former best man the Wonderful Withers of WoS has traitoriously put a video of my performance in the City Arms last Friday on YouTube. And there it is, for everyone to see... my Angus Young impression, which I believed was being acted out against the background music of ACDCs Highway to Hell, was actually performed to All Night Long. My apologies all.
The best bit of the video, though, for those who have never encountered the Prince of Darkness, is his brief appearance, wobbling past me and trying desperately not to spill the sambuccas he is carrying lovingly in his arms. For that alone go to http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=CX69YFlzscY.
This week, having totally incapacitated myself on Friday and spent a lot of money in the process, I have been taking it very easy. To ensure there have been no impromptu pub sessions I have been driving to work and returning home immediately afterwards, settling down with a bit of TV and a quick and simple tea, like last night's Stagg chilli and brown rice.
Fortunately it's pay day today, I have left the car at home and it's Friday...
The best bit of the video, though, for those who have never encountered the Prince of Darkness, is his brief appearance, wobbling past me and trying desperately not to spill the sambuccas he is carrying lovingly in his arms. For that alone go to http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=CX69YFlzscY.
This week, having totally incapacitated myself on Friday and spent a lot of money in the process, I have been taking it very easy. To ensure there have been no impromptu pub sessions I have been driving to work and returning home immediately afterwards, settling down with a bit of TV and a quick and simple tea, like last night's Stagg chilli and brown rice.
Fortunately it's pay day today, I have left the car at home and it's Friday...
Monday, November 10, 2008
A whole chicken (in our hands)
I understand the big meeting of the two Princes didn't materialise on Saturday. I've no idea why HRH Prince William wasn't introduced to our own Prince of Darkness when he arrived to officially open the new Meeja Wales offices. But when I first heard of the apparent snub I did wonder whether the Sambucca fumes wafting across the office persuaded the powers-that-be it might be a good idea to steer His Royal Highness in the opposite direction.
Plenty of others turned up to bow and lig in front of the royal one, however, as the three-line whip was cracked. Many of those were making their first-ever appearances in the office on a Saturday - unlike those of us who have spent nearly every weekend since christendom shackled to our desks. Amazing what a little bit of royal fairydust can do.
You might expect that, when summoned by Royal appointment, the Dark Lord would take it a mite easy the night before. But he made his intentions clear shortly after we left a birthday party for Paul Magic Wakefield in Six Foot Under and made our way to a more austere venue, the good old City Arms. It was here, after a quick pint as a livener, that the Prince appeared with a tray of shot glasses and announced, in typical fashion, "Are we having a drink or are we having a f***ing drink". From that moment he had decided it was Sambucca time and, I must admit, I don't remember much more about it after doing my Angus Young impression to Highway to Hell and then acting like a lunatic in the bar (tie around head and throwing baseball cap to the four corners of the room) apparently to the tunes of my own personal DJ.
To be honest, though, I was so out of it that I eventually sloped off to get a taxi . That night Wren had also been out on the razz in Bristol and had managed to mix her drinks pretty well, too. I'm not sure who was more coherent when we discussed our nights out later.
In fact, Wren and I were supposed to be going to look at wedding cakes in Weston-Super-Mare on Saturday but neither of us could face it so we cancelled. Instead we watched Arsenal beat Manchester United 2-1 and then went for a bit of fresh air in Albany Road.
Feeling peckish, we popped into the Albany Fish Bar and ended up ordering a whole chicken, masses of chips, a carton each of mushy peas, curry sauce and were persuaded to try their new chilli sauce offering, too. It's fair to say we didn't go hungry on Saturday night, making routine trips back to the kitchen to pick at the chicken or dip a cold chip in the rather lively chilli sauce. Mmm!
In the early hours of Sunday morning I managed to wake up just in time to see Joe Calzaghe's last-ever fight (we think). It was a tremendous performance against the great Roy Jones Jr, particularly as Joe was on the seat of his pants after barely a minute following a ferocious assault by Roy.
Yet he somehow got through the round and in the sixth he produced a bad cut on Jones Jr's eye which many suggested would have brought an end to the contest in a British ring. To be honest, after the first round it was all one way and undoubtedly one of Joe's finest performances, though he does worry his fans with his increasing tendency to showboat.
On Sunday Wren and I went to see W. the new film by Oliver Stone about the presidency of George Bush. It was terrific stuff, with some great portrayals. Josh Brolin was excellent as Bush, and those who appeared as Condoleeza Rice and Dick Cheney were equally good. It was a well spent few hours.
