The wonderful Withers of WoS has returned from his travels with a tale of animal cruelty so gross that I imagine weirdos from all over the country will be declaring war on one of his pals. The story came about during the wonderful One's rather strange decision to spend a fortnight travelling through the lesser known holiday resorts of Croatia, Montenegro and Albania, to name just a few.
Now, you would think that the mere presence of this motley crew would be a precursor to a new Balkans War and, by the sound of it, that nearly did come to pass.
The story begins with Withers and his gang climbing into a taxi in Albania and demanding to be taken to the border with Macedonia. No sooner have they done this than they find themselves shooting along potholed roads, heads bouncing against the roof with seat belts nowhere to be seen.
Hanging on for dear life to anything they can, they suddenly find themselves screeching to a halt in the middle of the road to avoid... a rather large tortoise.
The driver, who doesn't speak a word of English and has been prattling on in his mother tongue, only breaking off now and again to cackle insanely at his own Albanian joke, abruptly jumps out of the car, runs down the road and picks up the jaywalking creature. He returns to the car, smiling from ear to ear, and thrusts it into the lap of the Wonderful One's ne'er-do-well mate Sharpy.
With that off they go, their heads once again bouncing against the roof as their Albanian driver picks up speed again.
Suddenly, from Sharpy's seat, there is a loud squeal, followed by a curse. The next thing everyone knows is that the driver is ranting uncontrollably at him in a language Sharpy fails to understand... and this is a man who lives alongside the incomprehensible accents of Glasgow folk when he's at home.
What Withers and his other pal do know, however, is that their guide is a very angry man.
When the others come to their senses they look in the front seat to see Sharpy with a wet patch on his trousers... but no tortoise. It swiftly dawns on them what has happened, though Sharpy is keen to explain.
"It pissed on me so I chucked it out the window," he says rather sheepishly as Albania's version of Travis Bickle gives him a murderous stare, his bloodshot eyes protruding from their sockets.
Meanwhile, I am back at the Screws a day early this week. I set off at 5.30am this morning, unfortunately waking a bemused Scooby in the process, so that I could arrive at 10 and help out because of a shortage of staffing numbers during the holiday season.
It was a pretty uneventful weekend, really, however. Having only arrived back at 1.30 in the early hours of Sunday morning, Mrs Rippers and I spent the whole of Sunday lazing around watching the last five episodes of the Wire Second Series. And very good it was, too.
I did manage at some stage to cook Spanish chicken and roast potatoes for lunch (but I've already imparted the recipe earlier in this blog so won't be repeating it).
On Monday, after Mrs R had headed off to work, I sorted out a few necessary chores before meeting Jarhead for some beers at Las Iguanas in Mill Lane. We couldn't resist for long, though, and finished off the night in the new old O'Neill's. A good night was had by all and the head was pounding a bit next morning.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
Works canteen (oh, joy!)
THIS may be the Premiership of newspapers, but the nicknames are really only League Two standard compared to the wonderful world of Meeja Wales. Having said that I guess I invented most of them so pretty soon my work will have to start here in earnest, too.
At the moment the ambience is very much like that I imagine exists in the dressing rooms of Manchester United, Liverpool, Arsenal and the like. For instance, there is no Prince of Darkness and no wonderful Withers of the World. Instead we have Macca (the boss), Dykesy, Jonesy, Jimmy, Jakey (I expect, though only knowing him slightly I just call him Jake) and Critch. Hmm.
Anyhoo, they certainly know how to dine in the manner of Premiership stars. Instead of visiting the Withered Rose around the corner, which has been the norm, on Thursday the boss took us to La Strada, a very posh little Italian bistro right on the marina. Marina in Wapping? You've got to believe it.
A very pleasant afternoon was had to, with our waiter providing us with an endless source of amusement.
I don't know whether he has seen me on YouTube but when I ordered the Peroni he warned: "That is a bit strong, sir. It is about 5 per cent. May I suggest the bottled beer."
Hmm. So stunned was I that I relented. But stranger things were to follow from our medically qualified Italian host. When Macca, who is on a six months booze-free diet (what on earth has happened to the nationals since I last worked here?), ordered a lemonade he was told: "Are you sure? We have some really good wines. You really should have some wine. Would you like to taste this lovely little number?"
I thought the boss might explode but he managed to cool his temper and wave away the insistent helper. As our waiter was leaving he pointed out: "Bloody hell, lucky I'm not Paul Gascoigne. Imagine trying to resist that kind of pressure."
Best laugh, though, was reserved for my old mate Bobby Bowden, the deputy sports ed who is mostly responsible for bringing me to these parts. Bobby makes Twiggy look pretty overweight, but when he ordered his meal the waiter warned him: "It's a bit heavy, sir, are you sure you wouldn't want something lighter?"
"Oh no, that's fine I am quite hungry," said Bobby.
"Well, if you insist. But some of these are much lighter."
How we laughed. It became the butt of our jokes after Bobby polished off his lunch with room to spare. The fear was he might not be able to fit through the turnstiles on the way back into Fortress Wapping.
Thursday lunch meant that today I had to take it easy. Fortunately there is a fab canteen here. It takes about half an hour to get there, though, through probably the longest working building in the world. When I first came for an interview I arrived at security two minutes early. By the time I got to our little outpost I was about 25 minutes late.
Doesn't help when you finally reach the canteen and really you have left your pass behind. There follows another long walk back to the office. Safe to say I think I have done a London half marathon today ahead of schedule. Still, it is worth it. Four different counters selling four different types of grub. Maaarvelllous, as Marvellous David might say.
At the moment the ambience is very much like that I imagine exists in the dressing rooms of Manchester United, Liverpool, Arsenal and the like. For instance, there is no Prince of Darkness and no wonderful Withers of the World. Instead we have Macca (the boss), Dykesy, Jonesy, Jimmy, Jakey (I expect, though only knowing him slightly I just call him Jake) and Critch. Hmm.
Anyhoo, they certainly know how to dine in the manner of Premiership stars. Instead of visiting the Withered Rose around the corner, which has been the norm, on Thursday the boss took us to La Strada, a very posh little Italian bistro right on the marina. Marina in Wapping? You've got to believe it.
A very pleasant afternoon was had to, with our waiter providing us with an endless source of amusement.
I don't know whether he has seen me on YouTube but when I ordered the Peroni he warned: "That is a bit strong, sir. It is about 5 per cent. May I suggest the bottled beer."
Hmm. So stunned was I that I relented. But stranger things were to follow from our medically qualified Italian host. When Macca, who is on a six months booze-free diet (what on earth has happened to the nationals since I last worked here?), ordered a lemonade he was told: "Are you sure? We have some really good wines. You really should have some wine. Would you like to taste this lovely little number?"
I thought the boss might explode but he managed to cool his temper and wave away the insistent helper. As our waiter was leaving he pointed out: "Bloody hell, lucky I'm not Paul Gascoigne. Imagine trying to resist that kind of pressure."
Best laugh, though, was reserved for my old mate Bobby Bowden, the deputy sports ed who is mostly responsible for bringing me to these parts. Bobby makes Twiggy look pretty overweight, but when he ordered his meal the waiter warned him: "It's a bit heavy, sir, are you sure you wouldn't want something lighter?"
"Oh no, that's fine I am quite hungry," said Bobby.
"Well, if you insist. But some of these are much lighter."
How we laughed. It became the butt of our jokes after Bobby polished off his lunch with room to spare. The fear was he might not be able to fit through the turnstiles on the way back into Fortress Wapping.
Thursday lunch meant that today I had to take it easy. Fortunately there is a fab canteen here. It takes about half an hour to get there, though, through probably the longest working building in the world. When I first came for an interview I arrived at security two minutes early. By the time I got to our little outpost I was about 25 minutes late.
Doesn't help when you finally reach the canteen and really you have left your pass behind. There follows another long walk back to the office. Safe to say I think I have done a London half marathon today ahead of schedule. Still, it is worth it. Four different counters selling four different types of grub. Maaarvelllous, as Marvellous David might say.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Free grub on a Saturday!
PHEW! I've completed my first week on the News of the Screws and come out the other side, a bit mangled and dog-eaten but otherwise feeling ok.
I must admit it has been a bit of a shock to the system, not working for the most famous newspaper in Christendom but having to cope with the antiquated technology which makes Meeja Wales seem almost space age in comparison. But more of that later, I have a week to catch up on, including the TWO leaving dos I managed to fit in.
You may recall that the last time I updated you on the situation I had been forced to spend my last day editing the South Wales Egg Cup. This was because Troublat was moving into a new house, big Al (otherwise known as the big boss) was spending a day at the Test match and The Boss was in Ireland to celebrate his dad's birthday. Apparently this involved holing up in a bar in Donegal for a number of days - a kind of test of endurance. And I had evidence of this the previous night.
At about 9pm I had a text message from The Boss, hardly Richie Benaud when it comes to handing out the cricket knowledge, which read: "The Ashes is on in the background of the pub. Flintoff is batting, it's awesome. Oh, the Aussies have knocked another one out."
Not sure about the terminology but he went on to add: "Who do you think is winning?"
Of course, being the cricket font of all knowledge I gave him a very detailed and circumspect reply which basically told him that it was about even, but that we would only know after a couple more days.
Lying in bed at well past the witching hour (when only the Prince of Darkness and his hordes are abroad) I was awoken again by my phone beeping out a text alert. Struggling out of bed I picked up the offending object.
"Wa' the hell does tha' mean?" came the message from the Donegal pub. And, yes, when having partaken of some of the black stuff in the Emerald Isle I do believe The Boss even texts in a Scottish accent.
Asking him about it a few days later, he admitted: "Sorry, wee man, ah'd forgotten aboot the previous message completely. Ah was joost tryin' ta loook like I knew something aboot the game as it was taking place in Cardiff."
Leaving Do Number 1, when I finally arrived at the new old O'Neil's at gone 7 having said goodbye to the Egg Cup and planning to never speak about the experience again, I was delighted to find the great and the good already well into their sessions. Jarhead, for instance, had escaped the clutches of the sports department shortly after 5 (no change there, then) and had already partaken of a few pints of the loopy juice they sell in Zero Atmosphere (the gastro pub around the corner).
I was immediately waylayed by the little Bowling Ball and an old work colleague the Welsh Sheikh, who had just returned for a short break from the latest middle east country where he had made his home (I am a bit sketchy on the details but think he said Qatar).
All in all, I was extremely pleased with the turnout. Roger "heaven knows I'm happier now" Morrisey, who retired a short while ago, turned up unexpectedly as did others like the Fab BB, telling his London bosses he just HAD to be in South Wales to work on an important story.
In the early part of the evening I got talking to the two Katies, Stormin' Norman and 'The Body' Bodinger, who were in good form, then after a time Mrs Rippers turned up.
Soon we were enjoying the company of a rocking band called Two Tickets for the Gun Show, or some such. By this time I was well on the way and couldn't help heckling the Aussie singer.
At the end of the show he came up and asked me why I had done so. When I pointed out that we fully paid up members of the Barmy Army feel compelled to do such things he revealed: "I'm a kiwi". Prefuse apologies followed.
After that it was on to the City Arms where my own personal DJ Jase, having experienced a bit of a downturn in fortunes of late (for three weeks only around four people had attended his Sound of the Suburbs sessions on a Friday, poor dab) was delighted to see us and play all my favourite tunes. For some reason I felt in an early 70s Skinhead and Suadehead mood and acted accordingly, requesting Double Barrel by Dave and Ansell Collins followed by the Resurrection Shuffle by Ashton, Gardner and Dyke. Brilliant stuff.
As the night closed in Mrs Rippers came to see if I was ok, noticing that at some stage my shirt had somehow slipped off. I got up to speak to her or, rather, my mind did, but my body stayed exactly where it was - I guess that is what they call legless. Pouring me into a taxi, we made our way home.
It was a quiet weekend with just a full chicken, chips and curry sauce on the Saturday to accompany our 24 hour recovery plan, which involved lazing around and watching a surfeit of videos.
On Sunday, convinced England were going to lose the Test match having lost five wickets before lunch and still trailing on first innings by the small matter of 170-odd runs, Mrs R and I could bear no more. We opted to forget our woes for a few hours and go to the cinema where we watched Jonny Depp's latest movie, Public Enemies, which is about the gangster era of John Dillinger. Very enjoyable in a bang, bang, shooty, shooty way.
Coming out of the cinema I got in the car to find out how many England had lost by only to learn that Paul Collingwood was still at the crease, playing a monumental innings in a bid to save the game. We high-tailed it back home, at least I did and I was the driver (so there) and watched the rest of the action.
Amazingly, England held on to a draw when their last two batsmen, Jimmy Anderson and Monty Panesar (whose bat is normally as effective as a stick of rhubarb) lasted the last 11 overs to deny the Aussies. Magical.
On Tuesday I returned to the office for the BIG presentation. The Boss made an interesting speech where he referred to me as Rambo because of my penchant for wearing my tie wrapped around my head (I've been called Rimbo before, but not Rambo). What he doesn't realise is that the "look" is based on that great party boozing game we used to play called The Beerhunter. I had to put him straight.
I had some great gifts, thanks to a not-so-secret conflab between Mrs R and the Wonderful One, including a miniature digital radio which I can listen to while on my way to work at the Screws, and an amusing little album all about cricket by The Duckworth-Lewis Method, apparently a band dreamed up by one of the blokes from the Divine Comedy - it's a lot of fun.
On the basis that I was joining a newspaper at the centre of a famous phone-tapping scandal, I also received the third series of The Wire. Interesting. All week people think they have been the only ones to think of the joke: "I'm not giving you my mobile phone number, you'll tap it."
When my newsagent became the 50th person that week to suggest it I almost chewed his head off. "Sorry, Richard," he said, as he does, "I thought I was being original."
So to the Screws and what an interesting week it's been. I drove up to the Fat Kid's on Wednesday, slept on the sofa with a nice big quilt, then was up with the lark to get ready for the day in my new silver grey suit which Wren had bought me. I was originally planning to travel to Southend Central but the Fat Kid pointed out that Shoeburyness station was just around the corner so she gave me a lift and I boarded the 8.05.
I must say the train was very comfortable and, though it took over an hour, listening to my new radio the time flew by. I was intending to go all the way in to Fenchurch Street but was delighted to find the train stopped at Limehouse, just one Dockland Light Railway stop from Shadwell and Fortress Wapping. Sorted.
First thing I discover my old pal Rob "fancy a job" Bowden won't be there to welcome me. The Deputy Sports Editor and Millwall fanatic is actually on a champagne freebie at the first day of the Ashes test. Lucky bugger.
I am introduced, though, to Big Macca, the larger-than-life sports editor on the paper whom, I get the impression, doesn't suffer fools gladly - well, doesn't suffer them at all, really. I will have to be at my very best.
Thankfully Critch is there to help me. Critch is an old hand with over 30 years experience on the nationals, a guy they all call for when they are deep in the doodah. He has been doing the Welsh edition up until my arrival and is able to point me in the right direction most of the time.
We work here on In Design which, somehow, links into a system called Hermes. It seems a little bit longwinded for someone used to designing the page, writing the headlines, subbing the stories and even writing them sometimes on good old WoS. Still, I am sure I will get used to it in time.
