I'VE spent most of the week recovering after an Easter visit from the Fat Kid, her new bloke Scott and my two wonderfully well behaved grandchildren the Vin Monster and Big Boy.
And fair play to Big Boy, he is living up to his name.
We took the two of them to be measured for their wedding suits on Saturday and amazingly his waist measurement was exactly the same as his brother, who is a small matter of four years older than him. It has to be said, they looked very cute in a butter-wouldn't-melt sort of way.
After that it was lunch at Burger King when the Fat Kid's Chicken burger took so long to turn up that it could hardly be described as fast food.
Then Wren joined us for a trip to beautiful Roath Park, which was teeming on a very hot day. We bought a football for the occasion and had a kick around which did nothing to aid my strained back.
The good thing, though, was it wore the two youngsters out and by 8pm they were in bed which gave us the chance to settle down and watch Angus, thongs and Perfect Snogging which was a very pleasant interlude.
The night before I had treated the Fat Kid and her brood to a whole cooked chicken from the brilliant Albany Fish Bar on Albany Road. With three large portions of chips there was still plenty left over at the end and, for the all-in sum of £13 (with curry sauce and chilli sauce included) it proved a real bargain. By comparison our Burger King extravaganza, with stingy portions of chips, amounted to over £20. How does that add up?
On Sunday Wren and I had a stroll around Dyffryn Gardens, which was very pleasant in the sunshine, even for a renowned park-hater like me. After that we popped for a quick beer to the Black Cock up on Caerphilly Mountain before retiring to the flat for a quick fix of The Wire. A very pleasant weekend, without too much misbehaving and it has been pretty quiet ever since.
It's probably about the right time for this blog to take a holiday - at least until the Wonderful One does something worth recording.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Hen party
I am starting to worry that my future wife may be about to marry the wrong bloke. I first got this nagging suspicion when she went on her hen weekend to a country cottage spa in darkest Somerset.
During the evening's frivolities her friends, including my daughter the Fat Kid, ambushed her with a Mr and Mrs style competition in which she received presents for getting questions right about me, and forfeits if she got them wrong.
To be honest, she did fairly well until one particular question came along. It went something like this:
What is Rippers ideal fantasy?
There was then a multiple choice set of answers. They were:
a. To be marooned on a desert island with Wren?
b. To see Bristol Rovers win the Premiership title?
c. I don't remember c.
Now, in the manner of that famous daytime TV programme through the keyhole, let's examine the evidence. This should be spoken in the hideously creepy tones of Lloyd Grossman.
Solution B first:
I have been a Rovers fan from the age of seven.
During that time I have seen them hovver around in midtable obscurity, gone all the way to Burnley in a Ford Escort to watch them play, travelled the length and breadth of the country to watch mediocre rubbish thinly disguised as football in sub-zero temperatures, worn my Bristol Rovers shirt to foreign countries, drunk out of a Bristol Rovers mug, kept my fingers crossed throughout an entire Saturday afternoon in the belief this will make them play better, and sampled just a couple of real highlights - ie the win at Wembley in the League Two play-off final and pipping Bristol City to the Division One title in the dim and distant past.
I am a sports nut. I will sit all day in front of Sky Soccer Special just to follow the Gas on their travels, cursing when they lose and celebrating like a lunatic if they win. A bad result puts me in a bad move for the rest of the weekend. Wren knows this, she has suffered it first hand.
A good result, and I will have to watch every repeat of Big League Weekend 2 just to see the Gas goals over and over again.
Now what about Solution 2, A desert island?
I hate it when it's too hot and there is no cover, I don't like lolling around on the beach with nothing to do. I am not a great fan of foreign insects with 20 legs who land on you and take a bite out of you whenever they feel like it, I don't like swimming in shark-infested waters. I would be useless at catching my own food. I might be able to cook it, but I doubt whether I would have a chance because I wouldn't be able to start a fire. The last time I tried to put up a tent it collapsed on me. I failed the boy scout entry exam. I need a sanitary, spotlessly clean toilet with at least 10 spare loo rolls at any one time.
I need at least 10 roll-ups a day to keep me on an even keel. I need my sport fix or I get grumpy. I can't live without Sky Sports, and, I imagine, there would be no facility for Sky Sports on a desert island, let alone somewhere to stick the satellite dish. I love my cricket, but I doubt whether the England cricket team would be visiting a desert island for a test series any time soon.
To those who may only have a passing knowledge of me as a person, the answer is a no brainer.
Wren chose A. Marooned on a desert island. I can't believe it. WRONG!
I think she must be confusing me with Tom Hanks, perhaps because I told her of my friend Wilson, the football I won on my stag weekend to Brighton. I can't think of any other reason apart from the fact that maybe she was absolutely trolleyed out of her brain.
TALKING of strange happenings, the wonderful Withers of WoS has been sneaking off in the evenings and negating his regular custom of going to the boozer and getting bladdered every day after work. We are all a mite suspicious.
I confronted him the other day and he explained he had gone to some evening affair where journalists meet and advise charities about how to best publicise themselves.
Now, come on. Withers is far too selfish, and tight, to lift a finger to help out a charity unless, of course, there was some young flossie who had caught his eye and asked him to do it.
He denied this heavily though, and his reasoning actually did have me believing him. You will see why when you read his explanation...
"Yeh, it was like speed dating for charities. They went around the tables, met a journalist and then spent three minutes with them before moving on. It meant someone HAD to sit and listen to me for three minutes."
Yep. That's writer and broadcaster Withers for you. At least when he is writing you can turn over, and when he's on the radio or TV you can turn off. In that situation... no escape. I think there should be a charity for victims of Withers waffle.
During the evening's frivolities her friends, including my daughter the Fat Kid, ambushed her with a Mr and Mrs style competition in which she received presents for getting questions right about me, and forfeits if she got them wrong.
To be honest, she did fairly well until one particular question came along. It went something like this:
What is Rippers ideal fantasy?
There was then a multiple choice set of answers. They were:
a. To be marooned on a desert island with Wren?
b. To see Bristol Rovers win the Premiership title?
c. I don't remember c.
Now, in the manner of that famous daytime TV programme through the keyhole, let's examine the evidence. This should be spoken in the hideously creepy tones of Lloyd Grossman.
Solution B first:
I have been a Rovers fan from the age of seven.
During that time I have seen them hovver around in midtable obscurity, gone all the way to Burnley in a Ford Escort to watch them play, travelled the length and breadth of the country to watch mediocre rubbish thinly disguised as football in sub-zero temperatures, worn my Bristol Rovers shirt to foreign countries, drunk out of a Bristol Rovers mug, kept my fingers crossed throughout an entire Saturday afternoon in the belief this will make them play better, and sampled just a couple of real highlights - ie the win at Wembley in the League Two play-off final and pipping Bristol City to the Division One title in the dim and distant past.
I am a sports nut. I will sit all day in front of Sky Soccer Special just to follow the Gas on their travels, cursing when they lose and celebrating like a lunatic if they win. A bad result puts me in a bad move for the rest of the weekend. Wren knows this, she has suffered it first hand.
A good result, and I will have to watch every repeat of Big League Weekend 2 just to see the Gas goals over and over again.
Now what about Solution 2, A desert island?
I hate it when it's too hot and there is no cover, I don't like lolling around on the beach with nothing to do. I am not a great fan of foreign insects with 20 legs who land on you and take a bite out of you whenever they feel like it, I don't like swimming in shark-infested waters. I would be useless at catching my own food. I might be able to cook it, but I doubt whether I would have a chance because I wouldn't be able to start a fire. The last time I tried to put up a tent it collapsed on me. I failed the boy scout entry exam. I need a sanitary, spotlessly clean toilet with at least 10 spare loo rolls at any one time.
I need at least 10 roll-ups a day to keep me on an even keel. I need my sport fix or I get grumpy. I can't live without Sky Sports, and, I imagine, there would be no facility for Sky Sports on a desert island, let alone somewhere to stick the satellite dish. I love my cricket, but I doubt whether the England cricket team would be visiting a desert island for a test series any time soon.
To those who may only have a passing knowledge of me as a person, the answer is a no brainer.
Wren chose A. Marooned on a desert island. I can't believe it. WRONG!
I think she must be confusing me with Tom Hanks, perhaps because I told her of my friend Wilson, the football I won on my stag weekend to Brighton. I can't think of any other reason apart from the fact that maybe she was absolutely trolleyed out of her brain.
TALKING of strange happenings, the wonderful Withers of WoS has been sneaking off in the evenings and negating his regular custom of going to the boozer and getting bladdered every day after work. We are all a mite suspicious.
I confronted him the other day and he explained he had gone to some evening affair where journalists meet and advise charities about how to best publicise themselves.
Now, come on. Withers is far too selfish, and tight, to lift a finger to help out a charity unless, of course, there was some young flossie who had caught his eye and asked him to do it.
He denied this heavily though, and his reasoning actually did have me believing him. You will see why when you read his explanation...
"Yeh, it was like speed dating for charities. They went around the tables, met a journalist and then spent three minutes with them before moving on. It meant someone HAD to sit and listen to me for three minutes."
Yep. That's writer and broadcaster Withers for you. At least when he is writing you can turn over, and when he's on the radio or TV you can turn off. In that situation... no escape. I think there should be a charity for victims of Withers waffle.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
Burger at the footie
WITH 20 odd people to count in and count out on our Jolly Boys' outing to Brighton it was quite an achievement that there was only one missing person by the time the dust had settled on Friday night's antics.
But he wasn't missing for too long. At 8.45am as the Wonderful One and I were taking in the fresh sea air (and an essential nicotine hit) a taxi turned up outside the Lagoon containing a beaming figure waving like the Queen to her adoring citizens. Twas the Baker Boy, looking pleased as punch with his evening's exploits in Brighton.
We're still none the wiser to where he actually stayed the previous night, but I am leaning towards one of the wooden shacks that line the beach between Hove and the famous Brighton pier.
Once the mass of human flotsam had gathered in one place it was a pleasant (but rather long) walk along the seafront into town for most of us. Some - namely Shutts, Danny Boy and Jarhead - opted for the easier option and comandeered a bus for the journey. The rest of us made it to the pier where we went for a stroll and admired the fairground rides from afar (they looked pretty bloody frightening to me, if the truth be told).
We did, though, have an impromptu game of footie at one of the stalls where the object was to kick a ball through one of the many holes in the facing wall - and this is how we ended up with Wilson.
Triumphantly, I managed to succeed with one of my kicks, much to the chagrin of more "seasoned" soccer players like Rosey and Stu. I almost did a lap of honour, shirt over my head, I was so delighted to score and the whole event was recorded on video... you can see it on YouTube now via the link http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T27RCQJiMIA
This is how we managed to acquire Wilson, a fluffy football named after the inanimate object Tom Hanks befriended in Castaway. He soon became a valued member of the crew.
After that there was a bit of umming and aahing before we decided the best course of action was to visit the pub. And it was at a little drinking hostelry called the Druids Head that the kitty began again and the great and the good came together.
Last on the seen, and looking like he had been pulled through a number of bushes backwards, was the Prince. He seemed more pale than normal for a nocturnal, blood-sucking member of the undead. Perhaps that is why he started his day, a little after 2pm, with a drink that looked remarkably like blood.
His excuse for his appearance was even better than the real reason ie that he had had drunk around a gallon of alcohol throughout the previous 24 hours or so. "I forgot to bring my hairdryer," he opined, even though his hair looked no different than any other day of the week.
After a few pints and a spot of lunch four of us brave souls headed for the great Withdean Stadium, along with Wilson, to see the League One bootfest between Brighton and Tranmere.
First surprise came when I sauntered up to the turnstiles with cash in hand. "Sorry, Love, you can't pay at the gate, you need a ticket."
"A ticket? You're joking!" I said, hardly able to contain my surprise. The fact that a little over 3,000 people were likely to turn up for the game made this confusing, to say the least.
This led to 20 minutes fevered activity as Stu rang ticketline and ordered four tickets to be faxed through to the Withdean post haste. As we waited we had a kickabout with Wilson.
Eventually we got into the ground. The Brighton fans, in full flow, were singing their remarkably original little ditty "Seaaaaa... Gullllllls, Seaaaaa... Gulls!" And then the action started... or didn't.
We all had bets on when the first goal would be scored... ironic really, as the 90 minutes petered out into a predictable 0-0 stalemate.
Not that we stayed the full 90 minutes. It was cold, and the clouds were gathering, so we decided to leave early to "avoid the crowds" (yeh, right). As I sneaked through the gate a female security guard made a grab for me. "You can't leave!" she shouted.
"What do you mean I can't leave?" I responded.
"Well you won't be allowed to come back in."
"I don't want to come back in... it's utter sh** and it cost me £24," I responded.
"Oh, sorry love," was her sympathetic response.
SO, after a quick game of pool in a local boozer, it was back to the ranch for the partying to begin again. Scooby, the builder and Pete joined us after travelling up in a camper van in which they were to spend the night.