Last night, after Wren's departure, I also saw a film on ITV4 called the Beast, a story of a Russian tank being tracked through the Afghan dessert by the Muhajadeen. Excellent.
Plenty of others turned up to bow and lig in front of the royal one, however, as the three-line whip was cracked. Many of those were making their first-ever appearances in the office on a Saturday - unlike those of us who have spent nearly every weekend since christendom shackled to our desks. Amazing what a little bit of royal fairydust can do.
You might expect that, when summoned by Royal appointment, the Dark Lord would take it a mite easy the night before. But he made his intentions clear shortly after we left a birthday party for Paul Magic Wakefield in Six Foot Under and made our way to a more austere venue, the good old City Arms. It was here, after a quick pint as a livener, that the Prince appeared with a tray of shot glasses and announced, in typical fashion, "Are we having a drink or are we having a f***ing drink". From that moment he had decided it was Sambucca time and, I must admit, I don't remember much more about it after doing my Angus Young impression to Highway to Hell and then acting like a lunatic in the bar (tie around head and throwing baseball cap to the four corners of the room) apparently to the tunes of my own personal DJ.
To be honest, though, I was so out of it that I eventually sloped off to get a taxi . That night Wren had also been out on the razz in Bristol and had managed to mix her drinks pretty well, too. I'm not sure who was more coherent when we discussed our nights out later.
In fact, Wren and I were supposed to be going to look at wedding cakes in Weston-Super-Mare on Saturday but neither of us could face it so we cancelled. Instead we watched Arsenal beat Manchester United 2-1 and then went for a bit of fresh air in Albany Road.
Feeling peckish, we popped into the Albany Fish Bar and ended up ordering a whole chicken, masses of chips, a carton each of mushy peas, curry sauce and were persuaded to try their new chilli sauce offering, too. It's fair to say we didn't go hungry on Saturday night, making routine trips back to the kitchen to pick at the chicken or dip a cold chip in the rather lively chilli sauce. Mmm!
In the early hours of Sunday morning I managed to wake up just in time to see Joe Calzaghe's last-ever fight (we think). It was a tremendous performance against the great Roy Jones Jr, particularly as Joe was on the seat of his pants after barely a minute following a ferocious assault by Roy.
Yet he somehow got through the round and in the sixth he produced a bad cut on Jones Jr's eye which many suggested would have brought an end to the contest in a British ring. To be honest, after the first round it was all one way and undoubtedly one of Joe's finest performances, though he does worry his fans with his increasing tendency to showboat.
On Sunday Wren and I went to see W. the new film by Oliver Stone about the presidency of George Bush. It was terrific stuff, with some great portrayals. Josh Brolin was excellent as Bush, and those who appeared as Condoleeza Rice and Dick Cheney were equally good. It was a well spent few hours.
Last night, after Wren's departure, I also saw a film on ITV4 called the Beast, a story of a Russian tank being tracked through the Afghan dessert by the Muhajadeen. Excellent.
Thursday, November 06, 2008
Simply bananas
PAPS must be the most well-paid tour guide in Britain. Even those poor blokes at the Tower of London would wince when comparing themselves to our very own Media Wales operative. In fact, we are preparing to club together to buy him the customary hat and jacket.
Look around for our esteemed Head of News and more often than not you will see him surrounded by a group of visitors to the Hub, waxing lyrical about the history of journalism. Come to think of it, by the time he actually gets back to send over the stories for that day's edition of the paper, they already ARE history.
And protest? Methinks he does it a bit too much. "If someone put there hand up and wanted to take our visitors around the building, I would quite happily step down," he opines.
But we've heard that one before.
Only recently he moaned that it was likely to fall on him to organise the Christmas party and what a complete bind that would be. Yet when Rowley and The Body took it upon themselves to sort it out, Paps could barely conceal the hurt look that crept across his face. A bit like Richard Briers used to be in ever-decreasing circles, Paps thinks he should always be at the Hub of the Hub.
Meanwhile, the local fruit seller has taken it upon himself to feel sympathy for the Prince of Darkness. Mistakenly believing his pale complexion was down to a lack of healthy eating, rather than the fact the Prince is actually the master of the undead, he handed over two bunches of bananas and a bucketful of grapes to the Lord of the Night. Then when the Prince rustled through his pockets to find the required payment, the caring feller told him: "You can have them all for £1.50."
If I was the stall owner I think I'd put in an extra order for garlic the next time the Prince comes a-calling.