Another old mate Adders, who has been on the Screws since I used to news edit Westgate, quickly enlists me in the lunchtime O'Booze club, conning me that there is actually food being served in the Mouldy Old Rose, the local pub around the corner. Here I meet a group of likely lads who would bet on which rain drop reaches the bottom of the window first. On this occasion I get dragged into betting a pound on the next person to hole a putt in the Open golf. It is sudden death knockout with no skill attached. You just put your pound in and hope that when it is your turn the Beeb are showing someone with a tap in for par rather than an 80 footer for an eagle.
Critch warns me I am in a gamblers' den.
Having been advised to mind my p's and q's at Meeja Wales it was great to hear some really powerful swearing on Friday. A late arriving advert elicited this response from one of my new colleagues. "You are f***ing joking, are you trying to f*** me cos this is totally f***ed. This is the biggest newspaper in the world and we are getting well and truly f***ed over.
"I tell you what - what size is it? 20 x 2? How much they paying for that? I tell you what I'll f***ing pay you six grand to keep it OUT of the paper. Yeah. F*** sort it."
Ok, that is not a literal translation but, yes, it made me smile a bit. I wonder if that Advertising Manager reported him to the Politically Correct police in that fun-quashing department called Human Remains. If so, I don't think it would make too much difference here, if I am quite honest.
Saturday was all go and it was great to be dedicated to one job and one project, even though as Welsh Sports Editor your plans change regularly on the basis that you have to keep a close eye on what is happening on the main edition. Still, I enjoyed the buzz and particularly the free food which is supplied every week in the Conference Room - a fantastic spread to be honest and I enjoyed the Morrocan Beef Tagine with rice. Lovely.
I had a dedicated designer, Sophie, and sub, good old kiwi Angus, who still doesn't smile much but can really shift some stuff. He did a great job for me on Saturday and helped to make sure things went fairly smoothly.
At 9.30 I got away and headed back to see Mrs Rippers in Bristol. The drive through London was pleasant, following the Embankment all the way and passing Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. Once I hit the M4 it was a clear run and I arrived in God's Own city at just gone 12. Tiring, but perfect.
I must admit it has been a bit of a shock to the system, not working for the most famous newspaper in Christendom but having to cope with the antiquated technology which makes Meeja Wales seem almost space age in comparison. But more of that later, I have a week to catch up on, including the TWO leaving dos I managed to fit in.
You may recall that the last time I updated you on the situation I had been forced to spend my last day editing the South Wales Egg Cup. This was because Troublat was moving into a new house, big Al (otherwise known as the big boss) was spending a day at the Test match and The Boss was in Ireland to celebrate his dad's birthday. Apparently this involved holing up in a bar in Donegal for a number of days - a kind of test of endurance. And I had evidence of this the previous night.
At about 9pm I had a text message from The Boss, hardly Richie Benaud when it comes to handing out the cricket knowledge, which read: "The Ashes is on in the background of the pub. Flintoff is batting, it's awesome. Oh, the Aussies have knocked another one out."
Not sure about the terminology but he went on to add: "Who do you think is winning?"
Of course, being the cricket font of all knowledge I gave him a very detailed and circumspect reply which basically told him that it was about even, but that we would only know after a couple more days.
Lying in bed at well past the witching hour (when only the Prince of Darkness and his hordes are abroad) I was awoken again by my phone beeping out a text alert. Struggling out of bed I picked up the offending object.
"Wa' the hell does tha' mean?" came the message from the Donegal pub. And, yes, when having partaken of some of the black stuff in the Emerald Isle I do believe The Boss even texts in a Scottish accent.
Asking him about it a few days later, he admitted: "Sorry, wee man, ah'd forgotten aboot the previous message completely. Ah was joost tryin' ta loook like I knew something aboot the game as it was taking place in Cardiff."
Leaving Do Number 1, when I finally arrived at the new old O'Neil's at gone 7 having said goodbye to the Egg Cup and planning to never speak about the experience again, I was delighted to find the great and the good already well into their sessions. Jarhead, for instance, had escaped the clutches of the sports department shortly after 5 (no change there, then) and had already partaken of a few pints of the loopy juice they sell in Zero Atmosphere (the gastro pub around the corner).
I was immediately waylayed by the little Bowling Ball and an old work colleague the Welsh Sheikh, who had just returned for a short break from the latest middle east country where he had made his home (I am a bit sketchy on the details but think he said Qatar).
All in all, I was extremely pleased with the turnout. Roger "heaven knows I'm happier now" Morrisey, who retired a short while ago, turned up unexpectedly as did others like the Fab BB, telling his London bosses he just HAD to be in South Wales to work on an important story.
In the early part of the evening I got talking to the two Katies, Stormin' Norman and 'The Body' Bodinger, who were in good form, then after a time Mrs Rippers turned up.
Soon we were enjoying the company of a rocking band called Two Tickets for the Gun Show, or some such. By this time I was well on the way and couldn't help heckling the Aussie singer.
At the end of the show he came up and asked me why I had done so. When I pointed out that we fully paid up members of the Barmy Army feel compelled to do such things he revealed: "I'm a kiwi". Prefuse apologies followed.
After that it was on to the City Arms where my own personal DJ Jase, having experienced a bit of a downturn in fortunes of late (for three weeks only around four people had attended his Sound of the Suburbs sessions on a Friday, poor dab) was delighted to see us and play all my favourite tunes. For some reason I felt in an early 70s Skinhead and Suadehead mood and acted accordingly, requesting Double Barrel by Dave and Ansell Collins followed by the Resurrection Shuffle by Ashton, Gardner and Dyke. Brilliant stuff.
As the night closed in Mrs Rippers came to see if I was ok, noticing that at some stage my shirt had somehow slipped off. I got up to speak to her or, rather, my mind did, but my body stayed exactly where it was - I guess that is what they call legless. Pouring me into a taxi, we made our way home.
It was a quiet weekend with just a full chicken, chips and curry sauce on the Saturday to accompany our 24 hour recovery plan, which involved lazing around and watching a surfeit of videos.
On Sunday, convinced England were going to lose the Test match having lost five wickets before lunch and still trailing on first innings by the small matter of 170-odd runs, Mrs R and I could bear no more. We opted to forget our woes for a few hours and go to the cinema where we watched Jonny Depp's latest movie, Public Enemies, which is about the gangster era of John Dillinger. Very enjoyable in a bang, bang, shooty, shooty way.
Coming out of the cinema I got in the car to find out how many England had lost by only to learn that Paul Collingwood was still at the crease, playing a monumental innings in a bid to save the game. We high-tailed it back home, at least I did and I was the driver (so there) and watched the rest of the action.
Amazingly, England held on to a draw when their last two batsmen, Jimmy Anderson and Monty Panesar (whose bat is normally as effective as a stick of rhubarb) lasted the last 11 overs to deny the Aussies. Magical.
On Tuesday I returned to the office for the BIG presentation. The Boss made an interesting speech where he referred to me as Rambo because of my penchant for wearing my tie wrapped around my head (I've been called Rimbo before, but not Rambo). What he doesn't realise is that the "look" is based on that great party boozing game we used to play called The Beerhunter. I had to put him straight.
I had some great gifts, thanks to a not-so-secret conflab between Mrs R and the Wonderful One, including a miniature digital radio which I can listen to while on my way to work at the Screws, and an amusing little album all about cricket by The Duckworth-Lewis Method, apparently a band dreamed up by one of the blokes from the Divine Comedy - it's a lot of fun.
On the basis that I was joining a newspaper at the centre of a famous phone-tapping scandal, I also received the third series of The Wire. Interesting. All week people think they have been the only ones to think of the joke: "I'm not giving you my mobile phone number, you'll tap it."
When my newsagent became the 50th person that week to suggest it I almost chewed his head off. "Sorry, Richard," he said, as he does, "I thought I was being original."
So to the Screws and what an interesting week it's been. I drove up to the Fat Kid's on Wednesday, slept on the sofa with a nice big quilt, then was up with the lark to get ready for the day in my new silver grey suit which Wren had bought me. I was originally planning to travel to Southend Central but the Fat Kid pointed out that Shoeburyness station was just around the corner so she gave me a lift and I boarded the 8.05.
I must say the train was very comfortable and, though it took over an hour, listening to my new radio the time flew by. I was intending to go all the way in to Fenchurch Street but was delighted to find the train stopped at Limehouse, just one Dockland Light Railway stop from Shadwell and Fortress Wapping. Sorted.
First thing I discover my old pal Rob "fancy a job" Bowden won't be there to welcome me. The Deputy Sports Editor and Millwall fanatic is actually on a champagne freebie at the first day of the Ashes test. Lucky bugger.
I am introduced, though, to Big Macca, the larger-than-life sports editor on the paper whom, I get the impression, doesn't suffer fools gladly - well, doesn't suffer them at all, really. I will have to be at my very best.
Thankfully Critch is there to help me. Critch is an old hand with over 30 years experience on the nationals, a guy they all call for when they are deep in the doodah. He has been doing the Welsh edition up until my arrival and is able to point me in the right direction most of the time.
We work here on In Design which, somehow, links into a system called Hermes. It seems a little bit longwinded for someone used to designing the page, writing the headlines, subbing the stories and even writing them sometimes on good old WoS. Still, I am sure I will get used to it in time.
Another old mate Adders, who has been on the Screws since I used to news edit Westgate, quickly enlists me in the lunchtime O'Booze club, conning me that there is actually food being served in the Mouldy Old Rose, the local pub around the corner. Here I meet a group of likely lads who would bet on which rain drop reaches the bottom of the window first. On this occasion I get dragged into betting a pound on the next person to hole a putt in the Open golf. It is sudden death knockout with no skill attached. You just put your pound in and hope that when it is your turn the Beeb are showing someone with a tap in for par rather than an 80 footer for an eagle.
Critch warns me I am in a gamblers' den.
Having been advised to mind my p's and q's at Meeja Wales it was great to hear some really powerful swearing on Friday. A late arriving advert elicited this response from one of my new colleagues. "You are f***ing joking, are you trying to f*** me cos this is totally f***ed. This is the biggest newspaper in the world and we are getting well and truly f***ed over.
"I tell you what - what size is it? 20 x 2? How much they paying for that? I tell you what I'll f***ing pay you six grand to keep it OUT of the paper. Yeah. F*** sort it."
Ok, that is not a literal translation but, yes, it made me smile a bit. I wonder if that Advertising Manager reported him to the Politically Correct police in that fun-quashing department called Human Remains. If so, I don't think it would make too much difference here, if I am quite honest.
Saturday was all go and it was great to be dedicated to one job and one project, even though as Welsh Sports Editor your plans change regularly on the basis that you have to keep a close eye on what is happening on the main edition. Still, I enjoyed the buzz and particularly the free food which is supplied every week in the Conference Room - a fantastic spread to be honest and I enjoyed the Morrocan Beef Tagine with rice. Lovely.
I had a dedicated designer, Sophie, and sub, good old kiwi Angus, who still doesn't smile much but can really shift some stuff. He did a great job for me on Saturday and helped to make sure things went fairly smoothly.
At 9.30 I got away and headed back to see Mrs Rippers in Bristol. The drive through London was pleasant, following the Embankment all the way and passing Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. Once I hit the M4 it was a clear run and I arrived in God's Own city at just gone 12. Tiring, but perfect.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Adobo of chicken and pork
WELL it's my last day at Meeja Wales and somehow I have been lumbered with taking charge of the South Wales Egg Cup. Editor Mike Troublat Hill is moving into a new house while the Boss and the Big Boss are both away. I think maybe I am expected to do my own leaving speech as well, such is the staffing situation within these four walls.
Not only that but we seem to be struggling for a decent lead story. Surprisingly, no cats have been found stuck up trees in Grangetown today but, as always, we will do our best.
The cricket, too, seems to be going from bad to worse. Ricky "punter" Ponting made England suffer with 150 yesterday while opener Simon Katich also managed a ton. As I look at the screen the Aussies have amassed over 400 and still have six wickets left. Lumby days.
Still, met Mrs Rippers in the boozer for a nice leaving do lunch where I knocked back sausage and mash before returning to mission control. Tonight I will be heading out to the new old O'Neills and the City Arms, the two hostelries which most value my custom.
News of my departure seems to have spread prematurely around the streets of Cardiff. My newsagent mentioned as much the other day - though I think he assumes I have been sacked.
"Hello, Richard," he said, as is his wont. "I notice your picture is no longer on the letters page of the Egg Cup. What's happened?"
Oh yeah, my favourite job. Editing the letters of the Egg Cup. If I ever question why I decided to quit this salubrious establishment I will just think back to the mind-numbing days of sifting through the incoherent ramblings of Betty from Splott of a morning.
The other day I cooked a very interesting dish, having bought a cooked chicken and joint of gammon from Sainsbury's. It is called Adobo of chicken and pork and this is what you do...
Ingredients
A cooked chicken
Cooked pork leg with fat
2 tsp sugar
4 tbsp sunflower oil
5 tbsp wine or cider vinegar
4 plump garlic cloves (crushed)
1/2 tsp black peppercorns lightly crushed
1 tbsp light soy sauce
4 bay leaves
1/2 tsp ground turmeric
salt
TO DO:
Cut chicken and pork into big pieces
Heat oil in wok and add vinegar, garlic, peppercorns, soy sauce and bay leaves. Stir well.
Stir in turmeric and add salt
Bring to boil, cover and simmer.
Add meat, reduce the liquid and cook for 10 to 15 mins.
Serve with brown rice.
Not only that but we seem to be struggling for a decent lead story. Surprisingly, no cats have been found stuck up trees in Grangetown today but, as always, we will do our best.
The cricket, too, seems to be going from bad to worse. Ricky "punter" Ponting made England suffer with 150 yesterday while opener Simon Katich also managed a ton. As I look at the screen the Aussies have amassed over 400 and still have six wickets left. Lumby days.
Still, met Mrs Rippers in the boozer for a nice leaving do lunch where I knocked back sausage and mash before returning to mission control. Tonight I will be heading out to the new old O'Neills and the City Arms, the two hostelries which most value my custom.
News of my departure seems to have spread prematurely around the streets of Cardiff. My newsagent mentioned as much the other day - though I think he assumes I have been sacked.
"Hello, Richard," he said, as is his wont. "I notice your picture is no longer on the letters page of the Egg Cup. What's happened?"
Oh yeah, my favourite job. Editing the letters of the Egg Cup. If I ever question why I decided to quit this salubrious establishment I will just think back to the mind-numbing days of sifting through the incoherent ramblings of Betty from Splott of a morning.
The other day I cooked a very interesting dish, having bought a cooked chicken and joint of gammon from Sainsbury's. It is called Adobo of chicken and pork and this is what you do...
Ingredients
A cooked chicken
Cooked pork leg with fat
2 tsp sugar
4 tbsp sunflower oil
5 tbsp wine or cider vinegar
4 plump garlic cloves (crushed)
1/2 tsp black peppercorns lightly crushed
1 tbsp light soy sauce
4 bay leaves
1/2 tsp ground turmeric
salt
TO DO:
Cut chicken and pork into big pieces
Heat oil in wok and add vinegar, garlic, peppercorns, soy sauce and bay leaves. Stir well.
