The lovely Mrs Rippers has a week off so has disappeared off to Lavenham in darkest Suffolk to see her mum and dad. What better opportunity then to round up some of the usual suspects and spend a leisurely afternoon inbibing of a few sherbets and catching up on things.
The wonderful one and the Fugitive were right up for a Sunday afternoon sesh and agreed to come to God's Own country for a few cheeky ones. They arrived by train at Temple Meads and I met up with them in Bristol's finest oldie worldy boozer the Llandougher Trow. As the afternoon wore on we enjoyed a pretty decent sunday lunch in the aforementioned hostelry before embarking on a pub crawl.
When I say crawl it was literally that after we had to climb our way up Park Street before entering the White Harte, then returned back down the hill to the biker and heavy metal haunt The Hatchet where, already feeling hunger pangs again, The Fugitive and I ate our way through a plate of Chilli Beef Nachos. The Wonderful One couldn't believe how we could still be hungry after a two-course lunch and even I was surprised that the Fugitive still had room, seeing as he was wolfing back pints of Guinness like the chancellor's budget was about to kick in at any minute.
It all wrapped up in one of the myriad chain boozers on the harbourside - The Pitcher and Piano - which didn't seem to have any pitchers and I can't remember hearing the tinkling of any ivories either. No matter.
During this long, pleasant and relaxing Sunday the topic got on to one of journalism's success stories - the real life magazine. We all expressed immense surprise that, while the majority of newspapers seem to be suffering heavily at the hands of the on-line world we have created, these glossy offerings are attracting a huge amount of new readers. You see Take-A-Break and the like at most supermarket checkouts and the most unlikely of readers will immediately pick them up and deposit them in their trolley.
Maybe it is the headlines that have such a persuasive edge. I was reminded of this fact when I looked at one of the eye-catching stories that Closer was advertising in my local Sainsbury's today. "I make cheese out of my breast milk and give it to all my friends!" it said.
I must admit this was so astonishingly vulgar that I did feel tempted to pop it in the trolley and read more. If nothing else, it might give Mrs Rippers and I an idea to start up our own cottage (cheese) industry.
Then again, I really don't think so!
My newly acquired Clio Ramsey is driving me to distraction with his temperamental ways. For the last two days it seems he will only put the radio on when it suits him. Sometimes I can be driving around in silence for 20 minutes, only for the dulcet tones of Gabby Logan to come blaring out suddenly on radio 5 live. I can't figure it out but perhaps it is a design fault. If it is I imagine it can be quite dangerous for the mild-mannered driver who has been tootling along peacefully enjoying the silence.
Another trick Ramsey played on me happened on the M25 late last Wednesday. On this occasion, for no particular reason I can think of, he suddenly decided I might need to illuminate the inside of the car and put the interior light on. After a little fiddling it went off again, but I could do without his little quirks to be quite honest.
No doubt my regular reader is beginning to wonder what happened to the raison d'etre of this blog ie actually telling people what I cooked last night. My only real excuse for this is that this is about the 377th entry and quite honestly I tend to use the same recipes over and over again because, quite frankly, I am getting a mite lazy.
Still, just to keep up the pretence I went to Morrisons hot deli counter yesterday and saw a very nice boneless pork loin joint which I figured might be nice to put into a curry. As it was pork I thought it would be good to give it a bit of a chinese curry flavour so this is what I did.
YOU NEED:
Cooked pork joint, cut into sizeable chunks.
two cloves garlic, sliced thinly.
One green pepper and one red pepper chopped.
5 fl ozs of chicken stock.
A large desert spoonful of madras curry paste.
Two chopped green chillis
A desert spoonful of chinese rice wine
Two teaspoons of light and two teaspoons of dark soy sauce.
A large desert spoonful of chilli bean sauce.
A teaspoon of sugar.
A handful of washed basil leaves.
WHAT I DID:
Heat a wok with chinese stir fry oil (which can be bought from most supermarkets)
Put in the sliced garlic, the peppers and the chillis and stir fry for 5-10 minutes.
Add the rice wine, the soy sauce the chicken stock and the light and dark soy.
Cook fairly vigorously for another 5 mins.
Add the cooked pork chunks and then the madras and chilli bean sauces and sugar.
Let cook, stirring regularly until the whole thing thickens.
Once everything is heated through and the peppers soft, stir in the basil leaves and cook for 2 mins before removing from the heat and serving with boiled rice - or whatever is your fancy - chips are quite nice with this, too.
Crackers and breast-milk cheese for afters (barf!)
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Thursday, March 25, 2010
HR!
I have been called quite a few things in my time, and have fallen victim of the HR police on a few occasions, too. I was once labelled a bully who "frightened" my staff with some of my more combustible moments on good old WoS.
But the odd bin kick and muttered swearing under my breath was kids stuff in comparison to the cold, hard world of national newspapers.
In fact, I've found myself to be the target of a few pretty inventive insults from my combustible boss Macca - most of them, thankfully, in jest. Perhaps my favourite came the other week when we were discussing Saturday Survivor, the little betting game we play.
It works like this: Everyone puts a tenner in the pot and picks a team of the week who must win for you to survive to fight again the following Saturday.
As the tension rose, and various teams fell by the wayside, Macca cast his eyes around from his jewel-encrusted throne in the sports newsroom to see who was still on course to win the big prize.
When he saw my selection he immediately wrote it off with the suggestion that my football knowledge couldn't be that good because I was a "web-toed inbreed".
This, I think, referred to my West Country upbringing.
But the one thing you have to say is that he doesn't discriminate. He has a prejudice against EVERYTHING. Fat people, thin people, tall people, short people (a group to which I have a lifetime membership), northern people, Irish people, Scottish people... you name it.
Quite often my mate Critch is asked where he has left his whippet as he is a "northern monkey".
This all coming from a cockney who wears his Pearly King blazer with pride and knows more rhyming slang than Chaz and Dave.
These days, whenever an insult flies in the direction of one of the troops, the cry goes up "HR!"
Hasn't made a blind bit of difference.
Better that, though, than being part of one of the ridiculous politically correct regimes that now exist in the once thick-skinned world of journalism.
It is all a joke, folks... toughen up!
In the words of Queen: "Can anybody find meee... some buggy to love!"
Mrs R is getting a bit obsessed with the need to purchase what used to be called a pram but now seems to be referred to as a baby "travel system".
My God, it's like buying some top-of-the-range sports car these days and no doubt there is huge competition to own the latest model.
On Wednesday night I was getting to the end of my tether. "Should I buy this one - there are only 10 left and it's a bargain?" she asked with a worried frown on her face. This, bearing in mind the new arrival is still 14 weeks away.
I cast my eye over this incredible contraption designed to carry a miniscule human being in the lap of complete luxury. These things even have indicators, electric windows and fuel injection.
Then I looked at the price - £299. That, though, was without the car seat which comes at an extra £110, and something called a car seat "base", to which you can add another £100.
£500 for a baby buggy? That's the price I paid for Basil, my dearly departed little Corsa!
There was nothing for it, I had to get straight on the phone to the fat kid. I needed reinforcements to divert my lovely wife away from the route to financial ruin.
Thankfully, with much good sense (rare for the fat kid, I have to admit, but she DOES know about children) they decided to wait and look at alternative options when she comes down after Easter. Phew!