A couple of Baileys with ice helped to settle the stomach then we piled into taxis to go to the exotic-sounding Portland Rock Bar. The owner had told us to be there by eight to avoid disappointment. After all, a popular Who tribute band were playing that night.
As it was our extended crew got in without a problem, having to pay the outrageous £8 door fee. A couple of rough looking locals surrounded the stage, possibly explaining why the taxi driver had warned us: "I hope you have stab vests."
There were also four women in the corner who, it has to be said, looked like they were on a care-in-the-community outing. Still, it didn't stop our own Wayne Sleep, the Fabulous Baker Boy, jigging around the dancefloor with them to tunes like Who Are You? and Pinball Wizard.
As soon as they played 5.15 I was on the dancefloor, doing my best impressions of Pete Townshend full of windmill guitars and the like. It was only when I got home I realised I had probably strained my intercostal muscles and have been wincing with every movement since.
After the Who extravaganza, which ended on the perfect note with Won't Get Fooled Again, the majority of us filed back to the hotel in taxis to join in the Karaoke.
First up was Shutts, and to see the tallest man in the world rapping along to Guns Don't Kill People, Rappers do, was a sight to behold. He had been nominated by Rosey but soon got his own back.
After I had performed a rather tuneless, shouty version of Senses Working Overtime by XTC, Rosey was called to the stage and asked to perform Joe Le Taxi - in French! Fair play, the boy gave it his best though I doubt he will be climbing up the French pop charts any time soon.
As the night went on Scooby tried to enlist everyone into a Queen singalong, and the Fab BB grabbed the microphone for Elton John's I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues. There was a worrying moment in the middle when his legs seemed to buckle and he ended up sitting on the DJ's lights - an incident that earned him a stern glare from the man in charge.
Meanwhile, Jarhead was desperately trying to fight his way to the door past an imoveable object - Shutts - in order to avoid performing one of his Elvis favourites, Suspicious Minds. He managed to get out of the ordeal, but only by the skin of his teeth.
In the end it all wrapped up and we teetered off to bed, a good time had by all.
Before we departed we had a little kick around outside the hotel, and Shutts managed to slice Wilson over a garden fence behind a locked gate. Never to be seen again. Poor old Wilson.
But he wasn't missing for too long. At 8.45am as the Wonderful One and I were taking in the fresh sea air (and an essential nicotine hit) a taxi turned up outside the Lagoon containing a beaming figure waving like the Queen to her adoring citizens. Twas the Baker Boy, looking pleased as punch with his evening's exploits in Brighton.
We're still none the wiser to where he actually stayed the previous night, but I am leaning towards one of the wooden shacks that line the beach between Hove and the famous Brighton pier.
Once the mass of human flotsam had gathered in one place it was a pleasant (but rather long) walk along the seafront into town for most of us. Some - namely Shutts, Danny Boy and Jarhead - opted for the easier option and comandeered a bus for the journey. The rest of us made it to the pier where we went for a stroll and admired the fairground rides from afar (they looked pretty bloody frightening to me, if the truth be told).
We did, though, have an impromptu game of footie at one of the stalls where the object was to kick a ball through one of the many holes in the facing wall - and this is how we ended up with Wilson.
Triumphantly, I managed to succeed with one of my kicks, much to the chagrin of more "seasoned" soccer players like Rosey and Stu. I almost did a lap of honour, shirt over my head, I was so delighted to score and the whole event was recorded on video... you can see it on YouTube now via the link http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T27RCQJiMIA
This is how we managed to acquire Wilson, a fluffy football named after the inanimate object Tom Hanks befriended in Castaway. He soon became a valued member of the crew.
After that there was a bit of umming and aahing before we decided the best course of action was to visit the pub. And it was at a little drinking hostelry called the Druids Head that the kitty began again and the great and the good came together.
Last on the seen, and looking like he had been pulled through a number of bushes backwards, was the Prince. He seemed more pale than normal for a nocturnal, blood-sucking member of the undead. Perhaps that is why he started his day, a little after 2pm, with a drink that looked remarkably like blood.
His excuse for his appearance was even better than the real reason ie that he had had drunk around a gallon of alcohol throughout the previous 24 hours or so. "I forgot to bring my hairdryer," he opined, even though his hair looked no different than any other day of the week.
After a few pints and a spot of lunch four of us brave souls headed for the great Withdean Stadium, along with Wilson, to see the League One bootfest between Brighton and Tranmere.
First surprise came when I sauntered up to the turnstiles with cash in hand. "Sorry, Love, you can't pay at the gate, you need a ticket."
"A ticket? You're joking!" I said, hardly able to contain my surprise. The fact that a little over 3,000 people were likely to turn up for the game made this confusing, to say the least.
This led to 20 minutes fevered activity as Stu rang ticketline and ordered four tickets to be faxed through to the Withdean post haste. As we waited we had a kickabout with Wilson.
Eventually we got into the ground. The Brighton fans, in full flow, were singing their remarkably original little ditty "Seaaaaa... Gullllllls, Seaaaaa... Gulls!" And then the action started... or didn't.
We all had bets on when the first goal would be scored... ironic really, as the 90 minutes petered out into a predictable 0-0 stalemate.
Not that we stayed the full 90 minutes. It was cold, and the clouds were gathering, so we decided to leave early to "avoid the crowds" (yeh, right). As I sneaked through the gate a female security guard made a grab for me. "You can't leave!" she shouted.
"What do you mean I can't leave?" I responded.
"Well you won't be allowed to come back in."
"I don't want to come back in... it's utter sh** and it cost me £24," I responded.
"Oh, sorry love," was her sympathetic response.
SO, after a quick game of pool in a local boozer, it was back to the ranch for the partying to begin again. Scooby, the builder and Pete joined us after travelling up in a camper van in which they were to spend the night.
A couple of Baileys with ice helped to settle the stomach then we piled into taxis to go to the exotic-sounding Portland Rock Bar. The owner had told us to be there by eight to avoid disappointment. After all, a popular Who tribute band were playing that night.
As it was our extended crew got in without a problem, having to pay the outrageous £8 door fee. A couple of rough looking locals surrounded the stage, possibly explaining why the taxi driver had warned us: "I hope you have stab vests."
There were also four women in the corner who, it has to be said, looked like they were on a care-in-the-community outing. Still, it didn't stop our own Wayne Sleep, the Fabulous Baker Boy, jigging around the dancefloor with them to tunes like Who Are You? and Pinball Wizard.
As soon as they played 5.15 I was on the dancefloor, doing my best impressions of Pete Townshend full of windmill guitars and the like. It was only when I got home I realised I had probably strained my intercostal muscles and have been wincing with every movement since.
After the Who extravaganza, which ended on the perfect note with Won't Get Fooled Again, the majority of us filed back to the hotel in taxis to join in the Karaoke.
First up was Shutts, and to see the tallest man in the world rapping along to Guns Don't Kill People, Rappers do, was a sight to behold. He had been nominated by Rosey but soon got his own back.
After I had performed a rather tuneless, shouty version of Senses Working Overtime by XTC, Rosey was called to the stage and asked to perform Joe Le Taxi - in French! Fair play, the boy gave it his best though I doubt he will be climbing up the French pop charts any time soon.
As the night went on Scooby tried to enlist everyone into a Queen singalong, and the Fab BB grabbed the microphone for Elton John's I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues. There was a worrying moment in the middle when his legs seemed to buckle and he ended up sitting on the DJ's lights - an incident that earned him a stern glare from the man in charge.
Meanwhile, Jarhead was desperately trying to fight his way to the door past an imoveable object - Shutts - in order to avoid performing one of his Elvis favourites, Suspicious Minds. He managed to get out of the ordeal, but only by the skin of his teeth.
In the end it all wrapped up and we teetered off to bed, a good time had by all.
Before we departed we had a little kick around outside the hotel, and Shutts managed to slice Wilson over a garden fence behind a locked gate. Never to be seen again. Poor old Wilson.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Brighton rock
WELL the big stag weekend is all over and I have spent the last two days trying to work out how my ribs feel like they have been crushed in some kind of Victorian torture device. Every move seems to bring about a grimace as pain shoots up my side. For a while I imagined that some giant animal of Shutts-esque proportions had administered a bearhug to me in the manner of Giant Haystacks, the famous television wrestler from eons ago.
Then, like a thunderbolt, it hit me. It must have been the windmill guitar actions I performed while doing my best Pete Townshend impressions during the gig by rocking cover band Who's Who in the 'world famous' Portland Rock Bar. But more of that later...
It began on Friday morning with a leisurely breakfast at Servinis before the 11.55 trip to London Paddington. I was decked out in my newly purchased pork pie hat and Who target t-shirt as I met up with Smashy, Danny Boy, Paps, the wonderful Withers of WoS and the Prince of Darkness for a no-holds-barred fry up.
From there we went on to Cardiff Central Station, via a quick trip to the off-licence where the usual suspects bought their body weight in booze to help ease the journey. Jar Head and Shutts were there to meet us and very soon we had taken over carriage B on the inter-city train.
We were barely out of the station before bottle tops were being removed with great gusto, the Prince determined to have a hair of the dog before the buzz from his previous night's vigil in the Soda Bar had worn off.
By the time we reached Newport some of the gathering had engaged in conversation with a young couple heading for London. For their part, they were celebrating the chance to get away with a couple of bottles of wine. But the Prince, having already knocked back his body weight in Peroni, was already in the full flight. By the time my long-serving schoolmate Haydn had joined us the Prince was already helping himself to the couples wine. When we pulled into Paddington he had in front of him an impressive array of finished bottles - the little table in front of him resembling a closing down sale at Threshers.
A quick trip across town then to Farringdon on the underground, where at every stop the Prince managed to stumble over, obviously forgetting the lesson he should have learnt from the previous one.
We were running late and it was a quick dash to the Brighton train where we met up with Phil, my old mucker from the Sunday Mirror.
Little to report on the journey to Brighton apart from the points failure that kept us sitting tantalisingly from our destination for about 30 minutes. The little Bowling Ball and myself were almost climbing the walls by then, desperate to satiate our need for tobacco.
So it was on to the character-filled hotel known as the Blue Lagoon at Hove, with a main bar, a sports bar equipped with pool tables and lots of cheap booze. We split the assembled crowd into three rooms and got down to the serious business of drinking while waiting for some of the stragglers to arrive.
The kitchen designer from my Ashes trip soon turned up with Watford Pete, our deaf mate. Cue more booze. Then Becks and Rosey joined us and we headed into town, stopping off at a boozer called Old Orleans where I was lifted shoulder high by a couple of random blokes in fancy dress superhero costumes for the others to take pictures. By now the Prince of Darkness' brain was in freefall and he couldn't get a camera to work until five minutes later by which time I had been returned to terra ferma.
Shutts, ever the eating machine, was getting rather itchy feet by now and insisting on walking around the corner to book us in for a meal. We ended up in Donatello's Italian where we enjoyed a good meal accompanied by around 10 bottles of wine. Yes, it was getting messy.
Watford Pete suddenly announced, with a glazed expression, he was going home. Back to Watford? The Kitchen Designer and I burst into action, helping his now useless legs negotiate the stairs and taking him out for some air.
A little while later, after an excursion to the toilet, he managed to fall flat on his face. The kindly restaurant staff helped him into a chair and emerged with an ice pack. We had our first casualty of the trip and the Kitchen Designer kindly offered to make sure he got back to the hotel safely.
Meanwhile, Stu had arrived from London having knocked back a couple of Scrumpy Jacks on the train. After a few glasses of wine he was well into the swing.
In the dying embers of the night we split up, some of us returning for a night cap in the hotel bar while others - including the plastered Prince - heading out for late night action on the town.
Stu was among them and apparently inquired of the startled hostess on returning to the Lagoon in the early hours: "Do I have a mini bar in my room?"
"Where do you think you are, the bloody Hilton?" she replied, before kindly providing him with a couple of bottles of San Miguel.
Meanwhile, Watford Pete, having been guided to the bedroom, had fallen flat on the floor, mistaking the two single beds at his end of the room as a double and falling face down between them. When I got to bed he was snoring so loudly that the next day the Kitchen Designer and Haydn bought a supply of ear plugs.
Don't miss part two of this exciting tale of a Jolly Boys weekend tomorrow.
Then, like a thunderbolt, it hit me. It must have been the windmill guitar actions I performed while doing my best Pete Townshend impressions during the gig by rocking cover band Who's Who in the 'world famous' Portland Rock Bar. But more of that later...
It began on Friday morning with a leisurely breakfast at Servinis before the 11.55 trip to London Paddington. I was decked out in my newly purchased pork pie hat and Who target t-shirt as I met up with Smashy, Danny Boy, Paps, the wonderful Withers of WoS and the Prince of Darkness for a no-holds-barred fry up.