Stir in turmeric and add salt
Bring to boil, cover and simmer.
Add meat, reduce the liquid and cook for 10 to 15 mins.
Serve with brown rice.
Thursday, July 09, 2009
Speciality sausage and chips
WELL done, Cardiff. Despite all the moans it has got to be said that the plan to play the first Ashes Test in the Welsh capital can be considered a big success. The first day's play, for which myself and Mrs Rippers were lucky to be in attendance, was entertaining stuff and the razzamataz which accompanied it was pure theatre. Of course, the Welsh felt the need to invite their Diva classical singer Katherine Jenkins along - she seems to perform at every sporting function these days - but it is fair to say her rendition of the national anthem went down a bomb.
Unfortunately the players had to then meet various Welsh 'dignitaries' and the likelihood is they had no idea with whom they were shaking hands. All we needed was Max Boyce (who?) to recite a stupid poem and you would be forgiven for thinking it was a Wales rugby game. Why can't they get away from these cliches? I ask myself on regular occasions.
We had arranged to meet Kempy, the former WoS news editor, and her mum Sue at 9.30 but things didn't pass too smoothly at chez Rippers in the morning. First we discovered our pet moth Mozzer had died overnight (very sad), then Mrs R couldn't decide whether sandals or flipflops should be the order of the day. Having finally managed to extricate ourselves from the house we soon had to return because of a worry - unfounded in the end - that a window had been left open.
There were then various stops at banks, the fag shop and Burger King before we finally made our way to the ground. By then it was almost 10 and Kempy was ringing me regularly demanding: "Where the hell are you?"
"Blame Mrs Rippers," I said, getting a scowl for my trouble.
Despite the hiccups, we got inside the ground fairly quickly and were delighted to find we had seats behind the bowler's arm. Not only that but my old mate Benno, former deputy editor of the Western Snail, was sitting a row in front, having returned for a couple of weeks from his new home in Melbourne.
As for the cricket it was exciting stuff with England finishing the day on 337-7 with Kevin Pietersen top scoring with 69 before getting out in trademark style - trying to play an impossible shot when there was actually no need for it.
During the afternoon the Barmy Army struck up a great deal of noise, joined by a group of schoolkids who were decked out in green having been sponsored by a supermarket chain. I am sure these kids will have improved their vocabulary no end having learnt a host of interesting new words from English cricket's famous supporters - "We all sh***ed Matilda" and "Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, w***, w***, w***'' were among the most favoured songs.
During the day we enjoyed a few beers and I even indulged in what was termed a speciality sausage and chips, though the only 'speciality' I noted was the £5 price tag.
Kempy, meanwhile, had to leave early to send off a picture to one of the national newspapers.
By the time we walked away at around 6.30pm we had enjoyed a sun-fuelled, fun-filled day - excellent.
Unfortunately the players had to then meet various Welsh 'dignitaries' and the likelihood is they had no idea with whom they were shaking hands. All we needed was Max Boyce (who?) to recite a stupid poem and you would be forgiven for thinking it was a Wales rugby game. Why can't they get away from these cliches? I ask myself on regular occasions.
We had arranged to meet Kempy, the former WoS news editor, and her mum Sue at 9.30 but things didn't pass too smoothly at chez Rippers in the morning. First we discovered our pet moth Mozzer had died overnight (very sad), then Mrs R couldn't decide whether sandals or flipflops should be the order of the day. Having finally managed to extricate ourselves from the house we soon had to return because of a worry - unfounded in the end - that a window had been left open.
There were then various stops at banks, the fag shop and Burger King before we finally made our way to the ground. By then it was almost 10 and Kempy was ringing me regularly demanding: "Where the hell are you?"
"Blame Mrs Rippers," I said, getting a scowl for my trouble.
Despite the hiccups, we got inside the ground fairly quickly and were delighted to find we had seats behind the bowler's arm. Not only that but my old mate Benno, former deputy editor of the Western Snail, was sitting a row in front, having returned for a couple of weeks from his new home in Melbourne.
As for the cricket it was exciting stuff with England finishing the day on 337-7 with Kevin Pietersen top scoring with 69 before getting out in trademark style - trying to play an impossible shot when there was actually no need for it.
During the afternoon the Barmy Army struck up a great deal of noise, joined by a group of schoolkids who were decked out in green having been sponsored by a supermarket chain. I am sure these kids will have improved their vocabulary no end having learnt a host of interesting new words from English cricket's famous supporters - "We all sh***ed Matilda" and "Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, w***, w***, w***'' were among the most favoured songs.
During the day we enjoyed a few beers and I even indulged in what was termed a speciality sausage and chips, though the only 'speciality' I noted was the £5 price tag.
Kempy, meanwhile, had to leave early to send off a picture to one of the national newspapers.
By the time we walked away at around 6.30pm we had enjoyed a sun-fuelled, fun-filled day - excellent.
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
Ello, ello, allotment aggro
Mrs Rippers fancies herself as a bit of a Felicity Kendall. She has been talking about adopting the Good Life and growing vegetables and flowers on an allotment attached to the cottage we are buying in Bristol. With my culinary expertise I must say it would come in handy, but now it seems we may have stirred up a hornet's nest among the gentry of the little village.
Mrs R rang to inquire about the allotment today to be told that some people were very upset about the fact it had been advertised along with the house when, in actual fact, there was a waiting list. God, hope this doesn't turn into some kind of Straw Dogs scenario with the locals muttering "You're not from around 'ere" before attacking us with their pitchforks. Ooh err, watch this space.
Like many married couples, it didn't take us long to acquire a pet. And this one is rather cheap, too.
Mrs R loves nothing better than to open all the windows on a hot evening when the lights are on, so that we are visited by numerous creatures of the night (thankfully the Prince of Darkness doesn't know where I live, or where I stash the alcohol for that matter). Anyway, returning from cooking in the kitchen the other day I noticed a beautiful, snowy white moth on one of the curtains. Immediately I pointed him out to Mrs R who, being the gentle creature she is, warned me that I wasn't to squash it or bash hell out of it as used to be my solution to most fluttery, flappy things (as Withers knows too well).
So instead I have adopted it and we have called it Mozzer, Mrs R came up with the name because it is Morrisey's nickname, apparently. So Mozzer and I have been living in domestic bliss for the last few days and I must say he is pretty easily pleased. He seems to find a place and settle on it for hours, sleeping away the day.
You have to be careful, though. He does seem to like places like the floor and the carpet where he cunningly disguises himself, so well in fact that I dread the day that I wobble home and accidentally tread on the poor dab.
Mrs R rang to inquire about the allotment today to be told that some people were very upset about the fact it had been advertised along with the house when, in actual fact, there was a waiting list. God, hope this doesn't turn into some kind of Straw Dogs scenario with the locals muttering "You're not from around 'ere" before attacking us with their pitchforks. Ooh err, watch this space.
Like many married couples, it didn't take us long to acquire a pet. And this one is rather cheap, too.
Mrs R loves nothing better than to open all the windows on a hot evening when the lights are on, so that we are visited by numerous creatures of the night (thankfully the Prince of Darkness doesn't know where I live, or where I stash the alcohol for that matter). Anyway, returning from cooking in the kitchen the other day I noticed a beautiful, snowy white moth on one of the curtains. Immediately I pointed him out to Mrs R who, being the gentle creature she is, warned me that I wasn't to squash it or bash hell out of it as used to be my solution to most fluttery, flappy things (as Withers knows too well).
So instead I have adopted it and we have called it Mozzer, Mrs R came up with the name because it is Morrisey's nickname, apparently. So Mozzer and I have been living in domestic bliss for the last few days and I must say he is pretty easily pleased. He seems to find a place and settle on it for hours, sleeping away the day.
You have to be careful, though. He does seem to like places like the floor and the carpet where he cunningly disguises himself, so well in fact that I dread the day that I wobble home and accidentally tread on the poor dab.
Friday, July 03, 2009
Nouveau Cuisine (Can I have some more please?)
Have you heard the one: "The ironing board's on my foot."
"No son, but you hum it and I'll play it..."
The old joke sprang to mind this week as I was rushing about my business, getting considerably more stressed than I really needed to one morning this week.
With the humid conditions I had showered and ironed a summer shirt, then dressed but was already feeling uncomfortable with the heat. Mrs Rippers and I had talked about things we needed to do to sort out a mortgage, and I'd had a message from the Royal Mail to say a parcel was waiting for me at the depot because the full fee had been short by £1.08 and I had to make up the difference.
Thinking I could sort everything out before attending a really important management meeting with Meeja Wales at 11 (never mind the fact I won't be working for them eight days from now) I rushed into the front room to find my shoes. As I did so my right foot gave the leg of the ironing board a huge kick, my small toe wrapping itself one side of the leg while the rest of the foot went the other way. I swore rather a lot, then sank onto the sofa and swore a lot more.
After that I hobbled to the car and drove to the Royal Mail depot in considerable pain. When I handed over the receipt slip it turned out the "parcel" was actually my Father's Day card from the Fat Kid, two weeks late because she hadn't put enough stamps on the envelope. In effect, then, I bought my own Father's Day card this year. No change there, then.
By the evening I had a huge bruise covering my little toe and half my foot - I don't suppose I will learn anything from this disaster, though, like putting the ironing board away after using it.
On Tuesday lunchtime I met some of the guys I will be working with in my new role. They all work for Coley at Westgate - son of Bono, the Dazzler and Tea Caddy. We had a good chat about what I would be expecting from them in the future and Mrs R gave me a very good little phrase that I am hoping Son of Bono will put up behind his desk in future: Pressure Is A Privilege. I must admit I am getting quite excited about my big move.
We met at a Barocco's Bar in Cardiff, which used to be known as Izit but now Izn't, and ordered some food. I opted for a seafood pasta dish while Son of Bono went for a lemon chicken salad and Tea Caddy chose the Wild Boar sausages and Mash. Altogether it came to just under £20 I reckon.
When it arrived it is fair to say we weren't exactly overwhelmed. The Wild Boar sausages were definitely the best choice, because my plate contained about 10 strands of ribbon pasta and a mussel in a shell. Son of Bono was equally upset at his portion which contained about three small disks of chicken, a meagre sprinkling of rabbit food (ie lettuce) and a swirly thin line of some kind of sauce.
The waitress returned as we started to tuck in. "Everything all right with your food, sir?" she asked Son of Bono. "Um, it's not exactly a big portion is it? Perhaps you could ask the chef if he has any more anywhere."
"It's a new menu, sir, we are trying it out today."
So, in effect, we were guinea pigs - which maybe explains why we got guinea pig portions...
The following night was completely the opposite. My former sports desk colleagues took me for a meal to a restaurant called Prezzo where I enjoyed a meat calzone meal. Expecting pasta, it actually turned out to be the Italian version of a giant cornish pastie. I couldn't finish it and wobbled home very bloated.
It was a great night with Jarhead, Shutts, the little bowling ball, Smashy and Owenov as we swapped long-forgotten stories of our time on the WoS sports desk. Great days.
"No son, but you hum it and I'll play it..."
The old joke sprang to mind this week as I was rushing about my business, getting considerably more stressed than I really needed to one morning this week.
With the humid conditions I had showered and ironed a summer shirt, then dressed but was already feeling uncomfortable with the heat. Mrs Rippers and I had talked about things we needed to do to sort out a mortgage, and I'd had a message from the Royal Mail to say a parcel was waiting for me at the depot because the full fee had been short by £1.08 and I had to make up the difference.
Thinking I could sort everything out before attending a really important management meeting with Meeja Wales at 11 (never mind the fact I won't be working for them eight days from now) I rushed into the front room to find my shoes. As I did so my right foot gave the leg of the ironing board a huge kick, my small toe wrapping itself one side of the leg while the rest of the foot went the other way. I swore rather a lot, then sank onto the sofa and swore a lot more.
After that I hobbled to the car and drove to the Royal Mail depot in considerable pain. When I handed over the receipt slip it turned out the "parcel" was actually my Father's Day card from the Fat Kid, two weeks late because she hadn't put enough stamps on the envelope. In effect, then, I bought my own Father's Day card this year. No change there, then.
By the evening I had a huge bruise covering my little toe and half my foot - I don't suppose I will learn anything from this disaster, though, like putting the ironing board away after using it.
On Tuesday lunchtime I met some of the guys I will be working with in my new role. They all work for Coley at Westgate - son of Bono, the Dazzler and Tea Caddy. We had a good chat about what I would be expecting from them in the future and Mrs R gave me a very good little phrase that I am hoping Son of Bono will put up behind his desk in future: Pressure Is A Privilege. I must admit I am getting quite excited about my big move.
We met at a Barocco's Bar in Cardiff, which used to be known as Izit but now Izn't, and ordered some food. I opted for a seafood pasta dish while Son of Bono went for a lemon chicken salad and Tea Caddy chose the Wild Boar sausages and Mash. Altogether it came to just under £20 I reckon.
When it arrived it is fair to say we weren't exactly overwhelmed. The Wild Boar sausages were definitely the best choice, because my plate contained about 10 strands of ribbon pasta and a mussel in a shell. Son of Bono was equally upset at his portion which contained about three small disks of chicken, a meagre sprinkling of rabbit food (ie lettuce) and a swirly thin line of some kind of sauce.
The waitress returned as we started to tuck in. "Everything all right with your food, sir?" she asked Son of Bono. "Um, it's not exactly a big portion is it? Perhaps you could ask the chef if he has any more anywhere."
"It's a new menu, sir, we are trying it out today."
So, in effect, we were guinea pigs - which maybe explains why we got guinea pig portions...
The following night was completely the opposite. My former sports desk colleagues took me for a meal to a restaurant called Prezzo where I enjoyed a meat calzone meal. Expecting pasta, it actually turned out to be the Italian version of a giant cornish pastie. I couldn't finish it and wobbled home very bloated.
It was a great night with Jarhead, Shutts, the little bowling ball, Smashy and Owenov as we swapped long-forgotten stories of our time on the WoS sports desk. Great days.
Monday, June 29, 2009
candy flossies
THURSDAY, June 25 - 11.15pm
WHEN the text came through from my daughter I was waiting for the punchline. "Is Michael Jackson dead?" she inquired. It must be a joke, I thought. I waited, but no follow-up punchline was forthcoming.
I then found out that she had heard rumours on BBC 24 bulletins, but as yet they were unconfirmed. I immediately texted Paps with the news. "Yeah, just got back into the office," he replied. I checked my watch. It was 11.30pm. That meant Paps, the head of news/teamaker extraordinaire, had only been out of the office for four hours - just enough time to listen to that day's edition of the Archers, I reckon. What a pro - or saddo, considering your take on things.
To me it was one of those days when, as a journo, you just want to be there. That is, unless you can't give a toss about your chosen profession, I suppose - and there are some of those about.
I lifted my aching bones from the sofa, where I had been watching a DVD, sleptwalk (if that's a word) to the car and dozily drove the mile or so back to the office I had left just three hours earlier.
On duty were the Big Boss, Rob Kneesupmutha, Orson Wells, Cath Mary, Paps, Neil Gibbo Gibson and late man Vimal. A small crew, but plenty of people to turn around the next morning's Snail and make some effort to record actual breaking news in the South Wales Egg Cup which, like most evening papers, now prints the night before.