Look around for our esteemed Head of News and more often than not you will see him surrounded by a group of visitors to the Hub, waxing lyrical about the history of journalism. Come to think of it, by the time he actually gets back to send over the stories for that day's edition of the paper, they already ARE history.
And protest? Methinks he does it a bit too much. "If someone put there hand up and wanted to take our visitors around the building, I would quite happily step down," he opines.
But we've heard that one before.
Only recently he moaned that it was likely to fall on him to organise the Christmas party and what a complete bind that would be. Yet when Rowley and The Body took it upon themselves to sort it out, Paps could barely conceal the hurt look that crept across his face. A bit like Richard Briers used to be in ever-decreasing circles, Paps thinks he should always be at the Hub of the Hub.
Meanwhile, the local fruit seller has taken it upon himself to feel sympathy for the Prince of Darkness. Mistakenly believing his pale complexion was down to a lack of healthy eating, rather than the fact the Prince is actually the master of the undead, he handed over two bunches of bananas and a bucketful of grapes to the Lord of the Night. Then when the Prince rustled through his pockets to find the required payment, the caring feller told him: "You can have them all for £1.50."
If I was the stall owner I think I'd put in an extra order for garlic the next time the Prince comes a-calling.
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
Posh grub
I AM delighted to tell my avid reader(s) that rumours of the death of this blog have been greatly exaggerated. The truth is I couldn't be arsed to write anything until now having been away from the bearpit that is Meeja Wales for a whole glorious week. Sadly, I'm back and it was with a heavy heart that I dragged myself into the Hub of Welsh journalism this morning.
So let's recap. When I left the claws of this unruly beast a week ago on Friday it was straight off to the City Arms for a well-earned drink, hoping to wash away the memories of my last week of early starts on the Echo. From now on, it has been decided, the paper will print overnight and my hours will be adjusted accordingly. Apparently, the Prince and I will be working from 11.30 to 8pm from now on, which will fit in well with his desire to see as little sunlight as possible.
As Withers put it... "Rippers will have four pints, do some shouting, then go home." I think he had it about right.
On Saturday it was over to Bristol to pick up Wren and then enjoy a gloriously happy afternoon watching the Gas destroy Southend United 4-2 at the Mem with the rampaging Rickie Lambert nabbing all four goals. That didn't tell the full story either because at 4-0 up Rovers still managed to throw away two goals and leave me biting my fingernails for the last 15 minutes.
After that we visited my Dad on his birthday to present him with a card then went out on the tiles in Clifton for a few bevvies. We began in the Roo bar, a typical Aussie bar as the name might suggest, where we were immediately surrounded by about 30 loud 20-somethings on a birthday binge that involved drinking jugs of cocktails through a straw. Enough of that, we thought, knowing the evening was destined to end in tears.
So it was off to the Jersey Lilly, one of Bristol's oldest pubs, at the top of Blackboy Hill where we spent an entertaining evening watching what I believed were a group of Uni structural engineering students having one of the longest games of Jenga I have ever seen. They were all helping each other out until they had almost built an exact replica of the Sears Tower. When it collapsed it sent everyone scurrying for cover.
Sunday was a lazy day, returning to the boozer to watch Liverpool gain a shock win at Stamford Bridge (Chelsea's first home defeat in about four seasons) before lazing about on Sunday night before visiting the scene of the big day (our wedding) on the Monday morning.
It was all very useful for giving us some insight into our plans for next May.
From there it was back to Cardiff for a couple of days and on Tuesday we went shopping, managing to load up on CDs and DVDs for the roadtrip planned for later in the week.
So, a quick precise from here on in...
Tuesday night: Watched the highly entertaining film Juno.
Wednesday: Travelled to Birmingham (a late surprise for Wren) with plans to buy the wedding rings. Evening Meal in Pizza Express on a freezing cold night. Nearly managed to go flying across someone's table after retrieving the chilli flakes to spice up my dinner.
Thursday: Off to the Jewellery quarter where Wren and I struck lucky, getting a matching pair of rings from Marlowe's (the same jeweller, incidentally, that Wathanovski and the Teacher went to for their rings).
After that took a good three quarters of an hour trying to get out of the motorist hell that is our second city, before heading down the M40 to Marlowe for a freebee night in a luxury hotel, the Compleat Angler. Apparently the family tree has strong connections with the town, but I didn't manage to bump into any Rippers relatives while I was there.