From there we went on to Cardiff Central Station, via a quick trip to the off-licence where the usual suspects bought their body weight in booze to help ease the journey. Jar Head and Shutts were there to meet us and very soon we had taken over carriage B on the inter-city train.
We were barely out of the station before bottle tops were being removed with great gusto, the Prince determined to have a hair of the dog before the buzz from his previous night's vigil in the Soda Bar had worn off.
By the time we reached Newport some of the gathering had engaged in conversation with a young couple heading for London. For their part, they were celebrating the chance to get away with a couple of bottles of wine. But the Prince, having already knocked back his body weight in Peroni, was already in the full flight. By the time my long-serving schoolmate Haydn had joined us the Prince was already helping himself to the couples wine. When we pulled into Paddington he had in front of him an impressive array of finished bottles - the little table in front of him resembling a closing down sale at Threshers.
A quick trip across town then to Farringdon on the underground, where at every stop the Prince managed to stumble over, obviously forgetting the lesson he should have learnt from the previous one.
We were running late and it was a quick dash to the Brighton train where we met up with Phil, my old mucker from the Sunday Mirror.
Little to report on the journey to Brighton apart from the points failure that kept us sitting tantalisingly from our destination for about 30 minutes. The little Bowling Ball and myself were almost climbing the walls by then, desperate to satiate our need for tobacco.
So it was on to the character-filled hotel known as the Blue Lagoon at Hove, with a main bar, a sports bar equipped with pool tables and lots of cheap booze. We split the assembled crowd into three rooms and got down to the serious business of drinking while waiting for some of the stragglers to arrive.
The kitchen designer from my Ashes trip soon turned up with Watford Pete, our deaf mate. Cue more booze. Then Becks and Rosey joined us and we headed into town, stopping off at a boozer called Old Orleans where I was lifted shoulder high by a couple of random blokes in fancy dress superhero costumes for the others to take pictures. By now the Prince of Darkness' brain was in freefall and he couldn't get a camera to work until five minutes later by which time I had been returned to terra ferma.
Shutts, ever the eating machine, was getting rather itchy feet by now and insisting on walking around the corner to book us in for a meal. We ended up in Donatello's Italian where we enjoyed a good meal accompanied by around 10 bottles of wine. Yes, it was getting messy.
Watford Pete suddenly announced, with a glazed expression, he was going home. Back to Watford? The Kitchen Designer and I burst into action, helping his now useless legs negotiate the stairs and taking him out for some air.
A little while later, after an excursion to the toilet, he managed to fall flat on his face. The kindly restaurant staff helped him into a chair and emerged with an ice pack. We had our first casualty of the trip and the Kitchen Designer kindly offered to make sure he got back to the hotel safely.
Meanwhile, Stu had arrived from London having knocked back a couple of Scrumpy Jacks on the train. After a few glasses of wine he was well into the swing.
In the dying embers of the night we split up, some of us returning for a night cap in the hotel bar while others - including the plastered Prince - heading out for late night action on the town.
Stu was among them and apparently inquired of the startled hostess on returning to the Lagoon in the early hours: "Do I have a mini bar in my room?"
"Where do you think you are, the bloody Hilton?" she replied, before kindly providing him with a couple of bottles of San Miguel.
Meanwhile, Watford Pete, having been guided to the bedroom, had fallen flat on the floor, mistaking the two single beds at his end of the room as a double and falling face down between them. When I got to bed he was snoring so loudly that the next day the Kitchen Designer and Haydn bought a supply of ear plugs.
Don't miss part two of this exciting tale of a Jolly Boys weekend tomorrow.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Candy Floss
WELL the jolly boys are all getting ready for the event of the year - our outing to Brighton for the big stag weekend. It should be an interesting mixture, all the usual suspects from work plus a couple of Barmy Army comrades (the kitchen designer and Watford Pete), old pals from London like the fab BB and Becks, the little bowling ball and all.
Paps has already been warming his camera up for the occasion although some may be praying he forgets to bring it with him.
As for my theme of a Quadrophenia-style Mod weekend, I am not sure how many have taken me seriously. The Wonderful Withers of WoS has positively frowned on the idea, shrieking in his high-pitched voice of dissent: "I bet they've never seen anyone dressed up as Mods in Brighton on a stag weekend!" But he's a miserable old whinger at the best of times.
Paps, Gawd bless him, and I have taken the whole thing in the spirit it is intended. I have bought an ice blue harrington jacket, two pork pie hats and both of us have bought Who target T-shirts.
We are staying in a shady looking establishment on Hove seafront called the Blue Lagoon. To give us an idea of its quaint character it announces proudly: "We welcome hen and stag weekends." It will be six to a room as well - I haven't done that since way back in the 80s.
Plans include a trip to the boot fest that is Brighton v Tranmere and a possible visit to see a Who tribute band. Fab.
Meanwhile, Paps was in a bit of a mood yesterday. He looked downcast as he announced to me: "I've got another bloody meeting."
Then, 10 minutes later, he emerges with a tour party of PR girls, or flossies as he likes to call them. And he seemed in pretty jovial mood as he showed them around the Meeja Wales newsroom.
Most of us, when we get a call from a Pippa or Jemima, give the response "Yes we've had the e-mail" and swiftly cut off the call. Not Paps. He will have a 20-minute conversation about how he enjoys the Archers, or what he cooked for tea the previous night or how a certain Flossie is wearing her hair these days, before finally signing off with a sigh. "God, these bloody PR people," he will then announce to the world, having accepted their invitation to dinner/a movie/a leaving do/a party (delete as appropriate).
Methinks he doth protest too much.
Paps has already been warming his camera up for the occasion although some may be praying he forgets to bring it with him.
As for my theme of a Quadrophenia-style Mod weekend, I am not sure how many have taken me seriously. The Wonderful Withers of WoS has positively frowned on the idea, shrieking in his high-pitched voice of dissent: "I bet they've never seen anyone dressed up as Mods in Brighton on a stag weekend!" But he's a miserable old whinger at the best of times.
Paps, Gawd bless him, and I have taken the whole thing in the spirit it is intended. I have bought an ice blue harrington jacket, two pork pie hats and both of us have bought Who target T-shirts.
We are staying in a shady looking establishment on Hove seafront called the Blue Lagoon. To give us an idea of its quaint character it announces proudly: "We welcome hen and stag weekends." It will be six to a room as well - I haven't done that since way back in the 80s.
Plans include a trip to the boot fest that is Brighton v Tranmere and a possible visit to see a Who tribute band. Fab.
Meanwhile, Paps was in a bit of a mood yesterday. He looked downcast as he announced to me: "I've got another bloody meeting."
Then, 10 minutes later, he emerges with a tour party of PR girls, or flossies as he likes to call them. And he seemed in pretty jovial mood as he showed them around the Meeja Wales newsroom.
Most of us, when we get a call from a Pippa or Jemima, give the response "Yes we've had the e-mail" and swiftly cut off the call. Not Paps. He will have a 20-minute conversation about how he enjoys the Archers, or what he cooked for tea the previous night or how a certain Flossie is wearing her hair these days, before finally signing off with a sigh. "God, these bloody PR people," he will then announce to the world, having accepted their invitation to dinner/a movie/a leaving do/a party (delete as appropriate).
Methinks he doth protest too much.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
meatball and chickpea rice
THE latest signs of impending old age hit me hard on Tuesday.
You don't really notice it happening and then it creeps up on you in increments.
It started a little while ago when I was standing outside with the little bowling ball, having a cigarette, when I looked at my feet and realised I had a different shoe on each foot. Not a good look for Meeja Wales, particularly when one is in the position of the Executive Editor.
Then there has been the odd episode of putting salt in the fridge, pouring hot water into a cup without remembering to include the tea bag or, worst still, making a cup of tea without having actually boiled the kettle.
But Tuesday was probably the worst example, because it was a wee bit embarrassing. Which is why I am telling you lot in the best read blog this side of Withers's political tome.
At about midday I fancied a wazz, or a wizz, or a jimmy riddle, or whatever you prefer to call it, so I hot tailed it to the little boys' room. Approaching the urinal I fumbled around for, in the words of the witty Russell Brand, my "dinkle". But however much I struggled I couldn't seem to find it.
It was then that reality struck - I had put my jockey shorts on the wrong way around.
There was an immediate retreat to a cubicle where I was forced to strip down, right the horrendous wrong, and then put my trousers back on and make my way back to the newsroom without anyone noticing.
I guess this was how Cameo felt when he realised he was wearing his pants outside his trousers in that famous Word Up video...
Oh yes, the little bowling ball now has a world profile. It is because, ladies and gentlemen, the new Google Street View site actually shows him in all his glory, cowering around the corner of the old Thomson House building, sneaking a crafty fag.
It's brill. Anyone who wants to see his masterful protruding gut (through which I immediately recognised him) should go to Google Maps UK and type in Park Street, Cardiff, then look at one of the side entrances where you will see the little man in all his glory. Actually, having said that, I've looked again and it probably isn't him, but it was a nice idea while it lasted.
Good old Basil, though, gets a good show parked outside my house. I appear to have my curtains closed on a sunny early summer's day. Must have been a hangover day...
Wren came over last night and I decided to show off all my culinary talent by cooking a few Indian meals. We had Balti chops with Paneer Cheese and pepper curry along with meatball and chickpea rice. Amazing...
Here is how I did the rice.
Ingredients:
1/2lb mince
tsp salt
tsp garam masala
a handful of coriander chopped v small
1 egg
cumin seeds
garlic
tin of chickpeas
plenty of plain rice
To do:
Soak the rice in warm water for half an hour.
Make the meatballs by mixing the mince with the salt, garam masala, coriander and egg. Roll into small balls then dry fry in a frying pan until turning brown.
Remove from heat.
Heat some oil in a deep saucepan.
Add the meatballs, some bruised cumin seeds and some crushed garlic
Cook for about three minutes then add chick peas and as much water as you will imagine you will need for the rice.
Then add the rice and bring to the boil.
Reduce heat and cook for 10 minutes, then when the water is nearly soaked up put heat on to lowest setting and cover with foil to steam for another 10 minutes.
Voila, meatball and chickpea rice
You don't really notice it happening and then it creeps up on you in increments.
It started a little while ago when I was standing outside with the little bowling ball, having a cigarette, when I looked at my feet and realised I had a different shoe on each foot. Not a good look for Meeja Wales, particularly when one is in the position of the Executive Editor.
Then there has been the odd episode of putting salt in the fridge, pouring hot water into a cup without remembering to include the tea bag or, worst still, making a cup of tea without having actually boiled the kettle.
But Tuesday was probably the worst example, because it was a wee bit embarrassing. Which is why I am telling you lot in the best read blog this side of Withers's political tome.
At about midday I fancied a wazz, or a wizz, or a jimmy riddle, or whatever you prefer to call it, so I hot tailed it to the little boys' room. Approaching the urinal I fumbled around for, in the words of the witty Russell Brand, my "dinkle". But however much I struggled I couldn't seem to find it.
It was then that reality struck - I had put my jockey shorts on the wrong way around.
There was an immediate retreat to a cubicle where I was forced to strip down, right the horrendous wrong, and then put my trousers back on and make my way back to the newsroom without anyone noticing.
I guess this was how Cameo felt when he realised he was wearing his pants outside his trousers in that famous Word Up video...
Oh yes, the little bowling ball now has a world profile. It is because, ladies and gentlemen, the new Google Street View site actually shows him in all his glory, cowering around the corner of the old Thomson House building, sneaking a crafty fag.
It's brill. Anyone who wants to see his masterful protruding gut (through which I immediately recognised him) should go to Google Maps UK and type in Park Street, Cardiff, then look at one of the side entrances where you will see the little man in all his glory. Actually, having said that, I've looked again and it probably isn't him, but it was a nice idea while it lasted.
Good old Basil, though, gets a good show parked outside my house. I appear to have my curtains closed on a sunny early summer's day. Must have been a hangover day...
Wren came over last night and I decided to show off all my culinary talent by cooking a few Indian meals. We had Balti chops with Paneer Cheese and pepper curry along with meatball and chickpea rice. Amazing...
Here is how I did the rice.
Ingredients:
1/2lb mince
tsp salt
tsp garam masala
a handful of coriander chopped v small
1 egg
cumin seeds
garlic
tin of chickpeas
plenty of plain rice
To do:
Soak the rice in warm water for half an hour.
Make the meatballs by mixing the mince with the salt, garam masala, coriander and egg. Roll into small balls then dry fry in a frying pan until turning brown.
Remove from heat.
Heat some oil in a deep saucepan.
Add the meatballs, some bruised cumin seeds and some crushed garlic
Cook for about three minutes then add chick peas and as much water as you will imagine you will need for the rice.
Then add the rice and bring to the boil.
Reduce heat and cook for 10 minutes, then when the water is nearly soaked up put heat on to lowest setting and cover with foil to steam for another 10 minutes.