Paps was in his element, going through the wires and piecing together the story, while also finding background info with which to reproduce the Michael Jackson story. No online people, though - funny that seeing this is the sort of story that should be appearing online first in the new Meeja Wales environment. Paps was left to upload the story, too. The Prince, from his lair, made his contribution, too, by texting the first Wacko Jacko joke of the night - "I guess his heart didn't Beat It," he helpfully suggested.
Still, by 1.15 we were out of there... job done. And, in the words of the Prince of Darkness, "I had a bit of a buzz on."
Paps may have been up-to-the-minute with his news editing on Thursday but the rest of his life seems entrenched in the 60s and 70s (and even before then). When I told him I had been watching another of my Audrey Hepburn box set that evening he chimed in with: "Was it Paris When It Sizzles"? Well, amazingly it was - a film I had never even heard of until I took it out of the box and put it on.
Paps, though, just turned 40 but with the tastes of a 75-year-old bedridden codger, had obviously watched it a thousand times. Bedridden codger? Well if you took a look around his house to establish who lived there, in the manner of Loyd Grossman on Through the Keyhole, you would be forgiven for thinking it must be Splott's answer to Jim Brennan of Eastenders fame. The videos (probably in Betamax) include box sets of the Sweeney and Porridge, together with Carry-On posters and all sorts of ancient memorabilia. He even has the Sweeney theme tune as a ring tone on his mobile (yes, he does have one of those).
As touched upon before, his evenings seem to involve sitting in his old comfy chair with his slippers and the gramaphone, which blares out the Archers to anyone who cares to listen (and there are few of those these days, I would wager). I wonder if the old boy has one of those ear trumpets, too?
Still, I suppose if it is a choice between popular culture and Paps' old-worldly ways, it is a close run thing as to which I prefer.
One thing that DI Jack Regan and DS George Carter never had to encounter, I imagine, was the Public Relations fluffy. In fact, I could imagine John Thaw's character blowing a fuse at having to deal with this scourge on modern society.
That said, this is the one element of modern culture that Paps has more than enough time for. Regularly he spends a good 10 minutes talking animatedly on the phone to one fluffy or another, saying how exciting it was that they had invited him or one of his reporters to the opening of a jar of marmite.
Some fluffies get even better treatment than others, too. Now and again Paps disappears into the privacy of the Orson Wells b***cking room - known because it is also the room where Orson takes his staff to task - so that he can conduct a private conversation on his mobile with Jocasta or Mimi from Prepubescent PR.
Now, God forbid I should draw conclusions as to what these conversations are about but they tend to end up with him announcing a couple of hours later "Think I might just nip off to such-and-such a pub to see some friends". For friends read fluffies. At least, that is the conclusion of his well-trained and alert colleagues.
On Friday we said goodbye to another five people from the IT department, which is beginning to sound extremely echoey. Two of the old guard, Arfur Blissful and Jeff Fried Egg, have been around for so long I reckon they started when the newspapers were chipped out of tablets of stone and all they had to do was to make sure the chisels were sharp.
They will both be greatly missed though as will Nas, as much for his cricketing prowess with the Snail and Egg Cup weekly slugathon team as for his technological skills.
After that we sidled off to old O'Neill's where we bumped into the legendary Welsh rugby fly half Barry John, who had spent a decent time out and about in the local hostelries and was full of stories by the time he met us. As Withers pointed out: "Bloody hell, Rippers, he repeats his anecdotes more times than you repeat yours!"
At that moment Paps piped up "I've just got to go and meet some friends in the Pen and Wig."
Smashy knew exactly what this meant, Fluffies, and intimated as much by shouting in a high-pitched, flossy voice: "Friennnnd, Speshial Friennnd," to which Paps dropped his head, raised a finger and charged off in the direction of said pub.
We joined him soon afterwards. Before we got to the pub, however, the Prince looked at me darkly and warned: "Don't spoil it for him, Rippers. Don't call them fluffies."
Red rag to a bull I am afraid. I couldn't resist it when introduced to the girls from Bathwater PR despite black looks from all around. As for Paps, having had his evening rudely interrupted I imagine he finished the night curled up in his old sagging chair, watching Carry On Camping and dreaming of a young Babs Windsor.
WHEN the text came through from my daughter I was waiting for the punchline. "Is Michael Jackson dead?" she inquired. It must be a joke, I thought. I waited, but no follow-up punchline was forthcoming.
I then found out that she had heard rumours on BBC 24 bulletins, but as yet they were unconfirmed. I immediately texted Paps with the news. "Yeah, just got back into the office," he replied. I checked my watch. It was 11.30pm. That meant Paps, the head of news/teamaker extraordinaire, had only been out of the office for four hours - just enough time to listen to that day's edition of the Archers, I reckon. What a pro - or saddo, considering your take on things.
To me it was one of those days when, as a journo, you just want to be there. That is, unless you can't give a toss about your chosen profession, I suppose - and there are some of those about.
I lifted my aching bones from the sofa, where I had been watching a DVD, sleptwalk (if that's a word) to the car and dozily drove the mile or so back to the office I had left just three hours earlier.
On duty were the Big Boss, Rob Kneesupmutha, Orson Wells, Cath Mary, Paps, Neil Gibbo Gibson and late man Vimal. A small crew, but plenty of people to turn around the next morning's Snail and make some effort to record actual breaking news in the South Wales Egg Cup which, like most evening papers, now prints the night before.
Paps was in his element, going through the wires and piecing together the story, while also finding background info with which to reproduce the Michael Jackson story. No online people, though - funny that seeing this is the sort of story that should be appearing online first in the new Meeja Wales environment. Paps was left to upload the story, too. The Prince, from his lair, made his contribution, too, by texting the first Wacko Jacko joke of the night - "I guess his heart didn't Beat It," he helpfully suggested.
Still, by 1.15 we were out of there... job done. And, in the words of the Prince of Darkness, "I had a bit of a buzz on."
Paps may have been up-to-the-minute with his news editing on Thursday but the rest of his life seems entrenched in the 60s and 70s (and even before then). When I told him I had been watching another of my Audrey Hepburn box set that evening he chimed in with: "Was it Paris When It Sizzles"? Well, amazingly it was - a film I had never even heard of until I took it out of the box and put it on.
Paps, though, just turned 40 but with the tastes of a 75-year-old bedridden codger, had obviously watched it a thousand times. Bedridden codger? Well if you took a look around his house to establish who lived there, in the manner of Loyd Grossman on Through the Keyhole, you would be forgiven for thinking it must be Splott's answer to Jim Brennan of Eastenders fame. The videos (probably in Betamax) include box sets of the Sweeney and Porridge, together with Carry-On posters and all sorts of ancient memorabilia. He even has the Sweeney theme tune as a ring tone on his mobile (yes, he does have one of those).
As touched upon before, his evenings seem to involve sitting in his old comfy chair with his slippers and the gramaphone, which blares out the Archers to anyone who cares to listen (and there are few of those these days, I would wager). I wonder if the old boy has one of those ear trumpets, too?
Still, I suppose if it is a choice between popular culture and Paps' old-worldly ways, it is a close run thing as to which I prefer.
One thing that DI Jack Regan and DS George Carter never had to encounter, I imagine, was the Public Relations fluffy. In fact, I could imagine John Thaw's character blowing a fuse at having to deal with this scourge on modern society.
That said, this is the one element of modern culture that Paps has more than enough time for. Regularly he spends a good 10 minutes talking animatedly on the phone to one fluffy or another, saying how exciting it was that they had invited him or one of his reporters to the opening of a jar of marmite.
Some fluffies get even better treatment than others, too. Now and again Paps disappears into the privacy of the Orson Wells b***cking room - known because it is also the room where Orson takes his staff to task - so that he can conduct a private conversation on his mobile with Jocasta or Mimi from Prepubescent PR.
Now, God forbid I should draw conclusions as to what these conversations are about but they tend to end up with him announcing a couple of hours later "Think I might just nip off to such-and-such a pub to see some friends". For friends read fluffies. At least, that is the conclusion of his well-trained and alert colleagues.
On Friday we said goodbye to another five people from the IT department, which is beginning to sound extremely echoey. Two of the old guard, Arfur Blissful and Jeff Fried Egg, have been around for so long I reckon they started when the newspapers were chipped out of tablets of stone and all they had to do was to make sure the chisels were sharp.
They will both be greatly missed though as will Nas, as much for his cricketing prowess with the Snail and Egg Cup weekly slugathon team as for his technological skills.
After that we sidled off to old O'Neill's where we bumped into the legendary Welsh rugby fly half Barry John, who had spent a decent time out and about in the local hostelries and was full of stories by the time he met us. As Withers pointed out: "Bloody hell, Rippers, he repeats his anecdotes more times than you repeat yours!"
At that moment Paps piped up "I've just got to go and meet some friends in the Pen and Wig."
Smashy knew exactly what this meant, Fluffies, and intimated as much by shouting in a high-pitched, flossy voice: "Friennnnd, Speshial Friennnd," to which Paps dropped his head, raised a finger and charged off in the direction of said pub.
We joined him soon afterwards. Before we got to the pub, however, the Prince looked at me darkly and warned: "Don't spoil it for him, Rippers. Don't call them fluffies."
Red rag to a bull I am afraid. I couldn't resist it when introduced to the girls from Bathwater PR despite black looks from all around. As for Paps, having had his evening rudely interrupted I imagine he finished the night curled up in his old sagging chair, watching Carry On Camping and dreaming of a young Babs Windsor.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Meatfeast jacket potato and gravy
WOW, things don't come in halves in my life. Having got married and landed a new job, it seems that Wren and I have now secured a new house. It's a little cottage in a village called Stapleton just outside Bristol and it is absolutely fab. We have managed to land it at what I would regard a bargain price, too, but have a look for yourselves on this link: http://www.haart.co.uk/buying-house/Mapsearch/search-results/Property-details_97161.aspx
Believe it or not, the sellers want us to complete the exchange by July 21, which is less than a month away. It will all depend on banks and solicitors, but it is all very exciting stuff.
Meanwhile, the Prince of Darkness has, not surprisingly, sold his soul. Well, not quite accurate, really. It's more a case that he is actually in danger of losing his sole. The unearthly one's winkle picker boots are threatening to fall apart after he scuffed them while dragging young virgins through the ghostly backstreets on his way from one den of iniquity to the other. The sole has now completely detached but, with the Prince a bit strapped for cash, he is having to put up with the indignity for now.
Just before I leave the wonderful world of Meeja Wales, I have finally found a suitable substitute for the office canteen. It is a caravan outside Cardiff Station which sells all manner of delicious meals - like Roast Pork with jacket potato, gravy and stuffing. Scrummy.
The Prince has been hobbling over there regularly for his full-on breakfast baguette, but I didn't realise all the culinary delights it had to offer. Yesterday, for instance, I had a meatfeast jacket potato which contained pork, beef, chicken and stuffing - all covered in thick globs of gravy. Smashing.
Believe it or not, the sellers want us to complete the exchange by July 21, which is less than a month away. It will all depend on banks and solicitors, but it is all very exciting stuff.
Meanwhile, the Prince of Darkness has, not surprisingly, sold his soul. Well, not quite accurate, really. It's more a case that he is actually in danger of losing his sole. The unearthly one's winkle picker boots are threatening to fall apart after he scuffed them while dragging young virgins through the ghostly backstreets on his way from one den of iniquity to the other. The sole has now completely detached but, with the Prince a bit strapped for cash, he is having to put up with the indignity for now.
Just before I leave the wonderful world of Meeja Wales, I have finally found a suitable substitute for the office canteen. It is a caravan outside Cardiff Station which sells all manner of delicious meals - like Roast Pork with jacket potato, gravy and stuffing. Scrummy.
The Prince has been hobbling over there regularly for his full-on breakfast baguette, but I didn't realise all the culinary delights it had to offer. Yesterday, for instance, I had a meatfeast jacket potato which contained pork, beef, chicken and stuffing - all covered in thick globs of gravy. Smashing.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Sloppy Joes (sort of)
I'M not saying that it was a hard day on the good old Wales on Sunday at the weekend, or indeed that the Wonderful Withers of WoS is so miserable he makes Morrisey look like the perpetually smiling TV chef Ainsley Harriot in comparison, but my erstwhile colleague's sigh could be heard all over Cardiff at around 9.30 on Saturday night.
In response, The Boss turned to him and asked, "Oi, yer wee Sasenach. Wo's wrong wi' ye?"
The tormented one simply replied: "Oh, when will death come?" Quite.
It may have been that the poor sap had been working as news editor with the help of just one reporter and had to wade through a pile of MPs expenses claims which had been printed in the Daily Telegraph that day. On the other hand, it may have just been because he had been forced to prize open his moth-infested wallet to hand over two quid to Smashy for a bet they had made on the previous night in old O'Neill's.
The subject of the bet had been the Prince of Darkness and his progress with a young lady with whom he had struck up a conversation that evening. Smashy predicted things would progress little further on the basis that a. the Prince had already started sinking Sambucas, and it wasn't even 9pm.
b. He seemed to be regaling her stories of his experiences at rock festivals, which dated him back to the era before the Beatles came into existence.
and c. She actually seemed pretty intelligent.
Meanwhile, Paps was attempting to chat up the entire Northern Ireland women's basketball team who were obviously preparing for their big game the following day seriously, by sinking drink after drink and becoming decidedly merry. He, of course, needed the help of Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes) who regularly endured knowing glares from his girlfriend the solicitor who, it must be said, has the patience of a saint.
Eventually, tired of watching the Prince in action, we retired to the City Arms which, even on a Friday night with a disco in full swing, is looking more and more like a ghost town. Wren and I ended up with the dance floor to ourselves while Smashy and the Wonderful One decided to quit while the going was good. Withers, now convinced that the Prince would have failed in his mission seeing he was barely coherent when we left him, passed over the two quid and no more was said.
This morning, though, the Wonderful One was in a much more cheery mood. Seems the Dark Lord had cracked it and Smashy reluctantly turned up at his desk to return the coins and add two more of his own.
This proved that a. the Prince can't be relied on to keep schtum about anything and
b. the Wonderful One is easily pleased.
Yesterday, Wren and I decided that rather than pay out a fortune in two seperate rents we would try to buy or, at least, rent a place together in Bristol. For me it would be easy to travel up the motorway to London on a Wednesday, then stay with the Fat Kid for a few days while working on the Screws before returning home to God's Own city. With Tuesdays off, there would also be a good chance of regular weekend visits to see the Gas.
Unfortunately, househunting is not an easy business, particularly when you have to master the Bristol traffic. We first went to a village called Stapleton just outside town and a little cottage that was idyllic, with an allotment out back and everything. The price was good, too, but Wren and I suddenly realised we hadn't sorted out a mortgage, or even had a chat with a financial advisor.
We decided that might be a good step.
Later, Wren insisted we visit Fishponds, which also sounds idyllic until you realise there isn't a fish pond in site and, if there was, the carp had probably been killed off long ago from the fumes eminating from the lorries, Kwik-fit centres and MOT stations in the vicinity. Not my idea of a relaxing home from home.
Finally, after a few more false starts, we ended up in Westbury-on-Trym, a lovely little village within a sparrow's fart of the centre and Bristol nightlife. It seems a good choice and we looked at a couple of rental properties which weren't bad.