We did manage to bump into the local pub conversationalist in the George and Dragon, however. As we waited to buy our drinks he regaled us of the Great Lard disaster of the previous day.
"This lorry went over and spilt its entire contents of lard all over the M40 yesterday," he told us. "Took three hours for them to clean it up."
I was waiting for the punchline, but it never came. He then set off to remove his frostbitten laundry from the washing line where he had left it in the snow for two days. I think he was then planning to return to the planet Zog.
Thursday night we had a lovely complimentary meal in the hotel and on Friday morning took some nice pictures of the Weir from our hotel balcony before the next leg of our journey.
Friday afternoon: Lunch with Wren's folks in Lavenham in Suffolk followed by a trip to Southend where we arrived with minutes to spare before the Fat kid went off to camp out for the night at the local fishery. Mad? She must be. It's all to do with a new boyfriend I gather.
Two hours later she was back. "I'm not camping in this weather it is madness!" she said.
Saturday: Spent the day cussing Christmas shoppers at the Lakeside Shopping Centre at Thurrock where we went, you've guessed it, Christmas shopping. Got the Vin Monster and Big Boy a new winter coat each and treated everyone to a Burger King in the heaving food court.
By the time we got home we were shattered which, given the fact we were off to a fancy dress party to celebrate the 31st birthday of Evans, was bad timing, really.
I had already sorted the fancy dress though. You could say it was a variation on a theme. Evans had chosen DVD covers and so it wasn't difficult to wrap a tie around my head, put a bit of smeared mascara on my cheeks, and attend as Robert De Niro in the Deerhunter.
Wren's outfit took a bit more effort - a blond wig, white dress and button badge which said: "Off the record, on the QT and very Hush, Hush".
For those who don't know films, Withers, she was Kim Bassinger in LA Confidential.
The party, once we found it, was very good. Evans was in top form as Evita and her bloke Matt had somehow managed to staple two suits together in a splendid portrayal of Two Face from the Batman movies. One of their mates, Dan, was the one who fooled everyone. Turning up in a red check jacket and knee-length skirt having walked the entire length of Leigh-on-Sea town centre (he also had a strange, old womanly bonnet on his head) he defied everyone to actually guess who he was. Miss Daisy? No. Miss Marple? Uh, uh. By the end we worked out he had just come as himself. Very entertaining it was, too.
Woke at 6am on the Fat Kid's sofa with Wren shaking me and inquiring: "Are you coming to bed?" For some reason, having returned home after a bellyful of Kronenberg I had suddenly found great interest in the results of the X Factor. As it was, I missed them all.
Sunday morning: No phone, no tobacco, no car keys and no toy gun. Typical. Managed to establish that I'd left the keys at the party and found the phone under the Fat Kid's car seat. The others were to turn up later.
Retrieved keys and drove home, dropped Wren off after a cup of tea, some food and a kip, and then headed off across the Severn Bridge.
Monday: Washing, ironing, cleaning, watched the awful Transformers movie and Fringe before an early night and anticipation of a return to the Hub.
I have a new bedfellow. He has soft fur, is about two-and-a-half foot tall and his name is Fenway. He is a teddy bear I bought for Wren and he has already settled in nicely at the flat.
So let's recap. When I left the claws of this unruly beast a week ago on Friday it was straight off to the City Arms for a well-earned drink, hoping to wash away the memories of my last week of early starts on the Echo. From now on, it has been decided, the paper will print overnight and my hours will be adjusted accordingly. Apparently, the Prince and I will be working from 11.30 to 8pm from now on, which will fit in well with his desire to see as little sunlight as possible.
As Withers put it... "Rippers will have four pints, do some shouting, then go home." I think he had it about right.
On Saturday it was over to Bristol to pick up Wren and then enjoy a gloriously happy afternoon watching the Gas destroy Southend United 4-2 at the Mem with the rampaging Rickie Lambert nabbing all four goals. That didn't tell the full story either because at 4-0 up Rovers still managed to throw away two goals and leave me biting my fingernails for the last 15 minutes.
After that we visited my Dad on his birthday to present him with a card then went out on the tiles in Clifton for a few bevvies. We began in the Roo bar, a typical Aussie bar as the name might suggest, where we were immediately surrounded by about 30 loud 20-somethings on a birthday binge that involved drinking jugs of cocktails through a straw. Enough of that, we thought, knowing the evening was destined to end in tears.