Voila, meatball and chickpea rice
Monday, March 16, 2009
Bouef Bourginon
HAVE you ever had one of those terrible moments when you find your legs just won't do what you tell them to? Happened to me on Friday as a matter of fact. And, to be honest, I had only had a mere five pints of Carling at the time.
Leaving work at the reasonably early time of 6.30, myself and Smashy walked over to the old new O'Neills next to the office for a few after-work swifties. It was a chance to relax and wash away the joys of another week on the treadmill that is Meeja Wales.
Having sunk a couple of quick ones we were soon joined by the Wonderful One and the Prince of Darkness who were also keen to get their weekend's boozing underway.
Anyway, at some point in time I slipped out of the side door and onto the street to have a cigarette. And this is where everything became hazy.
Whether it was the unwelcome gust of fresh air that hit me, or the first strong drag of Old Holborn, I cannot guess, but I suddenly found myself wobbling around uncontrollably. Realising that the bouncers on the door might notice my predicament and mistake it for unsobriety I tried to will my legs to stay still, but they continued to rock me back and forward.
What to do? A real dilemma.
Focussing my brain completely, I decided the only option was to walk casually around to the front of the pub and make my entrance that way, hoping against hope that the bouncers wouldn't be patrolling there, too. Wrong.
As I attempted to step through the door a hand came out and the voice announced: "Sorry son, you're too drunk."
"But it's not me," I protested. "It's just that, for some strange reason, my legs won't work. Can you let me back inside to say goodbye to my mates and get my tobacco."
"No can do mate. You're pissed as a fart."
The liberty. Five pints of Carling? Who did he think I was?
Sheepishly I rang Smashy to break the news, then wondered off to get a taxi home - crestfallen. And a stag weekend just 14 days away.
Saturday and Wren came over to show some sympathy. We watched Manchester United somehow get hammered 4-1 at home to Liverpool, then wandered into town to pick up some bits and pieces. Wren's mum gave me an M&S giftcard for Christmas and I had been scratching my head what to do with it. Then it struck me. Cookware!
I bought a very nice blue casserole dish and vowed to make use of it that night, putting together a bouef bourginon for our tea.
Shock of shocks, I got home to catch up with the footie scores to find the Gas had won 5-0 away at Walsall - play offs here we come! Lucky I cancelled that first wedding date.
Wren and I then watched our fave new series, The Wire, on dvd. It is an excellent show - up there on a level with the Sopranos and the West Wing about a bunch of diverse cops who are trying to bring down a drug gang in Baltimore.
Then I cooked tea, of which more later.
Sunday and Wren had to return to Bristol for work so I met up with the Prince in the pub to watch the English rugby team finally remember how to play the game. The French, though, what happened to them? This is a team who outplayed Grand Slam winning Wales a couple of weeks ago and now folded as quickly as you could say "sacre bleu". England led 29-0 at half time, for god's sake. It all means Wales are left to try to stop Ireland winning the Grand Slam next week and hopefully taking the Six Nations crown in the process.
The Prince had been having a quiet afternoon. By the time I met him at around 3.30 he was only on his fourth pint!
"Well, I had a big bottle of Becks before leaving the house, then went to the Beverley for my lunch. It took so long for them to cook my steak (he probably means about 10 minutes) that I had another two pints of Kronenberg to pass the time."
By the early evening he was professing: "I've got a bit of a buzz on" and demanding double vodkas. It was time to leave him to the night shift - Withers - who had turned up to join the party.
Anyway, Boeuf Bourginon.
You need:
2 tbsp sunflower oil
1lbs diced beef or thereabouts
four rashers of chopped bacon
4oz plain flour
One onion
One crushed garlic clove
8oz mushrooms
1/2 pint of red wine
pint of beef stock
bouquet garnet
fresh herbs to garnish.
To do:
Toss the beef in the flour then fry in the oil before transferring to casserole dish.
Fry the bacon until golden. Transfer to the dish
Fry the onions and garlic until the onions are soft, then add the mushrooms and cook before transferring to the dish.
Add the stock and red wine to the casserole dish, the bouquet garnet and salt and black pepper to taste.
Put in the oven for about an hour and a half until the meat is tender.
Garnish with herbs and serve with brown rice.
Leaving work at the reasonably early time of 6.30, myself and Smashy walked over to the old new O'Neills next to the office for a few after-work swifties. It was a chance to relax and wash away the joys of another week on the treadmill that is Meeja Wales.
Having sunk a couple of quick ones we were soon joined by the Wonderful One and the Prince of Darkness who were also keen to get their weekend's boozing underway.
Anyway, at some point in time I slipped out of the side door and onto the street to have a cigarette. And this is where everything became hazy.
Whether it was the unwelcome gust of fresh air that hit me, or the first strong drag of Old Holborn, I cannot guess, but I suddenly found myself wobbling around uncontrollably. Realising that the bouncers on the door might notice my predicament and mistake it for unsobriety I tried to will my legs to stay still, but they continued to rock me back and forward.
What to do? A real dilemma.
Focussing my brain completely, I decided the only option was to walk casually around to the front of the pub and make my entrance that way, hoping against hope that the bouncers wouldn't be patrolling there, too. Wrong.
As I attempted to step through the door a hand came out and the voice announced: "Sorry son, you're too drunk."
"But it's not me," I protested. "It's just that, for some strange reason, my legs won't work. Can you let me back inside to say goodbye to my mates and get my tobacco."
"No can do mate. You're pissed as a fart."
The liberty. Five pints of Carling? Who did he think I was?
Sheepishly I rang Smashy to break the news, then wondered off to get a taxi home - crestfallen. And a stag weekend just 14 days away.
Saturday and Wren came over to show some sympathy. We watched Manchester United somehow get hammered 4-1 at home to Liverpool, then wandered into town to pick up some bits and pieces. Wren's mum gave me an M&S giftcard for Christmas and I had been scratching my head what to do with it. Then it struck me. Cookware!
I bought a very nice blue casserole dish and vowed to make use of it that night, putting together a bouef bourginon for our tea.
Shock of shocks, I got home to catch up with the footie scores to find the Gas had won 5-0 away at Walsall - play offs here we come! Lucky I cancelled that first wedding date.
Wren and I then watched our fave new series, The Wire, on dvd. It is an excellent show - up there on a level with the Sopranos and the West Wing about a bunch of diverse cops who are trying to bring down a drug gang in Baltimore.
Then I cooked tea, of which more later.
Sunday and Wren had to return to Bristol for work so I met up with the Prince in the pub to watch the English rugby team finally remember how to play the game. The French, though, what happened to them? This is a team who outplayed Grand Slam winning Wales a couple of weeks ago and now folded as quickly as you could say "sacre bleu". England led 29-0 at half time, for god's sake. It all means Wales are left to try to stop Ireland winning the Grand Slam next week and hopefully taking the Six Nations crown in the process.
The Prince had been having a quiet afternoon. By the time I met him at around 3.30 he was only on his fourth pint!
"Well, I had a big bottle of Becks before leaving the house, then went to the Beverley for my lunch. It took so long for them to cook my steak (he probably means about 10 minutes) that I had another two pints of Kronenberg to pass the time."
By the early evening he was professing: "I've got a bit of a buzz on" and demanding double vodkas. It was time to leave him to the night shift - Withers - who had turned up to join the party.
Anyway, Boeuf Bourginon.
You need:
2 tbsp sunflower oil
1lbs diced beef or thereabouts
four rashers of chopped bacon
4oz plain flour
One onion
One crushed garlic clove
8oz mushrooms
1/2 pint of red wine
pint of beef stock
bouquet garnet
fresh herbs to garnish.
To do:
Toss the beef in the flour then fry in the oil before transferring to casserole dish.
Fry the bacon until golden. Transfer to the dish
Fry the onions and garlic until the onions are soft, then add the mushrooms and cook before transferring to the dish.
Add the stock and red wine to the casserole dish, the bouquet garnet and salt and black pepper to taste.
Put in the oven for about an hour and a half until the meat is tender.
Garnish with herbs and serve with brown rice.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Bubble and Squeek
MORE bad news for Smashy. I think I may have underplayed the opponent he came face to face with. Rather than David v Goliath it turned out his work experience challenger was none other than a member of the famous professional wrestling tag team The Valleys Boys. Aforementioned Workie climbs into the ring every weekend with his brother and wrestles in his undies with other half-naked tough guys.
Our own heavyweight champ might think twice about taking him on in another verbal joust if he takes a peek at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0YSBQh-L6xo.
Meanwhile, it has been a very busy couple of days on Meeja Wales. The steam was coming out of my ears on Friday night when I realised the Snail was so far behind and that I was going to have to work above and beyond the call of duty to get things done. Still, when it was all over I was able to drown my sorrows with the usual suspects.
We started in the old new O'Neill's opposite the office where the Wonderful One was soon in full-scale rant. The pub was heaving with stag parties and hen nights and our favourite moaner wasn't too impressed. "Look at all these low lifes," he ranted, finger pointing towards the bar. "None of them are working, they are just spending our money on the beer, bumping into anyone they fancy and then shouting at them to get out of the way. I hate them, I hate them."
Thus, he managed to dismiss the entire city centre revellers in one sweeping statement.
Deciding to keep him out of trouble, we then proceeded to its sister pub the new old O'Neills where we were joined by the likes of Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes), the Prince of Darkness, Smashy, the solicitor and my lovely Wren.
It started to warm up nicely with a good solo act playing some rousing songs. It obviously inspired the Prince who soon returned from the bar with a tray of Sambuccas. It was all downhill after that.
On Sunday I cooked my famous Mascarpone Roast Chicken. Finding I had some veg left over, the following day it seemed only right to cook bubble and squeak with some very tasty bratwurst German sausages from Sainsbury's.
First, I peeled and chopped potatoes and put them on to boil for 10 to 12 minutes, adding some frozen peas five minutes from the end. When they were soft to the tip of a knife I added butter and milk, then mashed up the peas and potatoes together and added some savoy cabbage and parsnips left from the previous evening. Mashing them well, I then put on a frying pan and heated some olive oil flavoured with chilli, coriander and lavender then added scoops of the Bubble and Squeak and flattened it out in the pan.
Continually turning it in clumps as it browned I later served it up with some woodsmoke brown sauce from Sainsbury's and the sausages. It was delicious.
Monday night I joined the Fugitive, Shutts, Wathanovski, the Wonderful One, the Prince and Smashy in the boozer. On the way home I bumped into a taxi driver who just over a year ago told me he was emigrating to Italy to start his own olive farm.
What are you doing back? I asked.
Turns out he has only returned for a month having had a very successful first year growing olives for the Italians. In fact, the British ex-pat community even gave him an award for the best olive oil produced that year. A real Cardiff success story.
Our own heavyweight champ might think twice about taking him on in another verbal joust if he takes a peek at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0YSBQh-L6xo.
Meanwhile, it has been a very busy couple of days on Meeja Wales. The steam was coming out of my ears on Friday night when I realised the Snail was so far behind and that I was going to have to work above and beyond the call of duty to get things done. Still, when it was all over I was able to drown my sorrows with the usual suspects.
We started in the old new O'Neill's opposite the office where the Wonderful One was soon in full-scale rant. The pub was heaving with stag parties and hen nights and our favourite moaner wasn't too impressed. "Look at all these low lifes," he ranted, finger pointing towards the bar. "None of them are working, they are just spending our money on the beer, bumping into anyone they fancy and then shouting at them to get out of the way. I hate them, I hate them."
Thus, he managed to dismiss the entire city centre revellers in one sweeping statement.
Deciding to keep him out of trouble, we then proceeded to its sister pub the new old O'Neills where we were joined by the likes of Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes), the Prince of Darkness, Smashy, the solicitor and my lovely Wren.
It started to warm up nicely with a good solo act playing some rousing songs. It obviously inspired the Prince who soon returned from the bar with a tray of Sambuccas. It was all downhill after that.
On Sunday I cooked my famous Mascarpone Roast Chicken. Finding I had some veg left over, the following day it seemed only right to cook bubble and squeak with some very tasty bratwurst German sausages from Sainsbury's.
First, I peeled and chopped potatoes and put them on to boil for 10 to 12 minutes, adding some frozen peas five minutes from the end. When they were soft to the tip of a knife I added butter and milk, then mashed up the peas and potatoes together and added some savoy cabbage and parsnips left from the previous evening. Mashing them well, I then put on a frying pan and heated some olive oil flavoured with chilli, coriander and lavender then added scoops of the Bubble and Squeak and flattened it out in the pan.
Continually turning it in clumps as it browned I later served it up with some woodsmoke brown sauce from Sainsbury's and the sausages. It was delicious.
Monday night I joined the Fugitive, Shutts, Wathanovski, the Wonderful One, the Prince and Smashy in the boozer. On the way home I bumped into a taxi driver who just over a year ago told me he was emigrating to Italy to start his own olive farm.
What are you doing back? I asked.