After six hours on the road, though, my temper was beginning to fray and "grumpy grandad" came out in full mode. Wren told me as much as I cursed, crunched the gears and attempted three point turns in places where it was almost impossible to perform them (that scene out of Austin Powers, when he tries to manouevre a motorised vehicle in a tiny corridor springs to mind).
Finally, we called it a day, much to my relief, and ended up at my parents where we were delighted to show them the wedding dvd and pictures, Jean having missed our big day.
Back over the bridge then and by the time I got home it was 10pm. I had planned to make the famous meatballs and decided to do so any way, but save them for a later date. I came across a quick meal to cook while they were in the oven.
It is meant to be served in tacos or pitta bread but, having neither, I ate it with penne pasta.
Sloppy Joes
What you need:
8oz mince.
A pepper (I used a chopped yellow one)
Half an onion
Some sliced mushrooms
Tomato paste
Worcestershire Sauce
Tabasco, if you have any, or chilli sauce or ketchup.
Olive oil.
What I did:
Heat the olive oil in a frying pan, then soften the chopped onion, sliced mushrooms and pepper.
Add the mince and brown.
Then add the tomato paste and stir in for two minutes.
Add the Worcester sauce, tabasco to taste or chilli sauce and ketchup.
Cook for a few minutes more, then serve with the pasta.
Quick and easy
In response, The Boss turned to him and asked, "Oi, yer wee Sasenach. Wo's wrong wi' ye?"
The tormented one simply replied: "Oh, when will death come?" Quite.
It may have been that the poor sap had been working as news editor with the help of just one reporter and had to wade through a pile of MPs expenses claims which had been printed in the Daily Telegraph that day. On the other hand, it may have just been because he had been forced to prize open his moth-infested wallet to hand over two quid to Smashy for a bet they had made on the previous night in old O'Neill's.
The subject of the bet had been the Prince of Darkness and his progress with a young lady with whom he had struck up a conversation that evening. Smashy predicted things would progress little further on the basis that a. the Prince had already started sinking Sambucas, and it wasn't even 9pm.
b. He seemed to be regaling her stories of his experiences at rock festivals, which dated him back to the era before the Beatles came into existence.
and c. She actually seemed pretty intelligent.
Meanwhile, Paps was attempting to chat up the entire Northern Ireland women's basketball team who were obviously preparing for their big game the following day seriously, by sinking drink after drink and becoming decidedly merry. He, of course, needed the help of Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes) who regularly endured knowing glares from his girlfriend the solicitor who, it must be said, has the patience of a saint.
Eventually, tired of watching the Prince in action, we retired to the City Arms which, even on a Friday night with a disco in full swing, is looking more and more like a ghost town. Wren and I ended up with the dance floor to ourselves while Smashy and the Wonderful One decided to quit while the going was good. Withers, now convinced that the Prince would have failed in his mission seeing he was barely coherent when we left him, passed over the two quid and no more was said.
This morning, though, the Wonderful One was in a much more cheery mood. Seems the Dark Lord had cracked it and Smashy reluctantly turned up at his desk to return the coins and add two more of his own.
This proved that a. the Prince can't be relied on to keep schtum about anything and
b. the Wonderful One is easily pleased.
Yesterday, Wren and I decided that rather than pay out a fortune in two seperate rents we would try to buy or, at least, rent a place together in Bristol. For me it would be easy to travel up the motorway to London on a Wednesday, then stay with the Fat Kid for a few days while working on the Screws before returning home to God's Own city. With Tuesdays off, there would also be a good chance of regular weekend visits to see the Gas.
Unfortunately, househunting is not an easy business, particularly when you have to master the Bristol traffic. We first went to a village called Stapleton just outside town and a little cottage that was idyllic, with an allotment out back and everything. The price was good, too, but Wren and I suddenly realised we hadn't sorted out a mortgage, or even had a chat with a financial advisor.
We decided that might be a good step.
Later, Wren insisted we visit Fishponds, which also sounds idyllic until you realise there isn't a fish pond in site and, if there was, the carp had probably been killed off long ago from the fumes eminating from the lorries, Kwik-fit centres and MOT stations in the vicinity. Not my idea of a relaxing home from home.
Finally, after a few more false starts, we ended up in Westbury-on-Trym, a lovely little village within a sparrow's fart of the centre and Bristol nightlife. It seems a good choice and we looked at a couple of rental properties which weren't bad.
After six hours on the road, though, my temper was beginning to fray and "grumpy grandad" came out in full mode. Wren told me as much as I cursed, crunched the gears and attempted three point turns in places where it was almost impossible to perform them (that scene out of Austin Powers, when he tries to manouevre a motorised vehicle in a tiny corridor springs to mind).
Finally, we called it a day, much to my relief, and ended up at my parents where we were delighted to show them the wedding dvd and pictures, Jean having missed our big day.
Back over the bridge then and by the time I got home it was 10pm. I had planned to make the famous meatballs and decided to do so any way, but save them for a later date. I came across a quick meal to cook while they were in the oven.
It is meant to be served in tacos or pitta bread but, having neither, I ate it with penne pasta.
Sloppy Joes
What you need:
8oz mince.
A pepper (I used a chopped yellow one)
Half an onion
Some sliced mushrooms
Tomato paste
Worcestershire Sauce
Tabasco, if you have any, or chilli sauce or ketchup.
Olive oil.
What I did:
Heat the olive oil in a frying pan, then soften the chopped onion, sliced mushrooms and pepper.
Add the mince and brown.
Then add the tomato paste and stir in for two minutes.
Add the Worcester sauce, tabasco to taste or chilli sauce and ketchup.
Cook for a few minutes more, then serve with the pasta.
Quick and easy
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Nettle wine
I never had The Boss down as one of those tree-hugging, hippie types until he told me of one of the adventures of his misspent youth.
It all came about because I happened to mention that Scooby was off to Avebury with his drums to celebrate the summer solstice which, according to him, means bashing the hell out of his skins while wearing only a loin cloth and a smile and jigging around a circle of stones.
"Did ah not tell ye about ma adventure with some of ma wee mates when I was in ma teens?" The Boss offered in his melodic Irish tones.
When I answered in the negative, he proceeded to inform me of a time when he and his pals - no doubt known as Stiff, niff, jiff and anything else ending in iff (in the manner of all his mates) - sneaked off into the countryside to partake of some rather illicit alcohol.
While they were crawling through the woods they came across a strange sight. There was a fire blazing a few hundred yards away and they sneaked up to witness a group of cowl-wearing sun worshippers chanting in some foreign tongue while moving slowly around the flames.
The boys were convinced they had come across some sort of witches' coven and whispered excitedly to each other. Unfortunately, whispering in the throaty, guttural drawl of Rab C Nesbit tends to carry a bit on the breeze and they soon realised their talking had attracted the attention of said coven.
The witches began to call to them. "Come out, come out, whoever you are..." and, after a brief consultation, the boys decided the game was up and they might as well take their punishment.
Strangely, though, the coven were more than happy to welcome them into the gathering. They passed around such delicious alcoholic treats as nettle wine and soon the Boss and his pals were giddy with the excitement of it all.
Then, as the sun began to rise to herald a new dawn, the solstice worshippers threw off their cowls and stripped butt-naked. They then implored the boys to do the same.
The Boss, now feeling at one with the earth and rather trolleyed on nettle wine, immediately took up the challenge and cast off his clothes, quickly followed by his buddies.
They then all linked arms and proceeded to sway and dance around a young tree sapling planted in the ground - a symbol of the earth's fertility.
Only trouble was The Boss didn't realise that swaying on a shedful of nettle wine can sometime get out of hand. Overbalancing rather dramatically, he toppled straight over onto the young sapling, snuffing out its young life before it could even dream of becoming a tall and mighty tree.
Silence. As The Boss rose to his feet he was greeted by looks of stunned, open-mouthed horror and wished the ground would swallow him up, too.
It all came about because I happened to mention that Scooby was off to Avebury with his drums to celebrate the summer solstice which, according to him, means bashing the hell out of his skins while wearing only a loin cloth and a smile and jigging around a circle of stones.
"Did ah not tell ye about ma adventure with some of ma wee mates when I was in ma teens?" The Boss offered in his melodic Irish tones.
When I answered in the negative, he proceeded to inform me of a time when he and his pals - no doubt known as Stiff, niff, jiff and anything else ending in iff (in the manner of all his mates) - sneaked off into the countryside to partake of some rather illicit alcohol.
While they were crawling through the woods they came across a strange sight. There was a fire blazing a few hundred yards away and they sneaked up to witness a group of cowl-wearing sun worshippers chanting in some foreign tongue while moving slowly around the flames.
The boys were convinced they had come across some sort of witches' coven and whispered excitedly to each other. Unfortunately, whispering in the throaty, guttural drawl of Rab C Nesbit tends to carry a bit on the breeze and they soon realised their talking had attracted the attention of said coven.
The witches began to call to them. "Come out, come out, whoever you are..." and, after a brief consultation, the boys decided the game was up and they might as well take their punishment.
Strangely, though, the coven were more than happy to welcome them into the gathering. They passed around such delicious alcoholic treats as nettle wine and soon the Boss and his pals were giddy with the excitement of it all.
Then, as the sun began to rise to herald a new dawn, the solstice worshippers threw off their cowls and stripped butt-naked. They then implored the boys to do the same.
The Boss, now feeling at one with the earth and rather trolleyed on nettle wine, immediately took up the challenge and cast off his clothes, quickly followed by his buddies.
They then all linked arms and proceeded to sway and dance around a young tree sapling planted in the ground - a symbol of the earth's fertility.
Only trouble was The Boss didn't realise that swaying on a shedful of nettle wine can sometime get out of hand. Overbalancing rather dramatically, he toppled straight over onto the young sapling, snuffing out its young life before it could even dream of becoming a tall and mighty tree.
Silence. As The Boss rose to his feet he was greeted by looks of stunned, open-mouthed horror and wished the ground would swallow him up, too.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Chicken curry off the bone (from Dirty Dots)
ANYONE of a certain age reading the title of this blog entry will think "Ah, right, he went out, had a shedful, ended up in Kiwis, then stopped off in Caroline Street on the way home". Caroline Street, by the way, is known more commonly in Cardiff as chip alley.
I can tell you now that the above scenario is totally without foundation. Some bits are true, of course, but I can categorically state that I actually visited Dirty Dots - the most renowned of chip alleys eateries - in the middle of the day while sober. Not stone cold sober, though. For the rest of the story we must rewind 15 hours or so.
And where do we end up? The new old O'Neill's on the Hayes, of course. Having managed to find a parking space right outside the office I opted to leave the car at work overnight and stroll into town to meet Smashy, Jarhead and the Blair Witch. And before long I was getting well into the lager on a spirited mission to "catch up" my Meeja Wales colleagues, who had been inbibing for a good few hours.
As the evening went on and we were joined by Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes) Dave the Suit and Sarah "Not guilty" Me Lud, we were informed there would be some musical entertainment. Asking one of the barmaids who this might be, she answered: "You know the one. He's a kind of paedophile Santa Claus." Hmmm. Surely the little Bowling Ball hadn't secured another gig?
But no. Shortly, this ramshackle bloke with tattoos and long grey beard, aged around 140 I should think, took to the stage and started playing a number of trad songs. He got through House of the Rising Sun by the Animals (which I informed him was the first song most budding guitarists, including moi, learnt to play), I Walk The Line by Johnny Cash and Fairytale in New York without the benefit of the lovely Kirsty McColl.
His guitar was wierd, to say the least. It had the overall guitar shape but only the wooden fretboard was solid, the rest was just empty air. But, unfazed by the serious heckling coming from our table and a nearby stag party, he continued to strum away to his heart's content.
Then it dawned on me. This folk singer who really belonged in a folk museum might know the one folk song that is dear to my heart. And sure enough, after my request, he played the whole uncensored version of Goodnight Irene, the prayer of all true Gasheads.
Afterwards, he informed me he was playing a gig in Bristol the day after. It was taking place in Brislington. I told him Irene would go down very well there if he played it. I didn't inform him that Brislington was, in fact, at the centre of Sh**head territory and he might not escape alive if he performed it. Well, I didn't want to alarm him.
Strangely, though, when I later went to the bar, one of the staff approached me and asked if I was, indeed, a "gashead". Imagine my surprise when, after answering in the affirmative, he informed me that he was, too! Bliss. We do, indeed, get everywhere.
After that it all became a bit of a blur. This morning I stirred from a deep slumber and looked at the clock. 10.30! I am normally in work by 10 on a Friday. I quickly checked my phone. The alarm hadn't been set. Oops. Not only that but there were absoluted NO text messages for me, informing me of my terrible tardiness. Not a one. Which got me thinking... Does this sum up my value to the whole Meeja Wales operation?
A good six years ago after a famous Sunday Mirror Christmas Party I remember a similar coma engulfing me and waking the next day to find 40 missed calls! Late for work at Meeja Wales? None. I could have been ripped limb from limb by Cannibal seagulls and no one would have noticed. Alarming really.
Anyway, enough of this. I jumped up, showered and set off for the bus stop and managed to get into work for 11am. No one batted an eyelid apart from the Wonderful One, who said: "You went out last night without me? Why didn't someone ring?"
Because, dear boy, you informed everyone very loudly at work last night you were going home and even insisted: "I am ALLOWED to go home now and again, aren't I?" before heading for the exit.
Then I kind of coasted through the rest of the morning before heading off for a spot of lunch. Then, as if from nowhere, this craving came across me. Chicken Curry off the Bone and chips from Dorothy's in Caroline Street. I haven't had it for about four years and, my, it still tastes good. They even advertise it outside this salubrious establishment. "The original home of Chicken Curry off the bone" it says. Not sure, but they may have been pipped to it by some establishment on the sub-continent, if I were to hazard a guess.
I can tell you now that the above scenario is totally without foundation. Some bits are true, of course, but I can categorically state that I actually visited Dirty Dots - the most renowned of chip alleys eateries - in the middle of the day while sober. Not stone cold sober, though. For the rest of the story we must rewind 15 hours or so.
And where do we end up? The new old O'Neill's on the Hayes, of course. Having managed to find a parking space right outside the office I opted to leave the car at work overnight and stroll into town to meet Smashy, Jarhead and the Blair Witch. And before long I was getting well into the lager on a spirited mission to "catch up" my Meeja Wales colleagues, who had been inbibing for a good few hours.
As the evening went on and we were joined by Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes) Dave the Suit and Sarah "Not guilty" Me Lud, we were informed there would be some musical entertainment. Asking one of the barmaids who this might be, she answered: "You know the one. He's a kind of paedophile Santa Claus." Hmmm. Surely the little Bowling Ball hadn't secured another gig?
But no. Shortly, this ramshackle bloke with tattoos and long grey beard, aged around 140 I should think, took to the stage and started playing a number of trad songs. He got through House of the Rising Sun by the Animals (which I informed him was the first song most budding guitarists, including moi, learnt to play), I Walk The Line by Johnny Cash and Fairytale in New York without the benefit of the lovely Kirsty McColl.