So it was off to the Jersey Lilly, one of Bristol's oldest pubs, at the top of Blackboy Hill where we spent an entertaining evening watching what I believed were a group of Uni structural engineering students having one of the longest games of Jenga I have ever seen. They were all helping each other out until they had almost built an exact replica of the Sears Tower. When it collapsed it sent everyone scurrying for cover.
Sunday was a lazy day, returning to the boozer to watch Liverpool gain a shock win at Stamford Bridge (Chelsea's first home defeat in about four seasons) before lazing about on Sunday night before visiting the scene of the big day (our wedding) on the Monday morning.
It was all very useful for giving us some insight into our plans for next May.
From there it was back to Cardiff for a couple of days and on Tuesday we went shopping, managing to load up on CDs and DVDs for the roadtrip planned for later in the week.
So, a quick precise from here on in...
Tuesday night: Watched the highly entertaining film Juno.
Wednesday: Travelled to Birmingham (a late surprise for Wren) with plans to buy the wedding rings. Evening Meal in Pizza Express on a freezing cold night. Nearly managed to go flying across someone's table after retrieving the chilli flakes to spice up my dinner.
Thursday: Off to the Jewellery quarter where Wren and I struck lucky, getting a matching pair of rings from Marlowe's (the same jeweller, incidentally, that Wathanovski and the Teacher went to for their rings).
After that took a good three quarters of an hour trying to get out of the motorist hell that is our second city, before heading down the M40 to Marlowe for a freebee night in a luxury hotel, the Compleat Angler. Apparently the family tree has strong connections with the town, but I didn't manage to bump into any Rippers relatives while I was there.
We did manage to bump into the local pub conversationalist in the George and Dragon, however. As we waited to buy our drinks he regaled us of the Great Lard disaster of the previous day.
"This lorry went over and spilt its entire contents of lard all over the M40 yesterday," he told us. "Took three hours for them to clean it up."
I was waiting for the punchline, but it never came. He then set off to remove his frostbitten laundry from the washing line where he had left it in the snow for two days. I think he was then planning to return to the planet Zog.
Thursday night we had a lovely complimentary meal in the hotel and on Friday morning took some nice pictures of the Weir from our hotel balcony before the next leg of our journey.
Friday afternoon: Lunch with Wren's folks in Lavenham in Suffolk followed by a trip to Southend where we arrived with minutes to spare before the Fat kid went off to camp out for the night at the local fishery. Mad? She must be. It's all to do with a new boyfriend I gather.
Two hours later she was back. "I'm not camping in this weather it is madness!" she said.
Saturday: Spent the day cussing Christmas shoppers at the Lakeside Shopping Centre at Thurrock where we went, you've guessed it, Christmas shopping. Got the Vin Monster and Big Boy a new winter coat each and treated everyone to a Burger King in the heaving food court.
By the time we got home we were shattered which, given the fact we were off to a fancy dress party to celebrate the 31st birthday of Evans, was bad timing, really.
I had already sorted the fancy dress though. You could say it was a variation on a theme. Evans had chosen DVD covers and so it wasn't difficult to wrap a tie around my head, put a bit of smeared mascara on my cheeks, and attend as Robert De Niro in the Deerhunter.
Wren's outfit took a bit more effort - a blond wig, white dress and button badge which said: "Off the record, on the QT and very Hush, Hush".
For those who don't know films, Withers, she was Kim Bassinger in LA Confidential.
The party, once we found it, was very good. Evans was in top form as Evita and her bloke Matt had somehow managed to staple two suits together in a splendid portrayal of Two Face from the Batman movies. One of their mates, Dan, was the one who fooled everyone. Turning up in a red check jacket and knee-length skirt having walked the entire length of Leigh-on-Sea town centre (he also had a strange, old womanly bonnet on his head) he defied everyone to actually guess who he was. Miss Daisy? No. Miss Marple? Uh, uh. By the end we worked out he had just come as himself. Very entertaining it was, too.
Woke at 6am on the Fat Kid's sofa with Wren shaking me and inquiring: "Are you coming to bed?" For some reason, having returned home after a bellyful of Kronenberg I had suddenly found great interest in the results of the X Factor. As it was, I missed them all.
Sunday morning: No phone, no tobacco, no car keys and no toy gun. Typical. Managed to establish that I'd left the keys at the party and found the phone under the Fat Kid's car seat. The others were to turn up later.
Retrieved keys and drove home, dropped Wren off after a cup of tea, some food and a kip, and then headed off across the Severn Bridge.
Monday: Washing, ironing, cleaning, watched the awful Transformers movie and Fringe before an early night and anticipation of a return to the Hub.