Turns out he has only returned for a month having had a very successful first year growing olives for the Italians. In fact, the British ex-pat community even gave him an award for the best olive oil produced that year. A real Cardiff success story.
Friday, March 06, 2009
Saucy antics
ONE of my wayward cohorts - I can't reveal who other than to say he has a strong link with the legions of the undead - spent an interesting night out last night. Having been "roped into" a freebie at Cardiff club the Soda Bar with a buddy, he met up with a young lady who invited the two of them back to her place to carry on the party.
Wowie Wowie, thought the nameless one, grabbing two bottles of red wine and heading off into the night with young lady and pal. Next thing they know they are in a large flat in the city centre. Nice decor. Comfortable surrounding. Lots of space.
Well, there would have been lots of space if the pole hadn't been there. Yeh, the pole dancer's pole. Which the said young lady practices on, naked, before going to her job at one of the local sleaze emporiums.
Maybe you can guess the rest, but I'm gonna tell you anyway. Said young lady disappears to "slip into something more comfortable". The something in question happens to be, well, nothing. Apart from flesh coloured, see-through panties. And then, to the music of Marilyn Manson, she proceeds to give an impromptu 10-minute show for our two dumbstruck heroes.
But it doesn't end there. "I've done a show for you," she says, "now it's your turn".
So our reluctant hero, having sunk his usual gallon of alcohol during the evening, then has to fling himself around the pole. He tells us he was fully clothed, but my mind can't help thinking of Alan Partridge and his appearance in a gold-coloured codpiece and high heeled white boots gyrating in front of an imaginery audience.
The Boss was thrilled with the story as the unnamed one repeated it the following day. "So, did ye do all the twisting, turning and goin' upside doon?" he asked.
"I tried, mate, but I kept falling off. I'm surprised I didn't crack my skull," replied the hero of our story.
Anyway, at 3am in the morning the two ne-er-do-wells were sent packing into the night. The story, though, will live forever in the pantheon of journalistic legend.
Meanwhile Smashy, never one to back down in an argument, was locking horns with a work experience lad in the new old O'Neill's. The subject was rugby and whether the Lions and Welsh rugby international games should be played on the same day.
It was a bit like David v Goliath (Goliath being Smashy) or the heavyweight champion of Meeja Wales (again Smashy) against a mere lightweight. But the young 'un was giving as good as he got, standing toe to toe and arguing his case.
And then came the bitter moment that shocked the fascinated audience. It was like the moment that Lloyd Honeyghan knocked down Don "Cobra" Curry. Completed unexpected. A gigantic upset.
For, in just a few words, we knew Smashy was beaten. "Me: 20 years experience in rugby journalism. You: Four days!"
Yep, Smashy. That's the white towel thrown in, right there.
Wowie Wowie, thought the nameless one, grabbing two bottles of red wine and heading off into the night with young lady and pal. Next thing they know they are in a large flat in the city centre. Nice decor. Comfortable surrounding. Lots of space.
Well, there would have been lots of space if the pole hadn't been there. Yeh, the pole dancer's pole. Which the said young lady practices on, naked, before going to her job at one of the local sleaze emporiums.
Maybe you can guess the rest, but I'm gonna tell you anyway. Said young lady disappears to "slip into something more comfortable". The something in question happens to be, well, nothing. Apart from flesh coloured, see-through panties. And then, to the music of Marilyn Manson, she proceeds to give an impromptu 10-minute show for our two dumbstruck heroes.
But it doesn't end there. "I've done a show for you," she says, "now it's your turn".
So our reluctant hero, having sunk his usual gallon of alcohol during the evening, then has to fling himself around the pole. He tells us he was fully clothed, but my mind can't help thinking of Alan Partridge and his appearance in a gold-coloured codpiece and high heeled white boots gyrating in front of an imaginery audience.
The Boss was thrilled with the story as the unnamed one repeated it the following day. "So, did ye do all the twisting, turning and goin' upside doon?" he asked.
"I tried, mate, but I kept falling off. I'm surprised I didn't crack my skull," replied the hero of our story.
Anyway, at 3am in the morning the two ne-er-do-wells were sent packing into the night. The story, though, will live forever in the pantheon of journalistic legend.
Meanwhile Smashy, never one to back down in an argument, was locking horns with a work experience lad in the new old O'Neill's. The subject was rugby and whether the Lions and Welsh rugby international games should be played on the same day.
It was a bit like David v Goliath (Goliath being Smashy) or the heavyweight champion of Meeja Wales (again Smashy) against a mere lightweight. But the young 'un was giving as good as he got, standing toe to toe and arguing his case.
And then came the bitter moment that shocked the fascinated audience. It was like the moment that Lloyd Honeyghan knocked down Don "Cobra" Curry. Completed unexpected. A gigantic upset.
For, in just a few words, we knew Smashy was beaten. "Me: 20 years experience in rugby journalism. You: Four days!"
Yep, Smashy. That's the white towel thrown in, right there.
Thursday, March 05, 2009
savoury pancakes
MEANWHILE, back at chez Rippers, it was a pretty quiet weekend relaxing with Wren. We made a quick tour of the Roath farmers market where we managed to stock up on all those vital ingredients, like tea cakes and cheesy scones. Then we wandered into town to buy a few bits and pieces before settling down in the Tut to watch the England v Ireland rugby international and sup a few cheeky pints.
After that we spent the evening at home watching Gone, Baby Gone, the Ben Affleck-directed film which had received some good reviews. And very good it was, too.
On Sunday morning, having completely missed pancake day, I decided to rustle up a few for Wren, served with lemon and sugar. For myself, I saved the batter for later to make some nice savoury pancakes with a bolognese mixture I concocted.
During the afternoon I watched possibly the most boring afternoon's sport I can ever remember. The Carling Cup final between Manchester United and Spurs was a real yawn, won by United on penalties after 120 minutes of numbing footie. Turning over, there was no reprieve. Having scored 600 in their first innings of the Barbados Test, England sat back in the field and watched Ramnaresh Sarwan score 291 in a total of, wait for it, 749.
With the Munich boys back, I toddled off for a quick drink with the Wonderful Withers, or should we now call him Monkfish (I'm not convinced), in O'Neills on Tuesday and Wednesday. It has to be said that on Wednesday the Prince of Darkness was pushing the pace, declaring "I've got a bit of a buzz on" as, like a boomerang, he kept bouncing back to the bar more and more frequently.
Not being able to keep up (my liver was actually crying at one stage, I am convinced) I finally deserted my lager and wobbled off to get a taxi, managing in true Rippers style to leave everything I owned in the pub.
When I got back into the flat it hit me: My phone wasn't in any of my pockets. Aaargh! Don't you just hate that... all your contact numbers gone in a flash, no chance to tell Wren what has happened. I was about to stomp around the flat, rush out, book a taxi into town, reclaim the missing phone (and my lost tobacco) and then return home at the extravagant cost of about £12 when there was a knock at the door. Standing there was the taxi driver with my beloved mobile.
I couldn't stop thanking him... he must have thought I was a complete knob as I thrust one pound coin after another into his hand, saying "there you are mate, thanks, you deserve it". How did mobile phones become so important?
Years ago, at a Test match, I remember uproar when one person in the crowd started using his mobile phone. "Mate, if you don't stop talking now I will do something about it," said one of the disgruntled fans at Trent Bridge.
The bloke in question just ignored him and continued to conduct a mobile business conversation over the phone.
Suddenly, his inquisitor leaned over, snatched the phone off him and threw it from the top deck of the stand onto the pitch.
The phone owner was not best pleased and soon the man responsible was taken from the stand by police. As he walked out he was greeted by cries of "dring, dring", "dring, dring". And one wag looked in the direction of where the phone had been thrown, noticing the great fast bowler Courtney Walsh fielding on the boundary.
Mimicking the famous BT advert of the day, he shouted: "Hey Courtney, it's for you... hoo!"
After that we spent the evening at home watching Gone, Baby Gone, the Ben Affleck-directed film which had received some good reviews. And very good it was, too.
On Sunday morning, having completely missed pancake day, I decided to rustle up a few for Wren, served with lemon and sugar. For myself, I saved the batter for later to make some nice savoury pancakes with a bolognese mixture I concocted.
During the afternoon I watched possibly the most boring afternoon's sport I can ever remember. The Carling Cup final between Manchester United and Spurs was a real yawn, won by United on penalties after 120 minutes of numbing footie. Turning over, there was no reprieve. Having scored 600 in their first innings of the Barbados Test, England sat back in the field and watched Ramnaresh Sarwan score 291 in a total of, wait for it, 749.
With the Munich boys back, I toddled off for a quick drink with the Wonderful Withers, or should we now call him Monkfish (I'm not convinced), in O'Neills on Tuesday and Wednesday. It has to be said that on Wednesday the Prince of Darkness was pushing the pace, declaring "I've got a bit of a buzz on" as, like a boomerang, he kept bouncing back to the bar more and more frequently.
Not being able to keep up (my liver was actually crying at one stage, I am convinced) I finally deserted my lager and wobbled off to get a taxi, managing in true Rippers style to leave everything I owned in the pub.
When I got back into the flat it hit me: My phone wasn't in any of my pockets. Aaargh! Don't you just hate that... all your contact numbers gone in a flash, no chance to tell Wren what has happened. I was about to stomp around the flat, rush out, book a taxi into town, reclaim the missing phone (and my lost tobacco) and then return home at the extravagant cost of about £12 when there was a knock at the door. Standing there was the taxi driver with my beloved mobile.
I couldn't stop thanking him... he must have thought I was a complete knob as I thrust one pound coin after another into his hand, saying "there you are mate, thanks, you deserve it". How did mobile phones become so important?
Years ago, at a Test match, I remember uproar when one person in the crowd started using his mobile phone. "Mate, if you don't stop talking now I will do something about it," said one of the disgruntled fans at Trent Bridge.
The bloke in question just ignored him and continued to conduct a mobile business conversation over the phone.
Suddenly, his inquisitor leaned over, snatched the phone off him and threw it from the top deck of the stand onto the pitch.
The phone owner was not best pleased and soon the man responsible was taken from the stand by police. As he walked out he was greeted by cries of "dring, dring", "dring, dring". And one wag looked in the direction of where the phone had been thrown, noticing the great fast bowler Courtney Walsh fielding on the boundary.
Mimicking the famous BT advert of the day, he shouted: "Hey Courtney, it's for you... hoo!"
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
Are there any true vegetarians?
NEWS reaches me of dramatic events at a weekend Beerfest in Bavaria. Paps had arranged the trip some time ago to see in his 40th year and dragged along some of the usual suspects on a trip to Munich.
At the moment only dregs of information are coming through, like the fact that the Wonderful Withers decided that during the trip he would only answer to the name of Monkfish (bizarre!) and that Smashy met up with a Bayern Munich basketball star who originally hailed from Port Talbot.
Perhaps the strangest story, though, was of everyone's favourite conscientious objector Withers (not that he has a conscience) actually stuffing his face with Bratwurst and declaring: "I'm not a vegetarian when I am in Germany."
Now, I don't know about you, but I thought these veggie lovers had taken some kind of oath, refusing to eat meat because it was cruel to the cutesy wootsie animals which we dedicated carnivores tuck into at every opportunity. I didn't know it was a matter of Geography, plain and simple.
Perhaps the animals of the Fatherland are particularly uncute and deserve to be sent squeeling to their death in the local abbartoire before being served up on a platter, the life grilled out of them, for Withers to tuck his gnashers into with relish (least I expect he took it with relish).
I would like to think this was a one-off incident of a dedicated vegetarian ripping up his principles to slaver over a hot roasted carcass. Not so.
Only the other day one of our features designers, 'The Hippy', declared that he too had turned his back on all things rabbit food and was now regularly gorging on any juicy sausage, chop or chicken leg he could find.
And, of course, there was the famous case of Sarah 'not guilty' Me Lud, the Scottish reporter, who, when asked if she was a vegetarian, said "Only sometimes".
Nice to have a real conviction about something.
At the moment only dregs of information are coming through, like the fact that the Wonderful Withers decided that during the trip he would only answer to the name of Monkfish (bizarre!) and that Smashy met up with a Bayern Munich basketball star who originally hailed from Port Talbot.
Perhaps the strangest story, though, was of everyone's favourite conscientious objector Withers (not that he has a conscience) actually stuffing his face with Bratwurst and declaring: "I'm not a vegetarian when I am in Germany."
Now, I don't know about you, but I thought these veggie lovers had taken some kind of oath, refusing to eat meat because it was cruel to the cutesy wootsie animals which we dedicated carnivores tuck into at every opportunity. I didn't know it was a matter of Geography, plain and simple.
Perhaps the animals of the Fatherland are particularly uncute and deserve to be sent squeeling to their death in the local abbartoire before being served up on a platter, the life grilled out of them, for Withers to tuck his gnashers into with relish (least I expect he took it with relish).