On Sunday my lovely lady and I had a delightful trip to Bourton on the Water in Gloucestershire. The last time I went to this quaint little village was when I was a child, and my abiding memory was the little model village (which we toured again) and my mum being attacked by a flock of errant geese!
It was full of tourists but a beautiful spot, and the highlight was sitting outside on a slightly chilly but lovely sunny day, eating fish and chips from the local purveyor of this singularly British delicacy.
But the odd bin kick and muttered swearing under my breath was kids stuff in comparison to the cold, hard world of national newspapers.
In fact, I've found myself to be the target of a few pretty inventive insults from my combustible boss Macca - most of them, thankfully, in jest. Perhaps my favourite came the other week when we were discussing Saturday Survivor, the little betting game we play.
It works like this: Everyone puts a tenner in the pot and picks a team of the week who must win for you to survive to fight again the following Saturday.
As the tension rose, and various teams fell by the wayside, Macca cast his eyes around from his jewel-encrusted throne in the sports newsroom to see who was still on course to win the big prize.
When he saw my selection he immediately wrote it off with the suggestion that my football knowledge couldn't be that good because I was a "web-toed inbreed".
This, I think, referred to my West Country upbringing.
But the one thing you have to say is that he doesn't discriminate. He has a prejudice against EVERYTHING. Fat people, thin people, tall people, short people (a group to which I have a lifetime membership), northern people, Irish people, Scottish people... you name it.
Quite often my mate Critch is asked where he has left his whippet as he is a "northern monkey".
This all coming from a cockney who wears his Pearly King blazer with pride and knows more rhyming slang than Chaz and Dave.
These days, whenever an insult flies in the direction of one of the troops, the cry goes up "HR!"
Hasn't made a blind bit of difference.
Better that, though, than being part of one of the ridiculous politically correct regimes that now exist in the once thick-skinned world of journalism.
It is all a joke, folks... toughen up!
In the words of Queen: "Can anybody find meee... some buggy to love!"
Mrs R is getting a bit obsessed with the need to purchase what used to be called a pram but now seems to be referred to as a baby "travel system".
My God, it's like buying some top-of-the-range sports car these days and no doubt there is huge competition to own the latest model.
On Wednesday night I was getting to the end of my tether. "Should I buy this one - there are only 10 left and it's a bargain?" she asked with a worried frown on her face. This, bearing in mind the new arrival is still 14 weeks away.
I cast my eye over this incredible contraption designed to carry a miniscule human being in the lap of complete luxury. These things even have indicators, electric windows and fuel injection.
Then I looked at the price - £299. That, though, was without the car seat which comes at an extra £110, and something called a car seat "base", to which you can add another £100.
£500 for a baby buggy? That's the price I paid for Basil, my dearly departed little Corsa!
There was nothing for it, I had to get straight on the phone to the fat kid. I needed reinforcements to divert my lovely wife away from the route to financial ruin.
Thankfully, with much good sense (rare for the fat kid, I have to admit, but she DOES know about children) they decided to wait and look at alternative options when she comes down after Easter. Phew!
On Sunday my lovely lady and I had a delightful trip to Bourton on the Water in Gloucestershire. The last time I went to this quaint little village was when I was a child, and my abiding memory was the little model village (which we toured again) and my mum being attacked by a flock of errant geese!
It was full of tourists but a beautiful spot, and the highlight was sitting outside on a slightly chilly but lovely sunny day, eating fish and chips from the local purveyor of this singularly British delicacy.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Cereal killer
MY lovely wife is 25 weeks preggers now and I have started to take things a bit more seriously. In fact, I am even reading a baby book at the moment thanks to my pal Jayney, who bought it for me for my 50th birthday. It is called The First Year and has plenty of handy tips for parenthood.
One of them has already benefited me immensely and it concerns baby names.
I have always fancied the moniker Jack for a boy. After all the two biggest heroes on TV at the moment are Jack Bauer (from 24) and Jack Sheppard (Lost). And Jack was right up there among the top names in the imaginery list that Mrs Rippers and I were putting together. It's a real cool name.
There is a chapter in my book on baby names. It says you have to be careful to avoid saddling the poor unborn child with an embarrassing nickname to last a lifetime.
I tried out Jack.
The initials are fine, JR, who, though a bit of a character in the Texas soap Dallas a while ago, has kind of slipped off the radar and become a folk hero. No problem then.
Jack Rippington. It has a nice flow to it, a short first name to go with a long last name... exactly the requirements pointed out in my baby bible.
Nicknames? Well what are they going to call him? Jumping Jack Flash? Not bad, unless he is a flasher. Jack-in-the-box? Sounds exactly the sort of striker we need at the Gas.
And then... it struck me. Like a bolt of lightning coming through the ceiling. The awful, painful truth.
What is my nickname? Rippers. What likely nickname would he have. Rippers.
Or maybe Jack Rippers. Or, oh my lord, Jack the Rippers.
A notorious serial killer... the most famous in Britain.
A slasher of monumental reputation.
Not sure if that is the role model I would wish my son to follow.
He won't be called Jack now... that's for sure.
One of them has already benefited me immensely and it concerns baby names.
I have always fancied the moniker Jack for a boy. After all the two biggest heroes on TV at the moment are Jack Bauer (from 24) and Jack Sheppard (Lost). And Jack was right up there among the top names in the imaginery list that Mrs Rippers and I were putting together. It's a real cool name.
There is a chapter in my book on baby names. It says you have to be careful to avoid saddling the poor unborn child with an embarrassing nickname to last a lifetime.
I tried out Jack.
The initials are fine, JR, who, though a bit of a character in the Texas soap Dallas a while ago, has kind of slipped off the radar and become a folk hero. No problem then.
Jack Rippington. It has a nice flow to it, a short first name to go with a long last name... exactly the requirements pointed out in my baby bible.
Nicknames? Well what are they going to call him? Jumping Jack Flash? Not bad, unless he is a flasher. Jack-in-the-box? Sounds exactly the sort of striker we need at the Gas.
And then... it struck me. Like a bolt of lightning coming through the ceiling. The awful, painful truth.
What is my nickname? Rippers. What likely nickname would he have. Rippers.
Or maybe Jack Rippers. Or, oh my lord, Jack the Rippers.
A notorious serial killer... the most famous in Britain.
A slasher of monumental reputation.
Not sure if that is the role model I would wish my son to follow.
He won't be called Jack now... that's for sure.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Bye bye Basil
TODAY was a very sad occasion in the Rippers household. My beloved Corsa, Basil, was unceremoniously hooked up to a tow truck and taken off into the wild blue yonder to be scrapped. It was a very painful experience.
Of course, I knew Bas wasn't going to get any better. He has been sitting outside, attracting the unwelcome attention of divebombing pigeons, for two months now. In fact, when I went to turn his ignition there wasn't a spark of life in him. I guess I knew it would come to this but, in car terms, it was like turning off the life support machine.
I loved that old Corsa and curse the numpty who drove too fast down Blackberry Hill when the snow was at its worst this winter, somehow failing to realise that he might lose control of his vehicle and slide off the road. He rammed into the side of poor Basil, leaving his back wheel crumpled. When the bloke came from the insurance company he was in no doubt the car was a write off - and this only a month after the MOT garage had told me that he would be good to go for another two years if I looked after him properly.