I have a new bedfellow. He has soft fur, is about two-and-a-half foot tall and his name is Fenway. He is a teddy bear I bought for Wren and he has already settled in nicely at the flat.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Sound bites
PAPS has always fancied himself as a bit of a public speaker and thrives on an audience, but I don't think he ever dreamed of appearing in his own version of a Hollywood blockbuster: How To Lose Friends And Alienate People. Yet that is exactly what happened when he made a farewell speech to Katie 'the body' Bodinger last night.
The Body is off to that great job creation scheme otherwise known as the BBC. And Paps, who is rather fond of his former cub reporter, decided it was time to give her a right royal send off. Unfortunately his attempts at humour turned into a major character assassination that left people thinking that all The Body had spent her time doing on the Echo was getting legless and projectile vomiting. I understand from the lady herself that some of the stories were even made up! Now this blog has no truck with those who wish to fabricate the truth.
Anyway, having painted The Body as someone who might have been leaving because of a pre-arranged three-month incarceration at The Priory, he then managed to make things worse. Finally admitting that The Body was a good reporter he added the rider "and we haven't got many of those". Cue dark looks on the faces of his entire reporting staff.
Of course, what he meant to say was that the number of reporters in the newsroom was quickly dwindling - but by then the damage was done. I can already see Lisa "The Terminator" Jones and James "Snake" McCarthy (the Voice, to regular readers of this blog) planning all sorts of tortures for their esteemed leader.
The leaving do at the Copa (venue where Wren and I had our first date, so I view it with affection) was full of MeejaWales old and new. One of the more recent arrivals at the Hub made a particular impact.
I had never really encountered Shinpads Sian, the only female member of the sports desk, in a social atmosphere when three sheets to the wind. Normally this quiet, modest professional goes about her work calmly and efficiently with barely a squeek passing her lips.
Not last night. Shinpads, obviously well lubricated after starting the celebrations a bit earlier than the rest of us, started laying into people left, right and centre - and before long the bodies were piling up. The Fugitive took both barrels for not treating Shinpads like "one of the lads" and failing to invite her on his regular detours to The Yard. And Danny Boy (the Poipes, the Poipes) was virtually accused of stealing a Wales on Sunday job from under the nose of the feisty female.
And then it was my turn. Shinpads decided that she didn't find my red and blue England cricket baseball cap to her liking. "Girrit 'ere, Rippers, I'mgunaburnnit... Sccchnot a goolook, Rippers". I barely escaped with my life.
The Body is off to that great job creation scheme otherwise known as the BBC. And Paps, who is rather fond of his former cub reporter, decided it was time to give her a right royal send off. Unfortunately his attempts at humour turned into a major character assassination that left people thinking that all The Body had spent her time doing on the Echo was getting legless and projectile vomiting. I understand from the lady herself that some of the stories were even made up! Now this blog has no truck with those who wish to fabricate the truth.
Anyway, having painted The Body as someone who might have been leaving because of a pre-arranged three-month incarceration at The Priory, he then managed to make things worse. Finally admitting that The Body was a good reporter he added the rider "and we haven't got many of those". Cue dark looks on the faces of his entire reporting staff.
Of course, what he meant to say was that the number of reporters in the newsroom was quickly dwindling - but by then the damage was done. I can already see Lisa "The Terminator" Jones and James "Snake" McCarthy (the Voice, to regular readers of this blog) planning all sorts of tortures for their esteemed leader.
The leaving do at the Copa (venue where Wren and I had our first date, so I view it with affection) was full of MeejaWales old and new. One of the more recent arrivals at the Hub made a particular impact.
I had never really encountered Shinpads Sian, the only female member of the sports desk, in a social atmosphere when three sheets to the wind. Normally this quiet, modest professional goes about her work calmly and efficiently with barely a squeek passing her lips.
Not last night. Shinpads, obviously well lubricated after starting the celebrations a bit earlier than the rest of us, started laying into people left, right and centre - and before long the bodies were piling up. The Fugitive took both barrels for not treating Shinpads like "one of the lads" and failing to invite her on his regular detours to The Yard. And Danny Boy (the Poipes, the Poipes) was virtually accused of stealing a Wales on Sunday job from under the nose of the feisty female.
And then it was my turn. Shinpads decided that she didn't find my red and blue England cricket baseball cap to her liking. "Girrit 'ere, Rippers, I'mgunaburnnit... Sccchnot a goolook, Rippers". I barely escaped with my life.
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