I would like to think this was a one-off incident of a dedicated vegetarian ripping up his principles to slaver over a hot roasted carcass. Not so.
Only the other day one of our features designers, 'The Hippy', declared that he too had turned his back on all things rabbit food and was now regularly gorging on any juicy sausage, chop or chicken leg he could find.
And, of course, there was the famous case of Sarah 'not guilty' Me Lud, the Scottish reporter, who, when asked if she was a vegetarian, said "Only sometimes".
Nice to have a real conviction about something.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Stir Fried Lamb with Baby Onions and Peppers
THE tallest man in the world is now 30 - which is surprising really because the way he used to jump around the office playing pattacake with the girls I always assumed he was between 6 and 10. Still, it was a good night out on Saturday for Shuttsy's big bash in the Copa. I toddled up there with Paps, Wren and Jarhead (the p*ss artist formerly known as Roberts and The Fugitive) where we then met up with Wathanovski and the teacher, the Prince of Darkness and the wonderful Withers of WoS.
It was a good, relatively sober night until the Prince noticed that the bloke next to him at the bar had ordered a tray of Sambuccas - then it was all hell let loose. Well, not too bad but certain members of our clan certainly felt the affects of the aniseed flavoured shots more than others.
Shutts himself was off to the Prince's favourite club, Six Feet Under, and it wasn't long before the Prince himself, his cuffs flowing in the breeze like some Dickensian character out of David Copperfield, followed suit.
Meanwhile, Wathanovski was dragged off to catch the last train and the remnants of us ended up in the new old O'Neills. There was some decent music going on and the wonderful one was certainly taken by it. He was swaying away to the hip tunes until we realised that he was still swaying when the music stopped. Uh oh, tooth-smashing time!
He kept telling Paps "Am goona fixsh you oop wisha luvvly grill..." pointing at some elephant shaped beauty on the dancefloor. Paps, needless to say, wasn't too impressed. Then the Wonderful One wanted to impress the clientele in Six Feet Under but I had other ideas, on the basis that we were getting fitted for wedding suits on Sunday morning. So as Jarhead went off clubbing, Wren, Paps and I poured our inebriated friend into the back of the taxi and deposited him at his door.
Next day my pal "I can do it, I'll B&Q it" (his name has changed from Gareth the Builder since he went on the straight and narrow and gave up trying to be a self-employed layabout) walked into town where a glazed looking best man was there to greet us. But there was one person missing, my other usher Jarhead. The text arrived soon afterwards "Sorry mate, overslept. Late one last night."
Still, eventually he turned up and a very bossy young lady (fair play she had to be with the state we were in) measured us up for our wedding finery in Slater Bros. A job that would normally take about 30 minutes was closer to an hour as I had to debate the vagueries of which pink my tie was supposed to be. "I think its dusty pink, but god knows what that looks like" I told the patient attendant.
Anyway, the job was finally done and as the Wonderful One disappeared off to news edit the Eggo (relaunch day, an important one really to put an empty headed, recovering drunk in control of I would have thought) Jarhead, Mr B&Q it and I retired to the boozer for a relaxing few pints and Sunday lunch. Not a bad weekend really.
Made a nice little lamb dish the other day so without further ado here it goes...
INGREDIENTS:
8oz lean lamb, cut into strips
1 tsp ground cumin
1 tsp ground coriander
1 tbsp tomato puree
1 tsp chilli powder
1 tsp salt
1 tbsp lemon juice
1 tbsp oil
8 baby onions
1/2tsp onion seeds
4 curry leaves
1 1/4 cups water
1 small red pepper
1 small green pepper
1 tbsp fresh coriander
1 tbsp chopped fresh mint
TO DO:
Mix lamb with cumin, coriander, puree, chilli salt and lemon juice. Set aside.
Heat wok and stir fry whole baby onions for three minutes.
Scoop out with a slotted spoon.
Reheat oil and stir fry onion seeds and curry leaves for 2-3 minutes.
Add lamb and spice and stir fry for five minutes, add water, lower heat and cook for 10 minutes until lamb is cooked through.
Add peppers, half the coriander and mint, stir fry for two minutes.
Return baby onions to the wok, heat through, sprinkle over remainder of coriander and mint and serve with brown rice.
It was a good, relatively sober night until the Prince noticed that the bloke next to him at the bar had ordered a tray of Sambuccas - then it was all hell let loose. Well, not too bad but certain members of our clan certainly felt the affects of the aniseed flavoured shots more than others.
Shutts himself was off to the Prince's favourite club, Six Feet Under, and it wasn't long before the Prince himself, his cuffs flowing in the breeze like some Dickensian character out of David Copperfield, followed suit.
Meanwhile, Wathanovski was dragged off to catch the last train and the remnants of us ended up in the new old O'Neills. There was some decent music going on and the wonderful one was certainly taken by it. He was swaying away to the hip tunes until we realised that he was still swaying when the music stopped. Uh oh, tooth-smashing time!
He kept telling Paps "Am goona fixsh you oop wisha luvvly grill..." pointing at some elephant shaped beauty on the dancefloor. Paps, needless to say, wasn't too impressed. Then the Wonderful One wanted to impress the clientele in Six Feet Under but I had other ideas, on the basis that we were getting fitted for wedding suits on Sunday morning. So as Jarhead went off clubbing, Wren, Paps and I poured our inebriated friend into the back of the taxi and deposited him at his door.
Next day my pal "I can do it, I'll B&Q it" (his name has changed from Gareth the Builder since he went on the straight and narrow and gave up trying to be a self-employed layabout) walked into town where a glazed looking best man was there to greet us. But there was one person missing, my other usher Jarhead. The text arrived soon afterwards "Sorry mate, overslept. Late one last night."
Still, eventually he turned up and a very bossy young lady (fair play she had to be with the state we were in) measured us up for our wedding finery in Slater Bros. A job that would normally take about 30 minutes was closer to an hour as I had to debate the vagueries of which pink my tie was supposed to be. "I think its dusty pink, but god knows what that looks like" I told the patient attendant.
Anyway, the job was finally done and as the Wonderful One disappeared off to news edit the Eggo (relaunch day, an important one really to put an empty headed, recovering drunk in control of I would have thought) Jarhead, Mr B&Q it and I retired to the boozer for a relaxing few pints and Sunday lunch. Not a bad weekend really.
Made a nice little lamb dish the other day so without further ado here it goes...
INGREDIENTS:
8oz lean lamb, cut into strips
1 tsp ground cumin
1 tsp ground coriander
1 tbsp tomato puree
1 tsp chilli powder
1 tsp salt
1 tbsp lemon juice
1 tbsp oil
8 baby onions
1/2tsp onion seeds
4 curry leaves
1 1/4 cups water
1 small red pepper
1 small green pepper
1 tbsp fresh coriander
1 tbsp chopped fresh mint
TO DO:
Mix lamb with cumin, coriander, puree, chilli salt and lemon juice. Set aside.
Heat wok and stir fry whole baby onions for three minutes.
Scoop out with a slotted spoon.
Reheat oil and stir fry onion seeds and curry leaves for 2-3 minutes.
Add lamb and spice and stir fry for five minutes, add water, lower heat and cook for 10 minutes until lamb is cooked through.
Add peppers, half the coriander and mint, stir fry for two minutes.
Return baby onions to the wok, heat through, sprinkle over remainder of coriander and mint and serve with brown rice.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Two large meateor pizzas
I woke up this morning and thought my intended had gone all Manuel on me. You know, Manuel, the Spanish waiter from Fawlty Towers.
We had been discussing Cuba for a while and she started going "Que?". Well, it sounded like "Que?" anyway. "It's a real shame," announced the light of my life, "that Que isn't out on video until after we get back off Honeymoon."
"Que? What?" I responded.
"Que 1," she said. "It is a film."
Ah, I thought, she is stringing me along. At any moment now she is going to tell me the sequel is called K2 and is about a mountain in the Himalayas.
In fact, that is exactly what she did say. There is a sequel called K2 due out in the cinemas. And she was deadly serious.
Then I thought deeply about it and gradually the pieces came together. We are going to Cuba, she wants to see a film called K or Que? And the other day Benicio del Toro was on Jonathon Woss talking about his new film, a sequel, called... Che! About Che Guevara, one of the most famous revolutionaries of all time.
I couldn't help it, I was falling around laughing. Poor Wren, looked exceedingly embarrassed. "What?" she asked.
"You mean Che... Che Guevara. Not K Guevara. What did you think the K stood for? Kevin?"
We had a bit of an internet crisis last night. Everyone swears by the internet, including Wren. "Oh, why don't we do it on the Net?" They are always saying. The whole thing is inclined to drive me potty, particularly when Wren's laptop struggles to get a signal at my gaffe.
Anyway the plan was to order a large meteor pizza, spicy chicken pieces and an extra hot sauce.
Of course, we had to go through the normal on line ordering process. Name, address, postcode etc etc, followed by all the credit card details. After that it was just a question of clicking the mouse and ... waiting... and waiting... and waiting... After five minutes hoping for the confirmation of our advert up came that well known page... This page cannot be displayed. Drat.
We decided to go right throught he same rigmarole again. Fortunately this time it worked.
Within two minutes of finishing our ordering there was a knock at the door. Wow, that was quick. The pizza man burst my bubble a bit though. "You guys have ordered two pizzas," he said.
"Bloody internet's fault!" I responded.
"You can still cancel," he told me.
Ah, what the hell. I love meateor pizza and so does Wren...
We had been discussing Cuba for a while and she started going "Que?". Well, it sounded like "Que?" anyway. "It's a real shame," announced the light of my life, "that Que isn't out on video until after we get back off Honeymoon."
"Que? What?" I responded.
"Que 1," she said. "It is a film."
Ah, I thought, she is stringing me along. At any moment now she is going to tell me the sequel is called K2 and is about a mountain in the Himalayas.
In fact, that is exactly what she did say. There is a sequel called K2 due out in the cinemas. And she was deadly serious.
Then I thought deeply about it and gradually the pieces came together. We are going to Cuba, she wants to see a film called K or Que? And the other day Benicio del Toro was on Jonathon Woss talking about his new film, a sequel, called... Che! About Che Guevara, one of the most famous revolutionaries of all time.
I couldn't help it, I was falling around laughing. Poor Wren, looked exceedingly embarrassed. "What?" she asked.
"You mean Che... Che Guevara. Not K Guevara. What did you think the K stood for? Kevin?"
We had a bit of an internet crisis last night. Everyone swears by the internet, including Wren. "Oh, why don't we do it on the Net?" They are always saying. The whole thing is inclined to drive me potty, particularly when Wren's laptop struggles to get a signal at my gaffe.
Anyway the plan was to order a large meteor pizza, spicy chicken pieces and an extra hot sauce.
Of course, we had to go through the normal on line ordering process. Name, address, postcode etc etc, followed by all the credit card details. After that it was just a question of clicking the mouse and ... waiting... and waiting... and waiting... After five minutes hoping for the confirmation of our advert up came that well known page... This page cannot be displayed. Drat.
We decided to go right throught he same rigmarole again. Fortunately this time it worked.
Within two minutes of finishing our ordering there was a knock at the door. Wow, that was quick. The pizza man burst my bubble a bit though. "You guys have ordered two pizzas," he said.
"Bloody internet's fault!" I responded.
"You can still cancel," he told me.
Ah, what the hell. I love meateor pizza and so does Wren...
Friday, February 20, 2009
One lonely chip
THE wonderful Withers is back from his idea of heaven - a trip to the European parliament in Brussels. He talks about it as if he's been swimming with dolphins, watched a World Cup final and bungee jumped off Mount Everest. To be honest, the whole thing sounds like my idea of hell.
Still, he made sure all those Euro politicians had something to do for a change, spending hours in conversation with them about the EU (yawn).
His exciting week began in Crewe where he told his relatives that he was refraining from the booze because he had a big week coming up. As it was, he managed to go to the land of Stella Artois and Michelob and didn't touch a drop of alcohol. Yes, it was that exciting.
He did, however, manage to go to a thoroughly modern restaurant which totally flummoxed the wonderful one. As a starter, they were confronted with some contraption containing four test tubes. After consulting with his colleagues he came to the conclusion he didn't have the faintest idea what he was supposed to do with them and was forced to ask a waiter. Turned out they contained potato soup and you were supposed to drink from them.
But that was even surpassed by the second course, which contained one solitary chip in a puddle of Hollandais Sauce. Might attempt that one myself - you never know it could be a winning recipe if I ever appear on Masterchef.
Returning to the land of the living, Withers joined us at the new old O'Neills where, after a heated debate about the merits of the Welsh language, we wound our way home. I was still a bit upset, to be honest, England having failed to win a Test match in Antigua when they couldn't take the final wicket despite having 10 overs in which to do so. For we England cricket supporters, things just go from bad to worse.
Still, he made sure all those Euro politicians had something to do for a change, spending hours in conversation with them about the EU (yawn).