Still, I guess Mrs Rippers takes a small portion of the blame. After all, it was she who asked me if I named my cars. Until then, it hadn't even occured to me. A car was just a mechanical object to get me from A to B.
But to keep her sweet I called my first motor, the black Fiat Tipo, Boo, because that is what it said on the number plate. And when Boo became, shall we say, rather susceptible to flooding in the winter on the basis some young crook had tried to rip her door off, I moved on to Basil. He only cost me £500 and was meant to be a little runaround, but once I got the job at the Screws his value to me increased immensely. For six months he took me to London and back without a hiccup, and I was astounded at his resilience, particularly when the mileometer went through the 100,000 barrier.
Well, no use crying over spilt milk I guess. But I am sure people can relate to the way I am feeling now.
RIP Bas, you will be greatly missed.
No news is good news of Ridsdale, but I am starting to feel a bit of a fraud. We have sticky boards down behind all the units in the kitchen having established that the elusive rat was getting in through a hole in the back wall. I have to check them every 12 hours to see if the rodent has got himself into a sticky situation. But it seems the horse has bolted, or at least the furry mammal fled, before the latest action plan.
Shouldn't grumble I suppose, but somehow I think he is laughing at me from some cosy corner of the allotment.
Talking of allotments, it was always Mrs R's intention of going out back with spade and pitchfork and becoming some sort of latter day Felicity Kendall. But that was before any sign of a little Rippers. Now she has finally admitted that hauling herself down to some muddy patch of ground and planting the odd turnip seems a bit of a pipedream. So the keys have gone back and we shall sit in our little cottage and watch all the other Alan Titmarsh clones toil away on the land. Ho hum.
Of course, I knew Bas wasn't going to get any better. He has been sitting outside, attracting the unwelcome attention of divebombing pigeons, for two months now. In fact, when I went to turn his ignition there wasn't a spark of life in him. I guess I knew it would come to this but, in car terms, it was like turning off the life support machine.
I loved that old Corsa and curse the numpty who drove too fast down Blackberry Hill when the snow was at its worst this winter, somehow failing to realise that he might lose control of his vehicle and slide off the road. He rammed into the side of poor Basil, leaving his back wheel crumpled. When the bloke came from the insurance company he was in no doubt the car was a write off - and this only a month after the MOT garage had told me that he would be good to go for another two years if I looked after him properly.
Still, I guess Mrs Rippers takes a small portion of the blame. After all, it was she who asked me if I named my cars. Until then, it hadn't even occured to me. A car was just a mechanical object to get me from A to B.
But to keep her sweet I called my first motor, the black Fiat Tipo, Boo, because that is what it said on the number plate. And when Boo became, shall we say, rather susceptible to flooding in the winter on the basis some young crook had tried to rip her door off, I moved on to Basil. He only cost me £500 and was meant to be a little runaround, but once I got the job at the Screws his value to me increased immensely. For six months he took me to London and back without a hiccup, and I was astounded at his resilience, particularly when the mileometer went through the 100,000 barrier.
Well, no use crying over spilt milk I guess. But I am sure people can relate to the way I am feeling now.
RIP Bas, you will be greatly missed.
No news is good news of Ridsdale, but I am starting to feel a bit of a fraud. We have sticky boards down behind all the units in the kitchen having established that the elusive rat was getting in through a hole in the back wall. I have to check them every 12 hours to see if the rodent has got himself into a sticky situation. But it seems the horse has bolted, or at least the furry mammal fled, before the latest action plan.
Shouldn't grumble I suppose, but somehow I think he is laughing at me from some cosy corner of the allotment.
Talking of allotments, it was always Mrs R's intention of going out back with spade and pitchfork and becoming some sort of latter day Felicity Kendall. But that was before any sign of a little Rippers. Now she has finally admitted that hauling herself down to some muddy patch of ground and planting the odd turnip seems a bit of a pipedream. So the keys have gone back and we shall sit in our little cottage and watch all the other Alan Titmarsh clones toil away on the land. Ho hum.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Chicken Alaska
NOW you may think that the above title relates to a recipe. You know, a bit like Baked Alaska or Chicken Chausseur. But, I am assured, it is actually a place. And, in about two months time, my two pals Smashy and Paps will be arriving there on a bus, wearied, unwashed and somewhat slightly dazed I imagine.
As I may have informed you before, they both bravely decided to pack in their jobs for an experience that sounds out of this world and involves transversing half the world on a number of coaches, the Trans-Siberian railway and even the Diamond Princess cruise liner which will carry them all the way from Beijing to the aforementioned Alaska and, later, to Chicken itself.
I managed to get over to Cardiff this week for what amounted to the last meeting - or was it the first reunion? - of the Boozeday Tuesday crowd. On Saturday week Smashy and Paps will be heading off from London to Bruges on the first leg of this dramatic jaunt into the unknown and I had to say goodbye in the time honoured tradition, through bleary eyes with a pint of cold Carling in my hand.
We started off in the Royal Oak which, for some years, has been Paps local, and enjoyed a couple of pints before heading into town where we met up with a few of the old crew. Danny Boy 'the poipes, the poipes', who looks remarkably well after a rather serious operation, Wathanovski, the Fugitive, the little Bowling Ball, the Wonderful Withers and Shutts all made an appearance at some time during the day/night. We began in Sh*tty O'Grim's because "it was a bit of a tradition", passing on eventually to the new old O'Neill's. And a great time was had by all, though I must admit I was already feeling the strain fairly early in the evening. Now, being a married man, I don't get enough practice, really.
It meant having to take a break for some nachos to build up my alcohol resistance and by 10.30 I must admit I was ready for the comfort of ... well, Paps' sofa.
I think the time I knew that I had probably teetered over the edge into drunksville came when a guitarist took to the stage and announced he did requests. "Play some Fred Wedlock then," I demanded.
"Umm, never heard of him," admitted the bloke, to which he was treated to a full biography and discography, no doubt littered with the odd swear word.
Anyway, back to the big trip and Paps showed me on the web exactly what he was doing and where he was travelling. Fascinating. There are visits to Bruges, Prague, the Rhine Valley, Krakow and Warsaw before the long trip across the former Soviet Union taking in such exotic places as Riga, Talinn and Vladivostok. Then from Mongolia and Beijing they travel by boat via Japan to the Americas, finishing in New York on June 20 - five days before our baby is born.
I wish them all the best and if you would like to keep up with their progress their blogs are:
http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jackregan/2/1266174946/tpod.html (paps)
http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/robglaws/1/1267393040/tpod.html (Smashy)
Back to Fred Wedlock. The self-styled "oldest swinger in town" sadly died last week. He was my junior school teacher and, thus, had a big influence on my life. His sense of humour, which he carried through into his subsequent career as professional folk singer, was unique. He will be greatly missed. Thankfully, I have at home nearly every piece of vinyl he ever released so will be able to pass the word down through the generations, so certainly none of my offspring will be able to say "Whose Fred Wedlock?" A sh**head he may have been, but he couldn't help that cos his dad played for them, and England, I recall. RIP Fred.