His guitar was wierd, to say the least. It had the overall guitar shape but only the wooden fretboard was solid, the rest was just empty air. But, unfazed by the serious heckling coming from our table and a nearby stag party, he continued to strum away to his heart's content.
Then it dawned on me. This folk singer who really belonged in a folk museum might know the one folk song that is dear to my heart. And sure enough, after my request, he played the whole uncensored version of Goodnight Irene, the prayer of all true Gasheads.
Afterwards, he informed me he was playing a gig in Bristol the day after. It was taking place in Brislington. I told him Irene would go down very well there if he played it. I didn't inform him that Brislington was, in fact, at the centre of Sh**head territory and he might not escape alive if he performed it. Well, I didn't want to alarm him.
Strangely, though, when I later went to the bar, one of the staff approached me and asked if I was, indeed, a "gashead". Imagine my surprise when, after answering in the affirmative, he informed me that he was, too! Bliss. We do, indeed, get everywhere.
After that it all became a bit of a blur. This morning I stirred from a deep slumber and looked at the clock. 10.30! I am normally in work by 10 on a Friday. I quickly checked my phone. The alarm hadn't been set. Oops. Not only that but there were absoluted NO text messages for me, informing me of my terrible tardiness. Not a one. Which got me thinking... Does this sum up my value to the whole Meeja Wales operation?
A good six years ago after a famous Sunday Mirror Christmas Party I remember a similar coma engulfing me and waking the next day to find 40 missed calls! Late for work at Meeja Wales? None. I could have been ripped limb from limb by Cannibal seagulls and no one would have noticed. Alarming really.
Anyway, enough of this. I jumped up, showered and set off for the bus stop and managed to get into work for 11am. No one batted an eyelid apart from the Wonderful One, who said: "You went out last night without me? Why didn't someone ring?"
Because, dear boy, you informed everyone very loudly at work last night you were going home and even insisted: "I am ALLOWED to go home now and again, aren't I?" before heading for the exit.
Then I kind of coasted through the rest of the morning before heading off for a spot of lunch. Then, as if from nowhere, this craving came across me. Chicken Curry off the Bone and chips from Dorothy's in Caroline Street. I haven't had it for about four years and, my, it still tastes good. They even advertise it outside this salubrious establishment. "The original home of Chicken Curry off the bone" it says. Not sure, but they may have been pipped to it by some establishment on the sub-continent, if I were to hazard a guess.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
The Burger King
IT is true to say that the Prince of Darkness, while not feeding on the blood of young virgins, adheres to a pretty strict diet. And I am not talking here about his liquid intake of double voddies, sambucas and Peronis.
Looking at him you would think the Dark Lord, who weighs in at about 7 stone sopping wet, lives off lettuce leaves and slim-a-soups. Not a bit of it. It's more like he watched Morgan Spurlock's Supersize Me, where the man in question lived off a diet of McDonalds for a month, and thought it was some sort of healthy eating guide to be followed remorsely.
Here, exclusively, is an example of what he ate last week.
Monday: Two big macs. Tuesday: Two big macs. Wednesday: Two big macs. Thursday: Two big macs. Friday: Two big macs. Yet he didn't seem to put on an ounce. Perhaps that, more than anything else, is proof that he has some kind of pact with the devil.
When he's not eating big macs he tends to make a huge vat of spaghetti bolognaise at the weekend, then returns to it throughout the week to take care of his dietary requirements. How healthy it is to leave the vat on the stove and reheat it every day of the week, I am uncertain, but it certainly doesn't seem to have done the Prince any harm.
Then there is the dinner time feast. This is when the Prince slips out for a bite to eat, returning every day with a breakfast roll from the little shack over the road by the station, oozing with greasy bacon, sausage, egg and sauce.
On occasion, though, he has shocked his colleagues at Meeja Wales by returning with a bag of fruit. As he explained one day: "I think the guy in the fruit store feels sorry for me, he called me over and plied me with bananas and grapes and only charged me a quid."
One thing I have never seen the Prince go near, however, is garlic. And if he gets any thinner he won't be able to see his reflection in the mirror. Mind you, I seem to recall that is par for the course for these creatures of the night.
Wren and I watched a pretty good film on DVD last night. It was a psychological thriller called Derailed, starring Clive Owen and, remarkably, Jennifer Anniston. Remarkable, I say, because this was no rom-com and was as far removed from Friends as it was possible to get. It featured some particularly nasty characters but had a great twist at the end. Well worth a viewing.
Looking at him you would think the Dark Lord, who weighs in at about 7 stone sopping wet, lives off lettuce leaves and slim-a-soups. Not a bit of it. It's more like he watched Morgan Spurlock's Supersize Me, where the man in question lived off a diet of McDonalds for a month, and thought it was some sort of healthy eating guide to be followed remorsely.
Here, exclusively, is an example of what he ate last week.
Monday: Two big macs. Tuesday: Two big macs. Wednesday: Two big macs. Thursday: Two big macs. Friday: Two big macs. Yet he didn't seem to put on an ounce. Perhaps that, more than anything else, is proof that he has some kind of pact with the devil.
When he's not eating big macs he tends to make a huge vat of spaghetti bolognaise at the weekend, then returns to it throughout the week to take care of his dietary requirements. How healthy it is to leave the vat on the stove and reheat it every day of the week, I am uncertain, but it certainly doesn't seem to have done the Prince any harm.
Then there is the dinner time feast. This is when the Prince slips out for a bite to eat, returning every day with a breakfast roll from the little shack over the road by the station, oozing with greasy bacon, sausage, egg and sauce.
On occasion, though, he has shocked his colleagues at Meeja Wales by returning with a bag of fruit. As he explained one day: "I think the guy in the fruit store feels sorry for me, he called me over and plied me with bananas and grapes and only charged me a quid."
One thing I have never seen the Prince go near, however, is garlic. And if he gets any thinner he won't be able to see his reflection in the mirror. Mind you, I seem to recall that is par for the course for these creatures of the night.
Wren and I watched a pretty good film on DVD last night. It was a psychological thriller called Derailed, starring Clive Owen and, remarkably, Jennifer Anniston. Remarkable, I say, because this was no rom-com and was as far removed from Friends as it was possible to get. It featured some particularly nasty characters but had a great twist at the end. Well worth a viewing.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
The wonderful One (an unreserved apology)
YESTERDAY I may have given the impression that the Wonderful Withers of WoS had compared his recent disappointments in the love department to a football team failing to win a league game. This, I now accept, is totally untrue.
To put the record straight he actually compared his miserable failures with the opposite sex to that of Eddie Johnson, the pretty non-descript American striker and perennial substitute at Cardiff City, who spent an absolute age trying to score his first goal - so much so that he could probably have been reprimanded for breaching the trade descriptions act by calling himself a "striker". He actually said: "I am a lot like Eddie Johnson in that the longer he went without scoring the more the pressure built up inside him, particularly with all the heckling he was getting from the terraces."
So, you see, it is absolutely nothing like being a football league team that cannot win a game, and feel the pressure the more it goes without them breaking their duck, particularly with all the heckling they get from the terraces. The analogy is obviously COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY DIFFERENT.
Withers, I apologise unreservedly.
Actually, to be fair he keeps getting in positions to score (although I hesitate to use the footballing analogy that he keeps getting into the box), and the suggestion I made the other day to the boys, that he was just the warm up act for the Prince of Darkness, is now looking more and more inaccurate, too.
On Monday night we joined up with the Fabulous Baker Boy, in town to take his folks to the Take That concert (so he claims), Monsieur de Lebussier and Mad Liz in the new old O'Neill's. It was a very pleasant evening which took an unexpectedly entertaining twist when we bumped into a lady from Chiswick in London claiming to be called Zenith. When asked what her surname was she came up with something totally unpronounceable with lots of clicks and gutteral sounds. She claimed it was down to her Zulu upbringing but we soon twigged she was a bit of a joker.
This was great for the Wonderful One who, as you may have heard earlier in this blog, fancies himself as a bit of a stand-up act himself.
'Zenith' was in town to campaign against a new Biofuels plant being located in Newport, her argument being that it will actually help destroy the rain forests - though I am unaware of any rain forests in Chiswick.
Still, in her spare time she just happens to fancy herself as a comedienne and has, in fact, been on a few courses in pursuit of this hobby. They were soon engaged in a bout of witty reparte which had the Wonderful One beaming from ear to ear.
Not so Mad Liz, who chose this moment to demonstrate how she has obtained her nickname. The Mad one, perhaps in a fit of pique having being robbed of the undivided attention of the Fab BB, joined in the conversation by saying: "Why don't you f*** off back to your hotel, Zenith. I don't like you." What a mentallist! as Alan Partridge might say.
Eventually we managed to calm her down and her and our guest were almost friends by the end of the evening.
As I left the boozer the Wonderful One and Zenith (real name Sue, disappointingly) were still deep in conversation. Go on, Eddie son... no pressure.
To put the record straight he actually compared his miserable failures with the opposite sex to that of Eddie Johnson, the pretty non-descript American striker and perennial substitute at Cardiff City, who spent an absolute age trying to score his first goal - so much so that he could probably have been reprimanded for breaching the trade descriptions act by calling himself a "striker". He actually said: "I am a lot like Eddie Johnson in that the longer he went without scoring the more the pressure built up inside him, particularly with all the heckling he was getting from the terraces."
So, you see, it is absolutely nothing like being a football league team that cannot win a game, and feel the pressure the more it goes without them breaking their duck, particularly with all the heckling they get from the terraces. The analogy is obviously COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY DIFFERENT.
Withers, I apologise unreservedly.
Actually, to be fair he keeps getting in positions to score (although I hesitate to use the footballing analogy that he keeps getting into the box), and the suggestion I made the other day to the boys, that he was just the warm up act for the Prince of Darkness, is now looking more and more inaccurate, too.
On Monday night we joined up with the Fabulous Baker Boy, in town to take his folks to the Take That concert (so he claims), Monsieur de Lebussier and Mad Liz in the new old O'Neill's. It was a very pleasant evening which took an unexpectedly entertaining twist when we bumped into a lady from Chiswick in London claiming to be called Zenith. When asked what her surname was she came up with something totally unpronounceable with lots of clicks and gutteral sounds. She claimed it was down to her Zulu upbringing but we soon twigged she was a bit of a joker.
This was great for the Wonderful One who, as you may have heard earlier in this blog, fancies himself as a bit of a stand-up act himself.
'Zenith' was in town to campaign against a new Biofuels plant being located in Newport, her argument being that it will actually help destroy the rain forests - though I am unaware of any rain forests in Chiswick.
Still, in her spare time she just happens to fancy herself as a comedienne and has, in fact, been on a few courses in pursuit of this hobby. They were soon engaged in a bout of witty reparte which had the Wonderful One beaming from ear to ear.
Not so Mad Liz, who chose this moment to demonstrate how she has obtained her nickname. The Mad one, perhaps in a fit of pique having being robbed of the undivided attention of the Fab BB, joined in the conversation by saying: "Why don't you f*** off back to your hotel, Zenith. I don't like you." What a mentallist! as Alan Partridge might say.
Eventually we managed to calm her down and her and our guest were almost friends by the end of the evening.
As I left the boozer the Wonderful One and Zenith (real name Sue, disappointingly) were still deep in conversation. Go on, Eddie son... no pressure.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Roast beef with horseradish and rose wine glaze
THE Wonderful Withers of WoS is feeling the pressure. He admitted as much on Friday when we visited an out-of-town venue rather than try to negotiate our way through the mass of stinking humanity that had descended on Cardiff city centre for an Oasis concert at the stadium.
There was another reason, too. All the pubs in the area, including the Cardiff beer and cider festival, were serving drinks in plastic glasses. Yuk!
So we had to walk a bit further but ended up at the Pen and Wig, a cool boozer with a largely student clientele and arguably Cardiff's best beer garden.
After a particularly fraught day on the South Wales Eggcup, where everyone seemed to be getting deliriously excited about some story about a bendy bus, I arrived very late to join up with WWW, Jarhead, Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes) and Smashy. It was pretty obvious that, having given them three hours start, they were well into the swing of things.
In fact, I knew as much before I even got there thanks to a text message from Jarhead which simply read: "Sh** it's great here. Proper glasses and birds in suits?!"
Had he mentioned boots as well it would have amounted to Jarhead heaven.
Anyway, the beer was obviously slipping down well... so well, in fact, that the Wonderful One didn't realise that instead of buying him Stella Artois, the others had been playing tricks on him and providing him with all manner of other beverages, including a Carling Shandy I do believe.
I was, of course, accompanied by the Prince of Darkness, who immediately upped the pace and by the time Paps joined us Withers was beginning to metamorphosise from writer and broadcaster to slurring, incoherent zombie.
At this time we were joined by a Yard bird (as the barmaids at our FORMER fave venue are known) and her mate, who actually appeared to find the Wonderful One rather hilarious. I don't know whether it was his witty one liners that had her engrossed or if she was just captivated at the prospect she had come across the missing link -its early attempts at communication involving a series of grunts and giggles.
Anyway, the amassed crowd were fascinated to observe this meeting of minds and were quick to encourage Withers that he was actually doing pretty well. This, of course, had the opposite of the desired effect on the Wonderful One.
I advised him that now would be the time to arrange a future meeting or, at least, get a phone number before toddling off home. Unfortunately he did the worst thing possible in his circumstances - he arranged to meet her later.
Next day I inquired of his progress and he confessed that when he reached the arranged meeting place she was nowhere to be seen. Mind you, it's probably a good thing, too, judging by the state of him.
He did, however, explain to me how difficult it was to be Withers these days - particularly when in pursuit of a happy liaison with a member of the opposite sex.
"It's like being a football team desperately trying to get your first league win. The more it doesn't happen, the more pressure you feel. It gets to the point that you think you'll never win one. And it doesn't help with the crowd on your back, too... like you lot."
Fair point, mate but, as I imagine every England football and cricket manager has told his teams over the last 40-odd years, "It's not the winning that counts, but the taking part."
Whoever actually came up with that saying must have been a real loser, mind you.
Far better to follow the scattergun approach of the Little Bowling Ball, whose theory is that if he has enough shots at goal at some stage one of them will go in.
Talking of strange liaisons, a new club opened in town on Friday night and our wedding photographer Andy was there to snap all the celebs. Celebs? There were absolutely none. Not even Noel from Hear Say managed to attend this time, and by all accounts he will show up at the opening of an envelope.
Mind you, Andy was taken aback when he was introduced to a woman who claimed to be on the reserve list for this year's Big Brother show. She looked pretty familiar and when he twigged to sent his snap into Meeja Wales for the Prince of Darkness to view.
"Hoo's tha' boord then, mate?" asked the boss, intrigued.
"I don't know. She looks familiar, but..."
Then Andy rang in to solve the Prince's memory crisis. "She's that pole dancer who took us back to her house, stripped off and then had you dancing around the pole in her front room," he revealed.
"Oh yeah!" said the Prince, who had viewed numerous pictures of her previously as part of a feature on the Big Bro series which appeared in the South Wales Eggcup yet failed to recognise her totally. I don't suppose alcohol played any part in the memory loss, though.
On Saturday night Wren and I enjoyed a very tasty bit of beef, basted in an interesting glaze of rose wine, hot horseradish sauce and thick honey.