His exciting week began in Crewe where he told his relatives that he was refraining from the booze because he had a big week coming up. As it was, he managed to go to the land of Stella Artois and Michelob and didn't touch a drop of alcohol. Yes, it was that exciting.
He did, however, manage to go to a thoroughly modern restaurant which totally flummoxed the wonderful one. As a starter, they were confronted with some contraption containing four test tubes. After consulting with his colleagues he came to the conclusion he didn't have the faintest idea what he was supposed to do with them and was forced to ask a waiter. Turned out they contained potato soup and you were supposed to drink from them.
But that was even surpassed by the second course, which contained one solitary chip in a puddle of Hollandais Sauce. Might attempt that one myself - you never know it could be a winning recipe if I ever appear on Masterchef.
Returning to the land of the living, Withers joined us at the new old O'Neills where, after a heated debate about the merits of the Welsh language, we wound our way home. I was still a bit upset, to be honest, England having failed to win a Test match in Antigua when they couldn't take the final wicket despite having 10 overs in which to do so. For we England cricket supporters, things just go from bad to worse.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
The spicy German sausage hut
I HAD one of those socially awkward moments on Saturday. You know the type, you are waiting to get served at the bar and you bump into a former friend from many moons ago, and can't remember for the life of you what their name is. So you get a stilted conversation which goes something like this...
FORMER FRIEND: Hello, Rippers, how are you? Lovely to see you (luvvies kiss, kiss)
ME: Yeah, and you ummm... And how are you these days? Haven't seen you for ages (Brain: What's her name? What's her name? What's her name?)
FORMER FRIEND: Well, we're just going to take our drinks outside (subtext: Come and see us when you've been served)
ME TO MY BRAIN: (What on earth is her name you alcohol soaked piece of sponge. Come on! You used to go out drinking with her on international afternoons. She's a former workmate of your friend Jane, she used to be best pals with Scooby's ex)
Nothing. Despite all the prompting.
By this time I've been served and take the drinks out to Wren in the beer garden of the Wig and Pen. Just by coincidence my former "friend" and her pals are on the next table to us. Which presents another Social catastrophe. How to introduce my future wife to this former "pal forever".
"Hi this is Wren, Wren this is gmfmgmgg (in very quiet voice)
WREN: "Sorry, dear, didn't catch that. What's her name?"
You wait for the former friend to help you out, but she just leaves it up to you to repeat the introduction...
This whole conversation, by the way, is taking place in my brain while I hide behind my fiancee and hope no one notices me. Wren says, "Shouldn't we go over and speak to them?"
"No, babe, we can't." I explain the dilemma.
"But they'll be expecting you to."
"I know. I think I'll text Scooby. Ask him who it is..."
Which I do, anxiously staring at the phone, waiting for the reply.
Nothing.
So I then have a brainwave. "I just need to go to the loo, babe."
Sneaking through the bar I emerge at the front door and quickly tap Jane's number into my phone. "The person you are calling isn't available at the moment. Please leave a message..."
I swear at the phone. Bloody Jane. Don't know why you have a phone. You NEVER answer it. What's the point.
Second brainwave. I ring her brother Peter. Another member of that crowd we used to go out with many moons ago.
Thank God. He does answer his phone.
I describe the "former friend".
"Sorry mate. Jane's slightly red-headed mate? Can't think who you are talking about."
By now, to Wren, this must seem the longest wazz in history.
"Yeah, you do. You know, used to go out with Scooby's ex."
"Oh, you mean Toni."
"YES, YES, YES. Toni, that's it. Thanks mate, brilliant. I owe you."
I walked back through the bar, pleased as punch. I envisage guiding Wren over to the table and making the introductions. "Wren this is Toni, Toni this is Wren my bride to be."
I emerge into the beer garden with a smile on my face... everything is fine now.
Except Toni and her friends have gone. They probably left cursing what a rude bloke that Rippers is, not bringing his girlfriend over to meet them. Aaaargh!
Anyone, it was a pretty good day. Wren and I walked into town and were delighted to find a German brockwurst concession stand in the middle of Queen Street. That solved the brekky problem. I had a spicy sausage in a bun with curry ketchup while Wren settled for the more traditional fare. Yummy. Glad to say it was still there when I walked in to work the following Tuesday, too, so I may be visiting again before long.
After that it was the aforementioned visit to the Wig and Pen, then back home with a juicy fat steak I bought from the market. We settled down to watch Wales beat England in a tremendous rugby game after I had first celebrated Valentine's Day with a terrific result for the Gas at high-flying Scunthorpe - a 2-0 win. Wren must have been delighted, no miserable boyfriend on February 14.
That night we had a lovely steak with saute new potatoes, mushrooms, tomatoes and my own pepper sauce concoction. Very nice. We also watched the first episode of Cracker, having bought the whole 11 dvd series for just £35. Astonishingly, we counted up that we had bought 21 dvd's in all on Saturday morning, when I originally insisted that it wasn't to be a shopping trip.
On Sunday we drove out to Morrisons for some shopping then, it being the nicest day of the year so far, went down to the seafront in Penarth and walked around the lovely Alexander Park. After that it was off to the Odeon to watch the terrific Danny Boyle film Slumdog Millionaire. All the plaudits for it weren't exaggerated, a totally originally film with a real feelgood factor attached. We can highly recommend it.
FORMER FRIEND: Hello, Rippers, how are you? Lovely to see you (luvvies kiss, kiss)
ME: Yeah, and you ummm... And how are you these days? Haven't seen you for ages (Brain: What's her name? What's her name? What's her name?)
FORMER FRIEND: Well, we're just going to take our drinks outside (subtext: Come and see us when you've been served)
ME TO MY BRAIN: (What on earth is her name you alcohol soaked piece of sponge. Come on! You used to go out drinking with her on international afternoons. She's a former workmate of your friend Jane, she used to be best pals with Scooby's ex)
Nothing. Despite all the prompting.
By this time I've been served and take the drinks out to Wren in the beer garden of the Wig and Pen. Just by coincidence my former "friend" and her pals are on the next table to us. Which presents another Social catastrophe. How to introduce my future wife to this former "pal forever".
"Hi this is Wren, Wren this is gmfmgmgg (in very quiet voice)
WREN: "Sorry, dear, didn't catch that. What's her name?"
You wait for the former friend to help you out, but she just leaves it up to you to repeat the introduction...
This whole conversation, by the way, is taking place in my brain while I hide behind my fiancee and hope no one notices me. Wren says, "Shouldn't we go over and speak to them?"
"No, babe, we can't." I explain the dilemma.
"But they'll be expecting you to."
"I know. I think I'll text Scooby. Ask him who it is..."
Which I do, anxiously staring at the phone, waiting for the reply.
Nothing.
So I then have a brainwave. "I just need to go to the loo, babe."
Sneaking through the bar I emerge at the front door and quickly tap Jane's number into my phone. "The person you are calling isn't available at the moment. Please leave a message..."
I swear at the phone. Bloody Jane. Don't know why you have a phone. You NEVER answer it. What's the point.
Second brainwave. I ring her brother Peter. Another member of that crowd we used to go out with many moons ago.
Thank God. He does answer his phone.
I describe the "former friend".
"Sorry mate. Jane's slightly red-headed mate? Can't think who you are talking about."
By now, to Wren, this must seem the longest wazz in history.
"Yeah, you do. You know, used to go out with Scooby's ex."
"Oh, you mean Toni."
"YES, YES, YES. Toni, that's it. Thanks mate, brilliant. I owe you."
I walked back through the bar, pleased as punch. I envisage guiding Wren over to the table and making the introductions. "Wren this is Toni, Toni this is Wren my bride to be."
I emerge into the beer garden with a smile on my face... everything is fine now.
Except Toni and her friends have gone. They probably left cursing what a rude bloke that Rippers is, not bringing his girlfriend over to meet them. Aaaargh!
Anyone, it was a pretty good day. Wren and I walked into town and were delighted to find a German brockwurst concession stand in the middle of Queen Street. That solved the brekky problem. I had a spicy sausage in a bun with curry ketchup while Wren settled for the more traditional fare. Yummy. Glad to say it was still there when I walked in to work the following Tuesday, too, so I may be visiting again before long.
After that it was the aforementioned visit to the Wig and Pen, then back home with a juicy fat steak I bought from the market. We settled down to watch Wales beat England in a tremendous rugby game after I had first celebrated Valentine's Day with a terrific result for the Gas at high-flying Scunthorpe - a 2-0 win. Wren must have been delighted, no miserable boyfriend on February 14.
That night we had a lovely steak with saute new potatoes, mushrooms, tomatoes and my own pepper sauce concoction. Very nice. We also watched the first episode of Cracker, having bought the whole 11 dvd series for just £35. Astonishingly, we counted up that we had bought 21 dvd's in all on Saturday morning, when I originally insisted that it wasn't to be a shopping trip.
On Sunday we drove out to Morrisons for some shopping then, it being the nicest day of the year so far, went down to the seafront in Penarth and walked around the lovely Alexander Park. After that it was off to the Odeon to watch the terrific Danny Boyle film Slumdog Millionaire. All the plaudits for it weren't exaggerated, a totally originally film with a real feelgood factor attached. We can highly recommend it.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Meatloaf (two out of three aint bad)
SO the big stag do is all systems go. We're off to sunny Brighton at the end of March to stay in a hip little five-star hotel called the Blue Lagoon or, as Rosey commented, "Well done, Withers, it looks suitably awful!" Mind you, we can't all live in the lap of luxury in London's yuppyland, can we?
It looks like there is going to be 21 of us, so man-management will be key. Unfortunately, we've got the Wonderful One in charge who finds it hard enough to manage himself on any given day.
Still, should be fun and I'm really looking forward to seeing friends I haven't been in touch with for a while.
I am sure that, eventually, I will have sobered up enough to write about it on the blog, even though the portrayal might not be completely accurate due to the fact I have lost so many memory cells thanks to alcohol over the years that I must be in the minuses now. I won't, however, let the facts get in the way of a good story, you can be assured.
The Wonderful One has another take on the matter. "You'll have four pints, go into a rant and shout 'I'm going home'." I hope not, it's a costly taxi ride back from Brighton.
Wren's hen do, after some initial planning hiccups, also seems to be progressing nicely. They are booking in for a Spa weekend in Devon.
It's been a pretty quiet week, to be honest. Went out on Sunday with Paps and the Prince of Darkness to watch the Wales v Scotland rugby match, a convincing win for the Welsh at Murrayfield. We saw the game in the new old O'Neill's and then went on to the the City Arms where we bumped into the Boss's Disney pals Biff, Griff, Jiff and... well, only Biff really. Paps and I, having supped a leisurely few beers, decided it was time to head for the hills but I understand the Prince and Biff went on to a private party in the Hilton with a free bar. That's what I call stamina.
On Wednesday I joined the Prince and Withers for a beer after a very busy day at work. It was back to old O'Neil's where the Little Bowling Ball was holding court with some of his dodgy pals while a couple of musicians strummed away in the background. During the day I had paid for our 10-day honeymoon to Cuba where we will spend three days in Havana and seven days at a beach resort. Sounds great.
My opportunities to cook these days have been severely impinged upon by my new working hours at Meeja Wales, so I have to dig back into the past to find a recipe for you. I had a nice meatloaf from the hot counter at Morrisons on Tuesday but thought I would give you my own meatloaf recipe. The first time I cooked it I got it slightly wrong but since then I have done it twice and it has come out nicely. As the song goes "two out of three aint bad" (had to write that to tie in with the name of this blog entry!)
MEATLOAF WITH PORCINI AND BACON
You need:
70g white breadcrumbs
Milk
dried porcini mushrooms
two leeks
butter
Chopped parsley (handful)
400g ground beef
75g smoked bacon (chopped)
2 cloves diced garlic
grated parmesan cheese
To do:
Set oven to 200c/gas mark 6.
Tear bread into chunks and put into a dish with milk to cover.
Leave until the break is saturated.
Put mushrooms in bowl with warm water.
Slice leeks in half lengthways then into small dice.
Wash in colander.
Melt butter in deep pan.
Add leeks and parsley
Leave to soften but don't brown.
Remove leek from the pan. Add the beef and bacon to the pan
Leave to brown before stirring.
Return leeks to pan then add garlic and mushrooms drained of their liquid and chopped.
Wring out breadcrumbs and stir into the mixture with salt, pepper and parmesan.
Put meat into a casserole dish and smooth flat.
Then put the tin inside a baking dish and fill the dish up with hot water to come half way up the casserole dish.
Place in oven and leave for an hour.
Leave to settle for 10 minutes before slicing and serving.
It looks like there is going to be 21 of us, so man-management will be key. Unfortunately, we've got the Wonderful One in charge who finds it hard enough to manage himself on any given day.
Still, should be fun and I'm really looking forward to seeing friends I haven't been in touch with for a while.