As I may have informed you before, they both bravely decided to pack in their jobs for an experience that sounds out of this world and involves transversing half the world on a number of coaches, the Trans-Siberian railway and even the Diamond Princess cruise liner which will carry them all the way from Beijing to the aforementioned Alaska and, later, to Chicken itself.
I managed to get over to Cardiff this week for what amounted to the last meeting - or was it the first reunion? - of the Boozeday Tuesday crowd. On Saturday week Smashy and Paps will be heading off from London to Bruges on the first leg of this dramatic jaunt into the unknown and I had to say goodbye in the time honoured tradition, through bleary eyes with a pint of cold Carling in my hand.
We started off in the Royal Oak which, for some years, has been Paps local, and enjoyed a couple of pints before heading into town where we met up with a few of the old crew. Danny Boy 'the poipes, the poipes', who looks remarkably well after a rather serious operation, Wathanovski, the Fugitive, the little Bowling Ball, the Wonderful Withers and Shutts all made an appearance at some time during the day/night. We began in Sh*tty O'Grim's because "it was a bit of a tradition", passing on eventually to the new old O'Neill's. And a great time was had by all, though I must admit I was already feeling the strain fairly early in the evening. Now, being a married man, I don't get enough practice, really.
It meant having to take a break for some nachos to build up my alcohol resistance and by 10.30 I must admit I was ready for the comfort of ... well, Paps' sofa.
I think the time I knew that I had probably teetered over the edge into drunksville came when a guitarist took to the stage and announced he did requests. "Play some Fred Wedlock then," I demanded.
"Umm, never heard of him," admitted the bloke, to which he was treated to a full biography and discography, no doubt littered with the odd swear word.
Anyway, back to the big trip and Paps showed me on the web exactly what he was doing and where he was travelling. Fascinating. There are visits to Bruges, Prague, the Rhine Valley, Krakow and Warsaw before the long trip across the former Soviet Union taking in such exotic places as Riga, Talinn and Vladivostok. Then from Mongolia and Beijing they travel by boat via Japan to the Americas, finishing in New York on June 20 - five days before our baby is born.
I wish them all the best and if you would like to keep up with their progress their blogs are:
http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jackregan/2/1266174946/tpod.html (paps)
http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/robglaws/1/1267393040/tpod.html (Smashy)
Back to Fred Wedlock. The self-styled "oldest swinger in town" sadly died last week. He was my junior school teacher and, thus, had a big influence on my life. His sense of humour, which he carried through into his subsequent career as professional folk singer, was unique. He will be greatly missed. Thankfully, I have at home nearly every piece of vinyl he ever released so will be able to pass the word down through the generations, so certainly none of my offspring will be able to say "Whose Fred Wedlock?" A sh**head he may have been, but he couldn't help that cos his dad played for them, and England, I recall. RIP Fred.
Thursday, March 04, 2010
Ratatouille
THE power of the blog, eh? Well, it is probably just a guess that no sooner had I criticised Rentokil over my continuing rat problem on this forum that I got a phone call.
The upshot was that on Monday two very thorough professionals of that organisation turned up at the door to pay close attention to my on-going problem.
They had a good look around and came up with another plan that I am happy with it. It is better than a guy turning up, taking away the poison, and thinking the job is done.
Worringly, while I gave them a guided tour of the house and explained what had been going on, we looked behind the bath panel. There is a massive hole around the taps and a great deal of wood chippings have been deposited. It seems Mr Ridsdale has been trying out his teeth there, too. Mind you, when we deposited some poison there he didn't touch any of it.
Which confirmed to me that, like a lion that refuses to eat meat, my rat is a rodent who doesn't like rat poison.
Anyway, thank you Rentokil. We shall move onto the next phase.
Hopefully at the end of it a little rodent body will be deposited in the wheely bin.
Wheely? Knowing the skills of Mr Ridsdale I seriously doubt it.
Imagine finding a penny, thinking you're in luck, then discovering later that you have dropped a pound coin.
That was the situation I was in today. Having won a £5 bet with Dykesy that it was Watford who beat Leeds 3-0 in the Championship playoff final a few years ago, I was feeling quite chuffed. So chuffed, in fact, that I went for my wallet - and discovered £40 was missing.
Absolutely gutted but I think I know what happened.
In the morning I went to the cashpoint and asked for a mini statement... convinced I would go overdrawn or already be in the financial doo doo.
When I quite pleasantly established I was actually in the black (or the pink if you prefer) I celebrated and requested £40. Then, from what I can gather, I stupidly left it in the machine. Doh!
The upshot was that on Monday two very thorough professionals of that organisation turned up at the door to pay close attention to my on-going problem.
They had a good look around and came up with another plan that I am happy with it. It is better than a guy turning up, taking away the poison, and thinking the job is done.
Worringly, while I gave them a guided tour of the house and explained what had been going on, we looked behind the bath panel. There is a massive hole around the taps and a great deal of wood chippings have been deposited. It seems Mr Ridsdale has been trying out his teeth there, too. Mind you, when we deposited some poison there he didn't touch any of it.
Which confirmed to me that, like a lion that refuses to eat meat, my rat is a rodent who doesn't like rat poison.
Anyway, thank you Rentokil. We shall move onto the next phase.
Hopefully at the end of it a little rodent body will be deposited in the wheely bin.
Wheely? Knowing the skills of Mr Ridsdale I seriously doubt it.
Imagine finding a penny, thinking you're in luck, then discovering later that you have dropped a pound coin.
That was the situation I was in today. Having won a £5 bet with Dykesy that it was Watford who beat Leeds 3-0 in the Championship playoff final a few years ago, I was feeling quite chuffed. So chuffed, in fact, that I went for my wallet - and discovered £40 was missing.
Absolutely gutted but I think I know what happened.
In the morning I went to the cashpoint and asked for a mini statement... convinced I would go overdrawn or already be in the financial doo doo.
When I quite pleasantly established I was actually in the black (or the pink if you prefer) I celebrated and requested £40. Then, from what I can gather, I stupidly left it in the machine. Doh!
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Novelli idea
SO at last I have a replacement Bas. The poor old Corsa is still sitting outside getting rustier and rustier as the insurance company dally over how much my heartache and inconvenience is worth. Meanwhile, Mrs Rippers was just getting a teensy bit fed up with being sans car because of my regular journeys up to the smoke in her little Micra Millie.
To be fair Millie has been a stalwart through all this, taking the regular 400-mile round trips in her stride, and she has learnt a few tricks into the bargain, like how to reach the devastating speed of 85 on the motorway (I don't think my good lady wife was as impressed as I was when I told her of her Micra's new achievement). Mind you, it was just a tad frustrating to go from 0-85 in 90 minutes.
Passing a car showroom the other day I spotted a little blue Renault Clio sitting outside the dealership with a price tag of £1,695. I was sold the moment I spotted it and when the salesman agreed to a cash price of £1,500 and threw in a free MOT I must say I was pretty delighted with my purchase. The car may have done 86,000 miles but, unlike Bas, it has power steering and electric windows, a stereo which doesn't sound like its playing the latest death metal album when the volume sneaks over half way (even if the disc in question is puppy love by Donny Osmond - NOT that you would ever hear that in a car of mine) and locks with the press of a button on the key ring. That is something I'll have to remember having on numerous occasions unlocked the doors, then bent down, put the key in the lock, and locked them again. Doh!