You need:
Lean beef joint of topside, sirloin or rib of beef - I used topside
1/4 pint of rose
4 tbsp horseradish sauce
1tbsp thick honey.
TO DO:
Calculate the cooking time of the joint from the packaging, then roast in a preheated oven at 180 degrees/gas mark 4-5. Meanwhile put all the glaze ingredients in a saucepan, bring to the boil and simmer for about 5 minutes, stirring occasionally.
30 minutes from the end of cooking time, remove joint from the oven and spoon the glaze over the top, then baste occasionally until the joint is cooked.
Stand 10 minutes before carving, while returning roasting dish to the top of the hob, adding a good sprinkling of flour to the meat juices. Mix in while heating then add some stock to make a reasonably creamy gravy. Serve with vegetables and new roast potatoes.
There was another reason, too. All the pubs in the area, including the Cardiff beer and cider festival, were serving drinks in plastic glasses. Yuk!
So we had to walk a bit further but ended up at the Pen and Wig, a cool boozer with a largely student clientele and arguably Cardiff's best beer garden.
After a particularly fraught day on the South Wales Eggcup, where everyone seemed to be getting deliriously excited about some story about a bendy bus, I arrived very late to join up with WWW, Jarhead, Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes) and Smashy. It was pretty obvious that, having given them three hours start, they were well into the swing of things.
In fact, I knew as much before I even got there thanks to a text message from Jarhead which simply read: "Sh** it's great here. Proper glasses and birds in suits?!"
Had he mentioned boots as well it would have amounted to Jarhead heaven.
Anyway, the beer was obviously slipping down well... so well, in fact, that the Wonderful One didn't realise that instead of buying him Stella Artois, the others had been playing tricks on him and providing him with all manner of other beverages, including a Carling Shandy I do believe.
I was, of course, accompanied by the Prince of Darkness, who immediately upped the pace and by the time Paps joined us Withers was beginning to metamorphosise from writer and broadcaster to slurring, incoherent zombie.
At this time we were joined by a Yard bird (as the barmaids at our FORMER fave venue are known) and her mate, who actually appeared to find the Wonderful One rather hilarious. I don't know whether it was his witty one liners that had her engrossed or if she was just captivated at the prospect she had come across the missing link -its early attempts at communication involving a series of grunts and giggles.
Anyway, the amassed crowd were fascinated to observe this meeting of minds and were quick to encourage Withers that he was actually doing pretty well. This, of course, had the opposite of the desired effect on the Wonderful One.
I advised him that now would be the time to arrange a future meeting or, at least, get a phone number before toddling off home. Unfortunately he did the worst thing possible in his circumstances - he arranged to meet her later.
Next day I inquired of his progress and he confessed that when he reached the arranged meeting place she was nowhere to be seen. Mind you, it's probably a good thing, too, judging by the state of him.
He did, however, explain to me how difficult it was to be Withers these days - particularly when in pursuit of a happy liaison with a member of the opposite sex.
"It's like being a football team desperately trying to get your first league win. The more it doesn't happen, the more pressure you feel. It gets to the point that you think you'll never win one. And it doesn't help with the crowd on your back, too... like you lot."
Fair point, mate but, as I imagine every England football and cricket manager has told his teams over the last 40-odd years, "It's not the winning that counts, but the taking part."
Whoever actually came up with that saying must have been a real loser, mind you.
Far better to follow the scattergun approach of the Little Bowling Ball, whose theory is that if he has enough shots at goal at some stage one of them will go in.
Talking of strange liaisons, a new club opened in town on Friday night and our wedding photographer Andy was there to snap all the celebs. Celebs? There were absolutely none. Not even Noel from Hear Say managed to attend this time, and by all accounts he will show up at the opening of an envelope.
Mind you, Andy was taken aback when he was introduced to a woman who claimed to be on the reserve list for this year's Big Brother show. She looked pretty familiar and when he twigged to sent his snap into Meeja Wales for the Prince of Darkness to view.
"Hoo's tha' boord then, mate?" asked the boss, intrigued.
"I don't know. She looks familiar, but..."
Then Andy rang in to solve the Prince's memory crisis. "She's that pole dancer who took us back to her house, stripped off and then had you dancing around the pole in her front room," he revealed.
"Oh yeah!" said the Prince, who had viewed numerous pictures of her previously as part of a feature on the Big Bro series which appeared in the South Wales Eggcup yet failed to recognise her totally. I don't suppose alcohol played any part in the memory loss, though.
On Saturday night Wren and I enjoyed a very tasty bit of beef, basted in an interesting glaze of rose wine, hot horseradish sauce and thick honey.
You need:
Lean beef joint of topside, sirloin or rib of beef - I used topside
1/4 pint of rose
4 tbsp horseradish sauce
1tbsp thick honey.
TO DO:
Calculate the cooking time of the joint from the packaging, then roast in a preheated oven at 180 degrees/gas mark 4-5. Meanwhile put all the glaze ingredients in a saucepan, bring to the boil and simmer for about 5 minutes, stirring occasionally.
30 minutes from the end of cooking time, remove joint from the oven and spoon the glaze over the top, then baste occasionally until the joint is cooked.
Stand 10 minutes before carving, while returning roasting dish to the top of the hob, adding a good sprinkling of flour to the meat juices. Mix in while heating then add some stock to make a reasonably creamy gravy. Serve with vegetables and new roast potatoes.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Wassabi crisps
WE are surrounded by the wonderful world of text speak these days - the abbreviated language of youth. My daughter the fat kid is somewhat of an expert at it. I get messages which regularly end in the phrase lol, which I am reliably informed means Laugh Out Loud, or tb, which is shorthand for text back. There are others far too numerous to mention, but I must admit I was perplexed about the one I came across the other day.
Now, I've never really thought of the Prince of Darkness to be a trendsetter. Unless, of course, it has suddenly become trendy to prey on student virgins, dance like a wonky three-legged table in the middle of an earthquake, live in a crypt and never emerge till dusk or hum the tunes of Frank Zappa to yourself, but a recent tale has made me re-evaluate his ability to get "down with the kids".
The boss and his doppleganger Billy Muirfield, a former columnist of the esteemed Wales on Sunday, were out having a few drinks this week when a text message came through from the dark lord inquiring of their whereabouts.
The boss immediately asked him what he wanted and was a wee bit perplexed by the answer.
"Wha' the hell does tha' mean?" inquired the Boss in his lilting Irish brogue.
He passed across the phone to his compadre who, shockingly, happens to be a Rangers fan - something The Celtic-infatuated Boss seems to have failed to register.
All the message said was "dvc".
For the next half hour they tried to work out this bizarre message until giving up the ghost and settling back to enjoy their drinks. Eventually the Prince himself turned up but by then everyone had forgotten all about the strange texted abbreviation.
Next day and the Boss suddenly recalled this strange occurence. He proceeded to pass his phone around the room, hoping that someone might be able to shed light on proceedings. Not one of us had come across the shortform before.
Then on came that little light bulb that sometimes shines above the Wonderful One's head. "Got it!" he shouted, as if he had uncovered a rare fossil.
"Oh aye, so wha's it mean then, ye ken?" asked the boss.
"DVC... Double Vodka and Coke," replied the Wonderful One. Obvious.
On Thursday night there were a few beers supped in the new old O'Neills in the company of the Prince, the Wonderful One and Danny Boy (the Poipes, the poipes). The latter was looking forward to a long weekend, which would involve a stag party of, no doubt, momentous proportions.
"But it's your long weekend. What does the solicitor say?" I asked.
"Oh, it's ok," said the voice of reason. "I've told her she can go and visit her mother for the weekend."
What a thoughtful chap.
Getting home it was pretty late and I had no desire to cook. For that matter I had no desire to set fire to the kitchen or ruin any of my pots, which would have been the inevitable consequence of putting something on the stove, then falling asleep in front of the Yankees v the Red Sox.
I therefore settled for a packet of Wasabi crisps. Wasabi, apparently, is Japanese horseradish - and very nice they were, too.
Now, I've never really thought of the Prince of Darkness to be a trendsetter. Unless, of course, it has suddenly become trendy to prey on student virgins, dance like a wonky three-legged table in the middle of an earthquake, live in a crypt and never emerge till dusk or hum the tunes of Frank Zappa to yourself, but a recent tale has made me re-evaluate his ability to get "down with the kids".
The boss and his doppleganger Billy Muirfield, a former columnist of the esteemed Wales on Sunday, were out having a few drinks this week when a text message came through from the dark lord inquiring of their whereabouts.
The boss immediately asked him what he wanted and was a wee bit perplexed by the answer.
"Wha' the hell does tha' mean?" inquired the Boss in his lilting Irish brogue.
He passed across the phone to his compadre who, shockingly, happens to be a Rangers fan - something The Celtic-infatuated Boss seems to have failed to register.
All the message said was "dvc".
For the next half hour they tried to work out this bizarre message until giving up the ghost and settling back to enjoy their drinks. Eventually the Prince himself turned up but by then everyone had forgotten all about the strange texted abbreviation.
Next day and the Boss suddenly recalled this strange occurence. He proceeded to pass his phone around the room, hoping that someone might be able to shed light on proceedings. Not one of us had come across the shortform before.
Then on came that little light bulb that sometimes shines above the Wonderful One's head. "Got it!" he shouted, as if he had uncovered a rare fossil.
"Oh aye, so wha's it mean then, ye ken?" asked the boss.
"DVC... Double Vodka and Coke," replied the Wonderful One. Obvious.
On Thursday night there were a few beers supped in the new old O'Neills in the company of the Prince, the Wonderful One and Danny Boy (the Poipes, the poipes). The latter was looking forward to a long weekend, which would involve a stag party of, no doubt, momentous proportions.
"But it's your long weekend. What does the solicitor say?" I asked.
"Oh, it's ok," said the voice of reason. "I've told her she can go and visit her mother for the weekend."
What a thoughtful chap.
Getting home it was pretty late and I had no desire to cook. For that matter I had no desire to set fire to the kitchen or ruin any of my pots, which would have been the inevitable consequence of putting something on the stove, then falling asleep in front of the Yankees v the Red Sox.
I therefore settled for a packet of Wasabi crisps. Wasabi, apparently, is Japanese horseradish - and very nice they were, too.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Breakfast at Tiffany's
Ok, I confess. I have a nasty habit - one might call it an addiction. Where some people gamble, others drink (no, that's not the addiction I am referring to - how dare you!) and others still dabble in drugs, I find I cannot go into a supermarket without buying much, much more than I need.
For example, I will nip into Sainsbury's to buy a few essential items and end up running up a bill in excess of £100 after filling my trolley with things I will probably never get around to eating. You know, there is that special shelf of "exotic" foods, and for some inexplicable reason I will grab a jar of pickled Indonesian goat testicles, just because "you never know when they might come in handy".
My cupboards are full of such bonkers purchases with sell-by dates that go back to a time when Slade topped the charts and Neil Armstrong was taking "one small step for man".
Well, that's my case for the defence anyway as I will need one after the story I'm about to tell.
After a good swim in the new international pool I had to pop into Morrisons on Monday. My mission was clear. I had run out of risotto rice for paella and also needed some butter and cold meats for the week's sandwiches (a necessity since the beloved Meeja Wales canteen was taken from us just over a year ago).
I toyed with the idea of just getting a small basket, but in the past I have ended up carrying two of these, full to bursting. Passers by might easily mistake me for one of those little Turkish weightlifters who can lift things twice their size, but risk a hernia in the process.
So I got a trolley. Not the big trolley you understand, just one of the smaller ones.
Forty minutes later I was at the checkout, loading bags upon bags into said trolley. The checkout girl smiled at me as she announced: "That'll be £77.50." Are they on commission, do you think?
A wee bit expensive, too, when you consider I was only hoping to buy fillings for a week's worth of sandwiches.
Anyway, forget goat's testicles. Among my many purchases were four large chorizo sausages (you never know when you're going to need a chorizo sausage), a large bottle of hot chilli sauce, a job lot of steak and kidney pies (because they were a bargain) and the Audrey Hepburn dvd collection. Yes, that's right. Audrey Hepburn.
My reasoning? It was only £6, included five films AND the full manuscript for Breakfast at Tiffany's.
Now, on purchasing said DVD I did actually read the back, which described the aforementioned film as a "delightful Romantic Comedy", in fact just the sort of thing we red-blooded males buy all the time I'm sure you will agree.
It just seemed a logical purchase at the time. The Audrey Hepburn Collection - £6. Fantastic.
It's only when I received the bill for my purchases that it dawned on me that it is this sort of impulse buy that leaves me shockingly broke by the end of the month.
Still, having made the purchase I had to watch the film. And, I admit, it's a classic that I hadn't seen before. One of the reasons I wanted to see it was that it was written by Truman Capote and, having read his book In Cold Blood and seen the film Capote, I must admit I am intrigued by his work.
To be fair, it was a pretty enjoyable couple of hours in the company of Ms Hepburn and George Peppard whom, I recall, used to be in a series I watched years ago about a detective called Banacek before his starring role as leader of the A-team.
Afterwards I admitted to Wren how I had spent my evening. "That sounds fab," she said, "we'll have to read the scripts together now."
Ummm, no. One night getting in touch with my feminine side is enough thank you. She'll have me dressing in tights next.
For example, I will nip into Sainsbury's to buy a few essential items and end up running up a bill in excess of £100 after filling my trolley with things I will probably never get around to eating. You know, there is that special shelf of "exotic" foods, and for some inexplicable reason I will grab a jar of pickled Indonesian goat testicles, just because "you never know when they might come in handy".
My cupboards are full of such bonkers purchases with sell-by dates that go back to a time when Slade topped the charts and Neil Armstrong was taking "one small step for man".
Well, that's my case for the defence anyway as I will need one after the story I'm about to tell.
After a good swim in the new international pool I had to pop into Morrisons on Monday. My mission was clear. I had run out of risotto rice for paella and also needed some butter and cold meats for the week's sandwiches (a necessity since the beloved Meeja Wales canteen was taken from us just over a year ago).
I toyed with the idea of just getting a small basket, but in the past I have ended up carrying two of these, full to bursting. Passers by might easily mistake me for one of those little Turkish weightlifters who can lift things twice their size, but risk a hernia in the process.
So I got a trolley. Not the big trolley you understand, just one of the smaller ones.
Forty minutes later I was at the checkout, loading bags upon bags into said trolley. The checkout girl smiled at me as she announced: "That'll be £77.50." Are they on commission, do you think?
A wee bit expensive, too, when you consider I was only hoping to buy fillings for a week's worth of sandwiches.
Anyway, forget goat's testicles. Among my many purchases were four large chorizo sausages (you never know when you're going to need a chorizo sausage), a large bottle of hot chilli sauce, a job lot of steak and kidney pies (because they were a bargain) and the Audrey Hepburn dvd collection. Yes, that's right. Audrey Hepburn.
My reasoning? It was only £6, included five films AND the full manuscript for Breakfast at Tiffany's.
Now, on purchasing said DVD I did actually read the back, which described the aforementioned film as a "delightful Romantic Comedy", in fact just the sort of thing we red-blooded males buy all the time I'm sure you will agree.
It just seemed a logical purchase at the time. The Audrey Hepburn Collection - £6. Fantastic.