I am sure that, eventually, I will have sobered up enough to write about it on the blog, even though the portrayal might not be completely accurate due to the fact I have lost so many memory cells thanks to alcohol over the years that I must be in the minuses now. I won't, however, let the facts get in the way of a good story, you can be assured.
The Wonderful One has another take on the matter. "You'll have four pints, go into a rant and shout 'I'm going home'." I hope not, it's a costly taxi ride back from Brighton.
Wren's hen do, after some initial planning hiccups, also seems to be progressing nicely. They are booking in for a Spa weekend in Devon.
It's been a pretty quiet week, to be honest. Went out on Sunday with Paps and the Prince of Darkness to watch the Wales v Scotland rugby match, a convincing win for the Welsh at Murrayfield. We saw the game in the new old O'Neill's and then went on to the the City Arms where we bumped into the Boss's Disney pals Biff, Griff, Jiff and... well, only Biff really. Paps and I, having supped a leisurely few beers, decided it was time to head for the hills but I understand the Prince and Biff went on to a private party in the Hilton with a free bar. That's what I call stamina.
On Wednesday I joined the Prince and Withers for a beer after a very busy day at work. It was back to old O'Neil's where the Little Bowling Ball was holding court with some of his dodgy pals while a couple of musicians strummed away in the background. During the day I had paid for our 10-day honeymoon to Cuba where we will spend three days in Havana and seven days at a beach resort. Sounds great.
My opportunities to cook these days have been severely impinged upon by my new working hours at Meeja Wales, so I have to dig back into the past to find a recipe for you. I had a nice meatloaf from the hot counter at Morrisons on Tuesday but thought I would give you my own meatloaf recipe. The first time I cooked it I got it slightly wrong but since then I have done it twice and it has come out nicely. As the song goes "two out of three aint bad" (had to write that to tie in with the name of this blog entry!)
MEATLOAF WITH PORCINI AND BACON
You need:
70g white breadcrumbs
Milk
dried porcini mushrooms
two leeks
butter
Chopped parsley (handful)
400g ground beef
75g smoked bacon (chopped)
2 cloves diced garlic
grated parmesan cheese
To do:
Set oven to 200c/gas mark 6.
Tear bread into chunks and put into a dish with milk to cover.
Leave until the break is saturated.
Put mushrooms in bowl with warm water.
Slice leeks in half lengthways then into small dice.
Wash in colander.
Melt butter in deep pan.
Add leeks and parsley
Leave to soften but don't brown.
Remove leek from the pan. Add the beef and bacon to the pan
Leave to brown before stirring.
Return leeks to pan then add garlic and mushrooms drained of their liquid and chopped.
Wring out breadcrumbs and stir into the mixture with salt, pepper and parmesan.
Put meat into a casserole dish and smooth flat.
Then put the tin inside a baking dish and fill the dish up with hot water to come half way up the casserole dish.
Place in oven and leave for an hour.
Leave to settle for 10 minutes before slicing and serving.
Saturday, February 07, 2009
Mighty chilli weather
IT'S been an eventful week weather-wise, both Severn bridges were shut on Friday due to heavy snowfalls and thousands of Welsh rugby fans were stranded at Bristol airport because flights to Edinburgh were grounded as they tried to get to the opening Six Nations match.
Closer to home and the Prince of Darkness was thinking of warmer climes. He and the Wonderful One having bumped into a couple of fun-loving Antipodean Laydees in the new old O'Neills.
The Prince described their first meeting thus. "This blond girl was being hounded by a drunk and I went to the rescue."
I wondered about this a great deal. Could it be that the dark Lord was actually having an out-of-body experience and it was looking down on himself badgering the poor lady? Then again, maybe he had caught sight of himself in the mirror. But that wouldn't be possible. According to all the folklore, you cannot see a vampire's reflection.
Anyway, having escaped the clutches of one drunk, the poor visitor to our shores fell into the hands of another. She and her friend soon got chatting to our pair of ne'er-do-wells. The girls explained that they had been staying in London and fancied a trip to see some other hidden treasures of the UK. I'm not sure if the evil Lord and the miserable Withers really fit into that category.
Having hired a car they drove until they could drive no more and ended up in fair Cardiff, where they unsuspectingly fell among thieves. At three in the morning, having been promised the best nightlife the city had to offer, they ended up in the Prince's crypt - or rather, his favourite boozer Six Feet Under. Apparently an enjoyable night was had by all.
Interestingly, a couple of days later one of the young ladies got in touch by e-mail. Having thanked the Prince for his hospitality she went on to ask about the well-being of the Wonderful One. "He strikes me as a person who needs some lovin'" she said.
Later, it was the wonderful one who got an e-mail, this one describing the Prince as looking like "a rundown Hugh Grant". What a perceptive judge of character she must be.
Meanwhile, poor old Wren has been off work with the lurgy this week. I have been quite good, really, though I did go out and sink a few cheeky ones on Wednesday and Friday night. I left the usual suspects in town last night, though, and was intrigued to learn that the Prince of Darkness had taken to the karaoke in the Model Inn late on Friday night, warbling his rendition of "Like a Rolling Stone". Keith Richard, I would humbly suggest.
Paps has been pushing the merits of his homemade Chilli Sauce this week, and a pot of the stuff duly landed on my desk. Since then I have been having it on cold meat sandwiches and even used it to accompany a tin of Stagg chilli I lazily heated in the microwave the other night. Top stuff.
Closer to home and the Prince of Darkness was thinking of warmer climes. He and the Wonderful One having bumped into a couple of fun-loving Antipodean Laydees in the new old O'Neills.
The Prince described their first meeting thus. "This blond girl was being hounded by a drunk and I went to the rescue."
I wondered about this a great deal. Could it be that the dark Lord was actually having an out-of-body experience and it was looking down on himself badgering the poor lady? Then again, maybe he had caught sight of himself in the mirror. But that wouldn't be possible. According to all the folklore, you cannot see a vampire's reflection.
Anyway, having escaped the clutches of one drunk, the poor visitor to our shores fell into the hands of another. She and her friend soon got chatting to our pair of ne'er-do-wells. The girls explained that they had been staying in London and fancied a trip to see some other hidden treasures of the UK. I'm not sure if the evil Lord and the miserable Withers really fit into that category.
Having hired a car they drove until they could drive no more and ended up in fair Cardiff, where they unsuspectingly fell among thieves. At three in the morning, having been promised the best nightlife the city had to offer, they ended up in the Prince's crypt - or rather, his favourite boozer Six Feet Under. Apparently an enjoyable night was had by all.
Interestingly, a couple of days later one of the young ladies got in touch by e-mail. Having thanked the Prince for his hospitality she went on to ask about the well-being of the Wonderful One. "He strikes me as a person who needs some lovin'" she said.
Later, it was the wonderful one who got an e-mail, this one describing the Prince as looking like "a rundown Hugh Grant". What a perceptive judge of character she must be.
Meanwhile, poor old Wren has been off work with the lurgy this week. I have been quite good, really, though I did go out and sink a few cheeky ones on Wednesday and Friday night. I left the usual suspects in town last night, though, and was intrigued to learn that the Prince of Darkness had taken to the karaoke in the Model Inn late on Friday night, warbling his rendition of "Like a Rolling Stone". Keith Richard, I would humbly suggest.
Paps has been pushing the merits of his homemade Chilli Sauce this week, and a pot of the stuff duly landed on my desk. Since then I have been having it on cold meat sandwiches and even used it to accompany a tin of Stagg chilli I lazily heated in the microwave the other night. Top stuff.
Monday, February 02, 2009
Cheesy nibbles
WELL, it's been a right royal knees-up this weekend. On Friday night Bad Manners left Meeja Wales for the final time, having had a three-month stay of execution over the Christmas period. Poor old Manners is going from being on a part-time contract with our hard-up organisation to a mega bucks deal as a press officer - a bit like Kevin Keegan's transfer from Scunthorpe to Liverpool, really. We shall all miss her because she was a very good pair of hands to have in the building.
Strange, too, her choice of new career. I remember vividly her chastising one press officer after another when desperate to get quotes for stories she was doing when on WoS. One lot, the NSPCC, particularly wound her up and you quite often heard the phone slammed down followed by a stream of unprintable expletives. Boot will be on the other foot now, though.
Anyway, we all adjourned to the Copa for a drink. It was a small gathering, the credit crunch seeming to bite hard into Cardiff's usually vibrant nightlife. Still managed to rock home feeling well oiled later in the evening.
Next day and Wren joined me in Cardiff. That night we were going to Kempy and Coggsy's belated wedding party, so in the afternoon we took a trip into town to get Wren's shoes re-heeled. Well, what we actually did was buy her a new pair of shoes for the occasion, then book a mega luxurious two-centre honeymoon in Cuba, spending a few nights in historic Havana before moving on to the beach resort of Varadero where we will be spending our time on sun-kissed sandy beaches in 80 degree heat while staying in a five-star hotel. Can't wait.
Anyway, on to the evening do and Wren, the Wonderful Withers and I grabbed a taxi to make our way to the posh sounding Penarth Yacht Club at just after eight. "We won't be too late, it was only starting at 7pm," I pointed out.
"Kempy will be hammered then," was the Wonderful One's reply.
When we finally got there we almost missed the venue - a ropey old building being lashed by the winds coming off the coast and not a yacht in sight. We had to ring a dodgy doorbell to get in.
Inside, though, the great and the good were there in abundance. Coggsy's uncle Chris, who I had worked with on the Indie, was there holding fort in all his grandure, while my old mate Stu and his wife Anna had made the trip from London for the occasion.
It was great to see the old boy again and eventually we were reminiscing about the good old times, like the one where I interviewed him for a job and we spent the entire night pogoing on the Queen's Vaults dance floor after a shedful.
Wren, meanwhile, was enjoying the local wine. Bumping into Sandra "Hoypa" Loye, one of our other executive editors, she proceeded to wish her all the best in her new job. Sandra was beginning to wonder if Wren knew something she didn't. Her bemused expression triggered something in Wren who then inquired a might sheepishly: "You are Sarah Manners, aren't you?"
Loye, I am pleased to report, saw the funny side.
Later on, and we were all dancing to some particularly cheesy music on the dancefloor before heading off into the night. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, however, we suddenly found ourselves bombarded from above. It was Kempy, standing on the balcony shouting "Cheesy nibbles, anybody?" and raining them down on our heads from a great height. She may be a wife and mother now, but it's nice to see she hasn't changed a jot.
Strange, too, her choice of new career. I remember vividly her chastising one press officer after another when desperate to get quotes for stories she was doing when on WoS. One lot, the NSPCC, particularly wound her up and you quite often heard the phone slammed down followed by a stream of unprintable expletives. Boot will be on the other foot now, though.
Anyway, we all adjourned to the Copa for a drink. It was a small gathering, the credit crunch seeming to bite hard into Cardiff's usually vibrant nightlife. Still managed to rock home feeling well oiled later in the evening.
Next day and Wren joined me in Cardiff. That night we were going to Kempy and Coggsy's belated wedding party, so in the afternoon we took a trip into town to get Wren's shoes re-heeled. Well, what we actually did was buy her a new pair of shoes for the occasion, then book a mega luxurious two-centre honeymoon in Cuba, spending a few nights in historic Havana before moving on to the beach resort of Varadero where we will be spending our time on sun-kissed sandy beaches in 80 degree heat while staying in a five-star hotel. Can't wait.
Anyway, on to the evening do and Wren, the Wonderful Withers and I grabbed a taxi to make our way to the posh sounding Penarth Yacht Club at just after eight. "We won't be too late, it was only starting at 7pm," I pointed out.
"Kempy will be hammered then," was the Wonderful One's reply.
When we finally got there we almost missed the venue - a ropey old building being lashed by the winds coming off the coast and not a yacht in sight. We had to ring a dodgy doorbell to get in.
Inside, though, the great and the good were there in abundance. Coggsy's uncle Chris, who I had worked with on the Indie, was there holding fort in all his grandure, while my old mate Stu and his wife Anna had made the trip from London for the occasion.
It was great to see the old boy again and eventually we were reminiscing about the good old times, like the one where I interviewed him for a job and we spent the entire night pogoing on the Queen's Vaults dance floor after a shedful.
Wren, meanwhile, was enjoying the local wine. Bumping into Sandra "Hoypa" Loye, one of our other executive editors, she proceeded to wish her all the best in her new job. Sandra was beginning to wonder if Wren knew something she didn't. Her bemused expression triggered something in Wren who then inquired a might sheepishly: "You are Sarah Manners, aren't you?"
Loye, I am pleased to report, saw the funny side.
Later on, and we were all dancing to some particularly cheesy music on the dancefloor before heading off into the night. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, however, we suddenly found ourselves bombarded from above. It was Kempy, standing on the balcony shouting "Cheesy nibbles, anybody?" and raining them down on our heads from a great height. She may be a wife and mother now, but it's nice to see she hasn't changed a jot.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Dodgy dinner
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.
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.
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.
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