The car does have a few little foibles inevitably. I am still trying to master the stereo and on occasion it seems to refuse to play, but I guess it is getting a bit temperamental in its old age. Think I might call it Ramsey after the TV chef of the same name.
Talking of TV chefs, I am now booked onto a one-day cookery course in a picturesque farmhouse in a place called Tea Green in Hertfordshire. The venue is owned by one Jean Christophe Novelli and the course was a 50th birthday present from my good lady wife, one of those experience days presents you can now buy.
I must admit when I first saw the envelope I envisaged having my world turned upside down and my bank accounts frozen, running for my life, nearly drowning in a submerged car and ending up jumping from the roof of a tall building. Then I remembered that was the plot of a Michael Douglas film, The Game, and that surely Mrs R wasn't going to put me through that kind of hell.
In fact, it is a novel idea (see what I did there) where you present a loved one with the chance to experience something they have never done before. In my case I am spending a day learning how to prepare and cook fish dishes together with their accompanying stocks and sauces. It sounds like it could be a fun day out and no doubt any recipes I learn will make their way onto here at some stage.
Ridsdale update. I am now sick to death of this rat, and he is reducing my poor pregnant wife to tears (mind you, that isn't too hard, these days, as previous entries on this blog will show).
I did notice that Rentokil managed to leave a comment on here after one of my first entries about Ridsdale. Well, they have been three times now and my kitchen has so much bait lying around I am as likely to catch a Great White shark as a small black rat. We also have sheets covered in contact dust, and bait stations below the shower and beside one of the pipes upstairs.
The trouble is our rat isn't taking the bait.
Now, I don't know if he is some kind of Mastermind, but he certainly isn't falling for any of these tricks, though there is plenty of evidence he is still around. Not droppings, I grant you, but little wet smudges in the kitchen and pieces of masonry that suddenly appear in the middle of the kitchen floor when we have been out and come back. No scurrying that I've noticed but we didn't always here him before.
Unfortunately, our last visit from the Rentokil man will be next Wednesday when he will take the bait away with him and wave goodbye. He admits that he, and his colleagues, are baffled about the problem. They have been discussing Ridsdale and cannot work out what to do.
Which, I must say, having spent over £200 on their services, I am not really happy with. Rentokil, if you are listening: when you pay someone to do a job and yet the problem is still there when it is all over, shouldn't you be returning the money or at least be returning until the problem is finally sorted? What is it the lawyers say, no win, no fee?
I am sorry but I was told you were the absolute experts, and though you left a good plug on this blog about "a professional job" being done, I am struggling to see that's the case.
It seems you can't look in lofts, or climb onto roofs to find holes, or take up floorboards. You can put down bait. Well, I can put down bait. I can pay out on one of those rat zappers, or put down glue traps, or any manner of things. But the money I would have spent on that, I preferred to use getting out "the experts".
I'm sure you do a wonderful job in factories etc sorting out their infestations, but we are talking about one bloody clever rat here... If you haven't got a clue then give me back my dosh.
To be fair Millie has been a stalwart through all this, taking the regular 400-mile round trips in her stride, and she has learnt a few tricks into the bargain, like how to reach the devastating speed of 85 on the motorway (I don't think my good lady wife was as impressed as I was when I told her of her Micra's new achievement). Mind you, it was just a tad frustrating to go from 0-85 in 90 minutes.
Passing a car showroom the other day I spotted a little blue Renault Clio sitting outside the dealership with a price tag of £1,695. I was sold the moment I spotted it and when the salesman agreed to a cash price of £1,500 and threw in a free MOT I must say I was pretty delighted with my purchase. The car may have done 86,000 miles but, unlike Bas, it has power steering and electric windows, a stereo which doesn't sound like its playing the latest death metal album when the volume sneaks over half way (even if the disc in question is puppy love by Donny Osmond - NOT that you would ever hear that in a car of mine) and locks with the press of a button on the key ring. That is something I'll have to remember having on numerous occasions unlocked the doors, then bent down, put the key in the lock, and locked them again. Doh!
The car does have a few little foibles inevitably. I am still trying to master the stereo and on occasion it seems to refuse to play, but I guess it is getting a bit temperamental in its old age. Think I might call it Ramsey after the TV chef of the same name.
Talking of TV chefs, I am now booked onto a one-day cookery course in a picturesque farmhouse in a place called Tea Green in Hertfordshire. The venue is owned by one Jean Christophe Novelli and the course was a 50th birthday present from my good lady wife, one of those experience days presents you can now buy.
I must admit when I first saw the envelope I envisaged having my world turned upside down and my bank accounts frozen, running for my life, nearly drowning in a submerged car and ending up jumping from the roof of a tall building. Then I remembered that was the plot of a Michael Douglas film, The Game, and that surely Mrs R wasn't going to put me through that kind of hell.
In fact, it is a novel idea (see what I did there) where you present a loved one with the chance to experience something they have never done before. In my case I am spending a day learning how to prepare and cook fish dishes together with their accompanying stocks and sauces. It sounds like it could be a fun day out and no doubt any recipes I learn will make their way onto here at some stage.
Ridsdale update. I am now sick to death of this rat, and he is reducing my poor pregnant wife to tears (mind you, that isn't too hard, these days, as previous entries on this blog will show).
I did notice that Rentokil managed to leave a comment on here after one of my first entries about Ridsdale. Well, they have been three times now and my kitchen has so much bait lying around I am as likely to catch a Great White shark as a small black rat. We also have sheets covered in contact dust, and bait stations below the shower and beside one of the pipes upstairs.
The trouble is our rat isn't taking the bait.
Now, I don't know if he is some kind of Mastermind, but he certainly isn't falling for any of these tricks, though there is plenty of evidence he is still around. Not droppings, I grant you, but little wet smudges in the kitchen and pieces of masonry that suddenly appear in the middle of the kitchen floor when we have been out and come back. No scurrying that I've noticed but we didn't always here him before.
Unfortunately, our last visit from the Rentokil man will be next Wednesday when he will take the bait away with him and wave goodbye. He admits that he, and his colleagues, are baffled about the problem. They have been discussing Ridsdale and cannot work out what to do.
Which, I must say, having spent over £200 on their services, I am not really happy with. Rentokil, if you are listening: when you pay someone to do a job and yet the problem is still there when it is all over, shouldn't you be returning the money or at least be returning until the problem is finally sorted? What is it the lawyers say, no win, no fee?
I am sorry but I was told you were the absolute experts, and though you left a good plug on this blog about "a professional job" being done, I am struggling to see that's the case.
It seems you can't look in lofts, or climb onto roofs to find holes, or take up floorboards. You can put down bait. Well, I can put down bait. I can pay out on one of those rat zappers, or put down glue traps, or any manner of things. But the money I would have spent on that, I preferred to use getting out "the experts".
I'm sure you do a wonderful job in factories etc sorting out their infestations, but we are talking about one bloody clever rat here... If you haven't got a clue then give me back my dosh.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Crying tonight!