It's only when I received the bill for my purchases that it dawned on me that it is this sort of impulse buy that leaves me shockingly broke by the end of the month.
Still, having made the purchase I had to watch the film. And, I admit, it's a classic that I hadn't seen before. One of the reasons I wanted to see it was that it was written by Truman Capote and, having read his book In Cold Blood and seen the film Capote, I must admit I am intrigued by his work.
To be fair, it was a pretty enjoyable couple of hours in the company of Ms Hepburn and George Peppard whom, I recall, used to be in a series I watched years ago about a detective called Banacek before his starring role as leader of the A-team.
Afterwards I admitted to Wren how I had spent my evening. "That sounds fab," she said, "we'll have to read the scripts together now."
Ummm, no. One night getting in touch with my feminine side is enough thank you. She'll have me dressing in tights next.
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
Lamb Pot Roast
Scooby fancies himself as the new Stephen Spielberg but is finding it a bit tricky to master the software for his video camera. The photographer-cum-drummer-cum-landlord was kind enough to agree to produce a DVD of our wedding, but so far things haven't gone according to plan.
First take was beautifully edited with some very appropriate background music but, unfortunately, the wedding ceremony was reproduced twice. Take two, and Scooby managed to remove the duplicate (as Mrs R said, "I think once is enough for anyone") and it all seemed to be perfect, apart from the fact that my wife's speech was interrupted rather rudely by a piece of music being imposed over the top.
Being a little bit self conscious about the whole public-speaking thing she assumed that her speech was so poor that Scoobs had deliberately chosen to edit it this way. Either that, or perhaps something had gone wrong with the sound recording during the speeches.
When I asked him, politely, whether he had any out-takes of Mrs R's speech so that we could listen to it, he was shocked. He said he certainly hadn't intended to mask out her moment in the spotlight. So back went the DVD again.
Take three, and everything seemed perfect with the music in the right place and Mrs R's speech reproduced in full. Trouble was, the double wedding ceremony had been re-inserted.
Sheepishly I had to return to the producer again, but by now it had dawned on me what had gone wrong. Having re-done the footage to make sure the wedding ceremony wasn't repeated, our budding Spielberg had forgotten to change the music accordingly so it now appeared later in the film, just at the time Mrs R was making her speech.
He is back in the video suite, attempting to rectify the problem as we speak. By the time we get our DVD I expect we'll be celebrating our silver wedding anniversary. I'm sure it will be a work of art, though.
Word reaches me that Dave the Suit, who likes to think of himself as the doyen of Cardiff political journalists as he hobnobs with the great and the good on the local council, has found another string to his bow. Apparently during the latter stages of Smashy's infamous birthday bash he was seen throwing himself about with gay abandon to the music on offer from my own personal DJ Jase in the City Arms. In fact, at one stage he was seen leaping, Nureyev style, onto one of the tables in the City Arms, to the amazement of his colleagues.
I hear that the spies from the Welsh Millennium Centre are now trying to make contact. They fancy him as the next Sugar Plum Fairy.
Last night I returned home from enjoying a few relaxing beers with the Wonderful One and Jarhead in the new old O'Neill's to continue my latest cullinary delight, a lamb pot roast.
WHAT YOU NEED:
A lamb joint. I used a half shoulder but a half leg joint is recommended.
1 tsp sunflower oil
1 tsp each of thyme, rosemary and mint
500g new potatoes, cut in half if they are large
12 button onions (I used one large onion, sliced)
A sliced carrot or two
2 celery sticks, timmed and cut diagonally
One of those new stock pots advertised by Marco Pierre White
450ml boiling water
150ml dry white wine
A cup of frozen peas
One tsp of tomato puree
salt and black pepper
TO DO:
Pre-heat oven to 190/gas mark 5
Put lamb on a plate and rub all over with a mixture of the herbs and oil
Season with salt and pepper
Put into the oven for 45 minutes then remove and add the veg.
Pour the wine over the veg, then add the boiling water mixed with the stock pot
Cover and cook for a further 30 minutes.
Remove from oven again and mix in the puree and peas.
Cook for another 20 minutes, then set out the veg and slice the lamb on top.
That's what you should do, anyway. I cooked the majority of it before popping out for a beer, then returned to add the peas and the puree. I also left it to cook longer than expected so that I could revel in the Aussies sharp exit from the first round of the world Twenty20 Cup. I think it is a ploy though, so that they can be fully rested before thumping us again in the Ashes.
Hope I'm wrong.
First take was beautifully edited with some very appropriate background music but, unfortunately, the wedding ceremony was reproduced twice. Take two, and Scooby managed to remove the duplicate (as Mrs R said, "I think once is enough for anyone") and it all seemed to be perfect, apart from the fact that my wife's speech was interrupted rather rudely by a piece of music being imposed over the top.
Being a little bit self conscious about the whole public-speaking thing she assumed that her speech was so poor that Scoobs had deliberately chosen to edit it this way. Either that, or perhaps something had gone wrong with the sound recording during the speeches.
When I asked him, politely, whether he had any out-takes of Mrs R's speech so that we could listen to it, he was shocked. He said he certainly hadn't intended to mask out her moment in the spotlight. So back went the DVD again.
Take three, and everything seemed perfect with the music in the right place and Mrs R's speech reproduced in full. Trouble was, the double wedding ceremony had been re-inserted.
Sheepishly I had to return to the producer again, but by now it had dawned on me what had gone wrong. Having re-done the footage to make sure the wedding ceremony wasn't repeated, our budding Spielberg had forgotten to change the music accordingly so it now appeared later in the film, just at the time Mrs R was making her speech.
He is back in the video suite, attempting to rectify the problem as we speak. By the time we get our DVD I expect we'll be celebrating our silver wedding anniversary. I'm sure it will be a work of art, though.
Word reaches me that Dave the Suit, who likes to think of himself as the doyen of Cardiff political journalists as he hobnobs with the great and the good on the local council, has found another string to his bow. Apparently during the latter stages of Smashy's infamous birthday bash he was seen throwing himself about with gay abandon to the music on offer from my own personal DJ Jase in the City Arms. In fact, at one stage he was seen leaping, Nureyev style, onto one of the tables in the City Arms, to the amazement of his colleagues.
I hear that the spies from the Welsh Millennium Centre are now trying to make contact. They fancy him as the next Sugar Plum Fairy.
Last night I returned home from enjoying a few relaxing beers with the Wonderful One and Jarhead in the new old O'Neill's to continue my latest cullinary delight, a lamb pot roast.
WHAT YOU NEED:
A lamb joint. I used a half shoulder but a half leg joint is recommended.
1 tsp sunflower oil
1 tsp each of thyme, rosemary and mint
500g new potatoes, cut in half if they are large
12 button onions (I used one large onion, sliced)
A sliced carrot or two
2 celery sticks, timmed and cut diagonally
One of those new stock pots advertised by Marco Pierre White
450ml boiling water
150ml dry white wine
A cup of frozen peas
One tsp of tomato puree
salt and black pepper
TO DO:
Pre-heat oven to 190/gas mark 5
Put lamb on a plate and rub all over with a mixture of the herbs and oil
Season with salt and pepper
Put into the oven for 45 minutes then remove and add the veg.
Pour the wine over the veg, then add the boiling water mixed with the stock pot
Cover and cook for a further 30 minutes.
Remove from oven again and mix in the puree and peas.
Cook for another 20 minutes, then set out the veg and slice the lamb on top.
That's what you should do, anyway. I cooked the majority of it before popping out for a beer, then returned to add the peas and the puree. I also left it to cook longer than expected so that I could revel in the Aussies sharp exit from the first round of the world Twenty20 Cup. I think it is a ploy though, so that they can be fully rested before thumping us again in the Ashes.
Hope I'm wrong.
Saturday, June 06, 2009
Rich fayre
I DON'T know what it is with my local newsagent, but he has become very friendly with me since his picture turned up in the South Wales Eggcup as a local business champion. He also happened to notice my rather overlarge byline and picture on the letters page and now he wants to talk to me about everything under the sun. The trouble is he cannot remember my name, however many times I remind him.
This morning was a perfect case in point. Popping in for a pint of milk I arrived at the counter where there was a slight delay while the cogs clicked around in his head. "Hello... um... um..." he said as I waited patiently for my purchase. Then, just as I was about to jog his memory, he had a Eureka moment. "Nick!" he said, his face glowing with pride as if he had just got the final answer in Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.
Having overcome this major hurdle he then decided to discuss the merits of my job, the weather, the political situation and my wedding.
"Well, Richard, when are you moving on then? Not very good weather is it, Richard? What about that Gordon Brown, Richard, eh? Enjoying married life, are you, Rich?"
I couldn't help being reminded of the character Trigger and the way in Only Fools and Horses that he always refers to Rodney as Dave.
Last night was the boy Smashy's birthday and he was joined in the celebrations by a good contingent from Meeja Wales, plus Ballsy, who was making a rare visit to our neck of the woods from London.
Also joining us was Shutts, who looked like some kind of giant, overripe banana in a garish American bomber jacket provided courtesy of the San Diego Padres, having recently returned from a trip to America.
Unfortunately our mottley crew have taken to drinking in the gastro-pub that is Zero Degrees early on Friday evenings because of a happy hour where they dispense strong pints of lager for the princely price of £2. Just great, except that by 9pm many of us are feeling decidely worse for wear.
As we watched England lose to the mighty cricketing talents of Holland in the opening game of the World Twenty20 Cup, our chances of remaining reasonably sober weren't helped by the Prince of Darkness, who decided to mark our colleague's big occasion by going for the shots.
"15 sambucas!" he shouted excitedly at the barman. Hmmm. None of us really fancied Sambuca at 8pm. It completely caught out the bar staff, too, who didn't have enough shot glasses so had to serve them in half-pint pots. It was all downhill from there.
I opted to wobble home at 9.30 but my sources tell me that Smashy was still going strong, dancing to his favourite Indy music in the City Arms at 1am in the morning - and he still made it to work for 10.30. Top effort.
This morning was a perfect case in point. Popping in for a pint of milk I arrived at the counter where there was a slight delay while the cogs clicked around in his head. "Hello... um... um..." he said as I waited patiently for my purchase. Then, just as I was about to jog his memory, he had a Eureka moment. "Nick!" he said, his face glowing with pride as if he had just got the final answer in Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.
Having overcome this major hurdle he then decided to discuss the merits of my job, the weather, the political situation and my wedding.
"Well, Richard, when are you moving on then? Not very good weather is it, Richard? What about that Gordon Brown, Richard, eh? Enjoying married life, are you, Rich?"
I couldn't help being reminded of the character Trigger and the way in Only Fools and Horses that he always refers to Rodney as Dave.
Last night was the boy Smashy's birthday and he was joined in the celebrations by a good contingent from Meeja Wales, plus Ballsy, who was making a rare visit to our neck of the woods from London.
Also joining us was Shutts, who looked like some kind of giant, overripe banana in a garish American bomber jacket provided courtesy of the San Diego Padres, having recently returned from a trip to America.
Unfortunately our mottley crew have taken to drinking in the gastro-pub that is Zero Degrees early on Friday evenings because of a happy hour where they dispense strong pints of lager for the princely price of £2. Just great, except that by 9pm many of us are feeling decidely worse for wear.
As we watched England lose to the mighty cricketing talents of Holland in the opening game of the World Twenty20 Cup, our chances of remaining reasonably sober weren't helped by the Prince of Darkness, who decided to mark our colleague's big occasion by going for the shots.
"15 sambucas!" he shouted excitedly at the barman. Hmmm. None of us really fancied Sambuca at 8pm. It completely caught out the bar staff, too, who didn't have enough shot glasses so had to serve them in half-pint pots. It was all downhill from there.
I opted to wobble home at 9.30 but my sources tell me that Smashy was still going strong, dancing to his favourite Indy music in the City Arms at 1am in the morning - and he still made it to work for 10.30. Top effort.
Friday, June 05, 2009
a fag and a can of bow
THE wonderful Withers of WoS has moved into a new luxury, self-contained apartment in the salubrious area of Cardiff known as Taff Embankment. The miserable one was delighted to finally get a place to himself after sharing for so long with an assortment of oddballs and ne'er-do-wells although I must admit this blog will miss his constant tales of woe which have kept us fully entertained over the years.
Having said that, he turned up at work today with a story that made his previous experiences pale into insignificance. For, looking out of his window last night during a break in Question Time, he happened to spot a couple of young ladies, attired from head to toe in leopard skin clothing and puffing away on ciggies while holding cans of Strongbow in their other hands.
As they strolled up and down they made various gestures at passing motorists, bringing Withers to the conclusion that they were, in fact, Ladies of the Night and he had moved into a notorious red light district.
As he watched, his next door neighbour stepped out onto the pavement and began to remonstrate with them, suggesting that they might care to dress a bit more appropriately because they were bringing the tone of the neighbourhood down.
I would have thought the fact that the wonderful one had moved in was enough to lower property prices a few grand as it is.
Some poor souls have mistaken the little Bowling Ball for a musician and actually booked his 'band' to play at their wedding. The truth is that he doesn't have a band, just a disparate group of wannabe guitar players who sit around in dingy corners of Cardiff's most ill-frequented hostelries strumming away to tunes which have little or no resemblance to the songs they are desperately trying to replicate.
Sorry to say even my own preferred watering holes are not immune from the odd, unwarranted strum-sesh from this disparate band of brothers. Walking into the new, old O'Neill's the other day I realised that my enjoyment of the juke box was being impaired by some tuneless wailing and strumming. Further investigation found the Bowling Ball and a couple of other random old soaks bashing away at something that they assured me was "Make Me Smile", by Cockney Rebel, but could more appropriately be named "Make Me Cringe".
Best of luck to the 'Happy' couple, I say.
Having said that, he turned up at work today with a story that made his previous experiences pale into insignificance. For, looking out of his window last night during a break in Question Time, he happened to spot a couple of young ladies, attired from head to toe in leopard skin clothing and puffing away on ciggies while holding cans of Strongbow in their other hands.
As they strolled up and down they made various gestures at passing motorists, bringing Withers to the conclusion that they were, in fact, Ladies of the Night and he had moved into a notorious red light district.
As he watched, his next door neighbour stepped out onto the pavement and began to remonstrate with them, suggesting that they might care to dress a bit more appropriately because they were bringing the tone of the neighbourhood down.
I would have thought the fact that the wonderful one had moved in was enough to lower property prices a few grand as it is.
Some poor souls have mistaken the little Bowling Ball for a musician and actually booked his 'band' to play at their wedding. The truth is that he doesn't have a band, just a disparate group of wannabe guitar players who sit around in dingy corners of Cardiff's most ill-frequented hostelries strumming away to tunes which have little or no resemblance to the songs they are desperately trying to replicate.
Sorry to say even my own preferred watering holes are not immune from the odd, unwarranted strum-sesh from this disparate band of brothers. Walking into the new, old O'Neill's the other day I realised that my enjoyment of the juke box was being impaired by some tuneless wailing and strumming. Further investigation found the Bowling Ball and a couple of other random old soaks bashing away at something that they assured me was "Make Me Smile", by Cockney Rebel, but could more appropriately be named "Make Me Cringe".
Best of luck to the 'Happy' couple, I say.
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