TO say being pregnant can be an emotional rollercoaster in which your hormones are all over the place is an understatement to say the least. Crying, shouting, swearing, locking yourself in a room and refusing to come out - it all goes on. But anyway, that's enough about me.
This morning my lovely wife Mrs Rippers was sat on the bed looking a little bit miserable and shellshocked. It was about 15 minutes before she was due to leave for work and I wondered if she was feeling a bout of morning sickness, thankfully something which seems to be getting less and less these days.
As I looked at her I noticed the bottom lip quivering and the glasses starting to steam up, so I gave her a little hug. "Oh no, is that tears again?" I asked.
She nodded and was soon in full flow. "What on earth is the matter?" I prompted.
Eventually, when she was finally able to collect her thoughts she revealed: "I can't do the buttons up on my cardigan. I am too big."
Aah, poor dab. My heart was bleeding.
"Um, honey, you are now 21 weeks pregnant and are growing by the day," I pointed out. "It's not as if you have eaten your way through a Cadbury's Selection Box."
Update on Ridsdale... no news is good news I guess. Rentokil have been around and put some contact dust down on a newspaper. Apparently if he treads through it, then grooms himself, he won't feel too well. Hopefully that will be an end to his nocturnal activities because we are running out of kitchen mat.
I'm not convinced he has gone yet, though... we are talking about super rat. No amount of poison, traps and the like seem to have interrupted his jolly japes so far...
No scurrying though and no mat action for three days. There's a chance, a chance...
This morning my lovely wife Mrs Rippers was sat on the bed looking a little bit miserable and shellshocked. It was about 15 minutes before she was due to leave for work and I wondered if she was feeling a bout of morning sickness, thankfully something which seems to be getting less and less these days.
As I looked at her I noticed the bottom lip quivering and the glasses starting to steam up, so I gave her a little hug. "Oh no, is that tears again?" I asked.
She nodded and was soon in full flow. "What on earth is the matter?" I prompted.
Eventually, when she was finally able to collect her thoughts she revealed: "I can't do the buttons up on my cardigan. I am too big."
Aah, poor dab. My heart was bleeding.
"Um, honey, you are now 21 weeks pregnant and are growing by the day," I pointed out. "It's not as if you have eaten your way through a Cadbury's Selection Box."
Update on Ridsdale... no news is good news I guess. Rentokil have been around and put some contact dust down on a newspaper. Apparently if he treads through it, then grooms himself, he won't feel too well. Hopefully that will be an end to his nocturnal activities because we are running out of kitchen mat.
I'm not convinced he has gone yet, though... we are talking about super rat. No amount of poison, traps and the like seem to have interrupted his jolly japes so far...
No scurrying though and no mat action for three days. There's a chance, a chance...
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
The pregnancy Olympics
TODAY I accompanied Mrs Rippers to a physio session for mums to be and I must admit it was a bit of an eye opener.
There were about 20 mums there in all and we sat around in a big circle and listened to the physio recommending all sorts of weird and wonderful things to take the pressure off the ligaments as the bump starts to grow.
Mrs R is showing quite proudly now, and the one thing this little session did was appease her anxieties and make her realise that some people are in a lot more discomfort than she is. She still has her bad days of feeling a bit nauseous and very tired, but she certainly hasn't been succumbing to any of the aches and pains that some of the other mums have been experiencing.
Still, it was interesting to learn all the information about posture and ways to sit, sleep and generally change your approach to cope with the growing sprog inside her.
While at the class, two of the mums felt a bit feint and had to go and lie down. Mrs R, though, trooper that she is, battled through and took in all the information available.
I have to admit, too, that the whole thing was a bit of an eye opener for me, particularly the section about Pelvic Floor Exercises.
Now, whenever I had heard that phrase before I had an image of a big mat being put out and the expectant mum having to do handstands, headstands and back flips across the mat from one corner to the other, with varying degrees of difficulty, in the manner of a rather weighty version of Olga Korbut. In short, I thought they were floor exercises done, rather like in the Olympics, to improve the strength of the pelvis. How wrong I could be.
For the pelvic floor isn't actually a mat placed on the floor, but the section of the body linking all a woman's personal bits, and the exercises are actually a case of relaxing and contracting muscles to make life a bit easier when it comes to the final push when baby is finally catapulted out into the world. I feel much wiser after the event, but as none of this takes place outside the body, I am wondering exactly how I can mark my missus for degree of difficulty, merit and artistic impression when I can't see what is going on.
Still, for conscientiousness alone, and following rigid disciplines to make sure the birth goes swimmingly (including packing up those two old pals of alcohol and nicotine), I think she deserves a perfect 10. Then again, I am probably a wee bit like the old iron curtain judges... biased to the extreme.
The council have been back with more poison and more advice... but Ridsdale seems to be going from strength to strength. The amount of excavating our rat has done - and I now consider him a bit of a pet, to be truthful - I fully expect he will have built a new conservatory for our property within a couple of months.
The man from the council thinks he is trying to get out, burrowing away in the manner of Michael Scofield and Lincoln Burrows (perhaps Burrows being the more appropriate) in that wonderful series Prison Break. I have my doubts because I have now unblocked the hole I originally blocked up in order to give him an escape route but, as yet, he hasn't taken the option. In fact, the council ratman thinks that is the reason Ridsdale has managed to chew a sizeable chunk out of the coconut matting by the back door - because he can sense the draught and is atttempting to dig his way out from there.
But it also serves another purpose. Apparently our indestructable rodent is quite partial to a bit of coconut matting for his supper.
The council man has now put some giant rat trap by the back door. It looks like one of those archaic torture devices found in the London dungeon. I am actually willing Ridsdale to find another way out, because I don't really want to find him decapitated in the kitchen on rising in the morning. Might put Mrs R off her porridge, too - and she LOVES her porridge.
Still, with his knack of defeating all previous efforts to get rid of Ridsdale I doubt he is going to fall for a big metal contraption parked on our back mat. More likely, I'll have a few drinks, tread on it by mistake, and find myself missing a little toe.
There were about 20 mums there in all and we sat around in a big circle and listened to the physio recommending all sorts of weird and wonderful things to take the pressure off the ligaments as the bump starts to grow.
Mrs R is showing quite proudly now, and the one thing this little session did was appease her anxieties and make her realise that some people are in a lot more discomfort than she is. She still has her bad days of feeling a bit nauseous and very tired, but she certainly hasn't been succumbing to any of the aches and pains that some of the other mums have been experiencing.
Still, it was interesting to learn all the information about posture and ways to sit, sleep and generally change your approach to cope with the growing sprog inside her.
While at the class, two of the mums felt a bit feint and had to go and lie down. Mrs R, though, trooper that she is, battled through and took in all the information available.
I have to admit, too, that the whole thing was a bit of an eye opener for me, particularly the section about Pelvic Floor Exercises.
Now, whenever I had heard that phrase before I had an image of a big mat being put out and the expectant mum having to do handstands, headstands and back flips across the mat from one corner to the other, with varying degrees of difficulty, in the manner of a rather weighty version of Olga Korbut. In short, I thought they were floor exercises done, rather like in the Olympics, to improve the strength of the pelvis. How wrong I could be.
For the pelvic floor isn't actually a mat placed on the floor, but the section of the body linking all a woman's personal bits, and the exercises are actually a case of relaxing and contracting muscles to make life a bit easier when it comes to the final push when baby is finally catapulted out into the world. I feel much wiser after the event, but as none of this takes place outside the body, I am wondering exactly how I can mark my missus for degree of difficulty, merit and artistic impression when I can't see what is going on.
Still, for conscientiousness alone, and following rigid disciplines to make sure the birth goes swimmingly (including packing up those two old pals of alcohol and nicotine), I think she deserves a perfect 10. Then again, I am probably a wee bit like the old iron curtain judges... biased to the extreme.
The council have been back with more poison and more advice... but Ridsdale seems to be going from strength to strength. The amount of excavating our rat has done - and I now consider him a bit of a pet, to be truthful - I fully expect he will have built a new conservatory for our property within a couple of months.
The man from the council thinks he is trying to get out, burrowing away in the manner of Michael Scofield and Lincoln Burrows (perhaps Burrows being the more appropriate) in that wonderful series Prison Break. I have my doubts because I have now unblocked the hole I originally blocked up in order to give him an escape route but, as yet, he hasn't taken the option. In fact, the council ratman thinks that is the reason Ridsdale has managed to chew a sizeable chunk out of the coconut matting by the back door - because he can sense the draught and is atttempting to dig his way out from there.
But it also serves another purpose. Apparently our indestructable rodent is quite partial to a bit of coconut matting for his supper.
The council man has now put some giant rat trap by the back door. It looks like one of those archaic torture devices found in the London dungeon. I am actually willing Ridsdale to find another way out, because I don't really want to find him decapitated in the kitchen on rising in the morning. Might put Mrs R off her porridge, too - and she LOVES her porridge.
Still, with his knack of defeating all previous efforts to get rid of Ridsdale I doubt he is going to fall for a big metal contraption parked on our back mat. More likely, I'll have a few drinks, tread on it by mistake, and find myself missing a little toe.
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
Roast Lamb (Italian style)
POLITICAL correctness gone mad. It's a phrase that is bandied about with regularity these days but I felt the full force of it when the rat catcher turned up to sort out our little rodent problem.
We tried the council first and a man turned up, put poison down then buggered off - all in 15 minutes. But our rat, which I have named Ridsdale after Cardiff City's under-fire chairman who tried to take us to court over a story which was later proved almost entirely true, seemed to take it all in his stride.
Mrs R saw the little bugger run across the kitchen floor just a few hours after the council man had been, and on Saturday it seemed he was single-handedly trying to demolish our house.
Sitting in the dining room, we once again heard the tell-tale signs of scurrying upstairs, followed by what sounded like Ridsdale turning our floorboards into his own, personal bowling alley. The scurrying was followed by a rolling, thundering noise which had me running outside with my torch to see if all the bricks outside the house were still intact. Thankfully they were.
The good wife wasn't too happy, though, so next day I was on the phone to Rentokil pleading with them to come and sort our problem. They, after all, are the experts.
I must admit it cost a pretty penny - more than £200 - to enlist their services but we imagined them arriving like ghostbusters, with all the latest technology to end Ridsdale's hi-jinks once and for all.
"He's upstairs under the floorboards and we can hear him from the dining room," I told our operative Steve. "It might be worth taking the floorboards up."
"Can't do that," said Steve, "If something goes wrong you might sue us for damages."
Instead he put more bait down in the kitchen.
"He didn't touch the last lot - are you sure this will work?" I asked.
"Yeh, he won't be able to resist it."
"Can't you put down some more traps?"
"Well, we have to be careful. All these pests are protected these days by laws. We must kill them humanely. We could put some sticky traps down but they would have to be collected within six hours of the vermin being caught so that it doesn't suffer."
Doesn't suffer? It's a smelly, disgusting, germ-carrying rat that has been making our life a misery for three weeks and eaten its way through my pasta supply.
No matter. Pests have rights too, apparently. More so, it seems, than homeowners.
How about climbing up into the loft to have a look around?
"We're not allowed to do that - health and safety issues."
Gordon Bennett - Rentokil? More like Rent-a-pal for our little monster, I reckon.
Anyway, we will leave the poison down and see what happens. Either that will work or the house will fall down. That should get rid of Ridsdale.
Mrs R was lying on the bean bag when she felt a flutter in her belly. I thought it was probably a response to the baked potato with cheese, chicken and broccoli she had consumed so enthusiastically a bit earlier.
But no. I was invited to put my hand on the offending spot and, lo and behold, there was a couple of little movements. I reckon the baby is already practicing to become the striker Bristol Rovers desperately need after another lousy performance at home to Wycombe on Saturday and a very disappointing day of non-activity as the transfer window closed. The youngster can't arrive soon enough, I tell you, though given my height I will be very suspicious if it turns out to be a six-foot replica of the sadly missed Ricky Lambert.
Still waiting for the insurance company to cough up on poor old Basil and as I write someone is supposed to be coming around to assess the damage. Same goes for the break-in at my London house. All the estimates have been sent off but I am still waiting for the go-ahead to get the broken window fixed. Lummy days.
On Sunday I used my birthday present from the Fat Kid to produce a rather tasty Sunday lunch. The book is called The Food of Italy and has a number of interesting recipes to try out.
I opted for the Roast Lamb and it was terrific.
What you need:
2 sprigs of Rosemary
3 garlic cloves
2 1/2 ounces of pancetta
A leg of lamb (well, we opted for half a leg of Welsh lamb from Tescos)
1 large onion, sliced into four thick pieces
1/2 cup of olive oil
1 1/2 cups of dry white wine
What I did:
Preheat the oven to 230 degrees (gas mark 8)
Strip the leaves from the rosemary, chop the garlic and pancetta then put in a food mixer and mix to a thick paste.
Make incisions in the lamb with a sharp knife, then smear the paste over and poor over the olive oil.
Put the onion slices in a roasting tin then rest the lamb on top of it and put it in the oven for 15 mins.
Then reduce the temp to 180 (Gas mark 4) and pour in a cup of the wine. Roast for about an hour for medium rare, or a bit longer if you prefer. Baste a couple of times with the wine while cooking and, if necessary, add some water if it looks like it might dry out.
Transfer the lamb to a carving platter when done and rest for 10 mins before slicing.
Put the tin on top of the hob, add the rest of the wine, and cook for 3 to 4 mins.
At this point I varied from the recipe, added a good sprinkling of flour to thicken the wine gravy to a paste, then added half a pint of chicken stock gradually until I had a really nice thick sauce.
Add salt and pepper then carve the lamb and serve on a plate, running the gravy over the top. Mmmm!
We tried the council first and a man turned up, put poison down then buggered off - all in 15 minutes. But our rat, which I have named Ridsdale after Cardiff City's under-fire chairman who tried to take us to court over a story which was later proved almost entirely true, seemed to take it all in his stride.
Mrs R saw the little bugger run across the kitchen floor just a few hours after the council man had been, and on Saturday it seemed he was single-handedly trying to demolish our house.
Sitting in the dining room, we once again heard the tell-tale signs of scurrying upstairs, followed by what sounded like Ridsdale turning our floorboards into his own, personal bowling alley. The scurrying was followed by a rolling, thundering noise which had me running outside with my torch to see if all the bricks outside the house were still intact. Thankfully they were.
The good wife wasn't too happy, though, so next day I was on the phone to Rentokil pleading with them to come and sort our problem. They, after all, are the experts.
I must admit it cost a pretty penny - more than £200 - to enlist their services but we imagined them arriving like ghostbusters, with all the latest technology to end Ridsdale's hi-jinks once and for all.
"He's upstairs under the floorboards and we can hear him from the dining room," I told our operative Steve. "It might be worth taking the floorboards up."
"Can't do that," said Steve, "If something goes wrong you might sue us for damages."
Instead he put more bait down in the kitchen.
"He didn't touch the last lot - are you sure this will work?" I asked.
"Yeh, he won't be able to resist it."
"Can't you put down some more traps?"
"Well, we have to be careful. All these pests are protected these days by laws. We must kill them humanely. We could put some sticky traps down but they would have to be collected within six hours of the vermin being caught so that it doesn't suffer."
Doesn't suffer? It's a smelly, disgusting, germ-carrying rat that has been making our life a misery for three weeks and eaten its way through my pasta supply.
No matter. Pests have rights too, apparently. More so, it seems, than homeowners.
How about climbing up into the loft to have a look around?
"We're not allowed to do that - health and safety issues."
Gordon Bennett - Rentokil? More like Rent-a-pal for our little monster, I reckon.
Anyway, we will leave the poison down and see what happens. Either that will work or the house will fall down. That should get rid of Ridsdale.
Mrs R was lying on the bean bag when she felt a flutter in her belly. I thought it was probably a response to the baked potato with cheese, chicken and broccoli she had consumed so enthusiastically a bit earlier.
But no. I was invited to put my hand on the offending spot and, lo and behold, there was a couple of little movements. I reckon the baby is already practicing to become the striker Bristol Rovers desperately need after another lousy performance at home to Wycombe on Saturday and a very disappointing day of non-activity as the transfer window closed. The youngster can't arrive soon enough, I tell you, though given my height I will be very suspicious if it turns out to be a six-foot replica of the sadly missed Ricky Lambert.
Still waiting for the insurance company to cough up on poor old Basil and as I write someone is supposed to be coming around to assess the damage. Same goes for the break-in at my London house. All the estimates have been sent off but I am still waiting for the go-ahead to get the broken window fixed. Lummy days.
On Sunday I used my birthday present from the Fat Kid to produce a rather tasty Sunday lunch. The book is called The Food of Italy and has a number of interesting recipes to try out.
I opted for the Roast Lamb and it was terrific.
What you need:
2 sprigs of Rosemary
3 garlic cloves
2 1/2 ounces of pancetta
A leg of lamb (well, we opted for half a leg of Welsh lamb from Tescos)
1 large onion, sliced into four thick pieces
1/2 cup of olive oil
1 1/2 cups of dry white wine
What I did:
Preheat the oven to 230 degrees (gas mark 8)
Strip the leaves from the rosemary, chop the garlic and pancetta then put in a food mixer and mix to a thick paste.
Make incisions in the lamb with a sharp knife, then smear the paste over and poor over the olive oil.
Put the onion slices in a roasting tin then rest the lamb on top of it and put it in the oven for 15 mins.
Then reduce the temp to 180 (Gas mark 4) and pour in a cup of the wine. Roast for about an hour for medium rare, or a bit longer if you prefer. Baste a couple of times with the wine while cooking and, if necessary, add some water if it looks like it might dry out.
Transfer the lamb to a carving platter when done and rest for 10 mins before slicing.
Put the tin on top of the hob, add the rest of the wine, and cook for 3 to 4 mins.
At this point I varied from the recipe, added a good sprinkling of flour to thicken the wine gravy to a paste, then added half a pint of chicken stock gradually until I had a really nice thick sauce.
Add salt and pepper then carve the lamb and serve on a plate, running the gravy over the top. Mmmm!
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Bob Marley shots
Now I am officially an old git. How do I know? Because at one stage during my 50th birthday I performed the famous "rowing" dance to Oops Upside Your Head ... on a chair!
Now there was a time, back in the late 70s and early 80s, when I was a champion rower. I would spreadeagle myself on the floor in between whichever thighs were on offer and perform a passable impression of Steve Redgrave. Regularly this would happen late at night on the grossly filthy floor of the Bristol Bierkeller after three or four steins of lager.
I even won an award for being "best rower" there once. I think it was a 7 inch single of Brick House by the Commodores.
Anyway, thanks to everyone who attended the coming of old age ceremony at Racks Wine Bar in Clifton. Along with the usual suspects there were a few I hadn't seen for 30 years in a social capacity. Dan 'the man' Norris (now a Bristol MP who had to turn up because we know where all the bodies are buried! - seriously, great to see you, Dan), Martin Dowling, who looks a shadow of his former rather substantial self and very good on it (he came all the way from Harrogate) and Rich Burden, who doesn't look a lot different and, unlike most of my old school pals, still has a substantial head of hair. Brilliant for them.
And brilliant for Mrs R for both organising and putting up with me, the Fat Kid and mate Carly for being seriously drunk and causing mayhem in the early hours of the morning. FYI the Fat Kid managed to fall out with her Bezzie (I am told that stands for best friend) and decided to sock her in the gob. In the morning neither of them knew what had caused it. Mrs R did, though, because she had to calm things down.
We are all blaming a nasty little shot called Bob Marley, of which we had four each, along with the Fugitive. Don't remember much else but must say there was a great turnout and it was worth every bit of the £400 it cost. Can only remember about £100 worth to be truthful, but that's probably old age, not booze.
Meanwhile, back to the Rat in Mi Kitchen. It is definitely a rat. How do I know? Because there was a blood curdling shriek from Mrs R the other night when she went to the kitchen in her ultra soft socks. Obviously Ratman didn't hear her, decided to make an appearance, then disappeared under the cupboards hey presto when Mrs R pierced the night with her high-pitched wail.
It happened on the same day that the council turned up but, unfortunately, too late for them to hear the evidence. Regardless, they have put some rather evil poison down under the cupboards to surprise our little long-tailed adversary.
I've bought a book about giving up smoking, the first big step. I was encouraged to purchase it when one of the selling points was you can actually read it while having a fag. Can't go wrong.
Now there was a time, back in the late 70s and early 80s, when I was a champion rower. I would spreadeagle myself on the floor in between whichever thighs were on offer and perform a passable impression of Steve Redgrave. Regularly this would happen late at night on the grossly filthy floor of the Bristol Bierkeller after three or four steins of lager.
I even won an award for being "best rower" there once. I think it was a 7 inch single of Brick House by the Commodores.
Anyway, thanks to everyone who attended the coming of old age ceremony at Racks Wine Bar in Clifton. Along with the usual suspects there were a few I hadn't seen for 30 years in a social capacity. Dan 'the man' Norris (now a Bristol MP who had to turn up because we know where all the bodies are buried! - seriously, great to see you, Dan), Martin Dowling, who looks a shadow of his former rather substantial self and very good on it (he came all the way from Harrogate) and Rich Burden, who doesn't look a lot different and, unlike most of my old school pals, still has a substantial head of hair. Brilliant for them.
And brilliant for Mrs R for both organising and putting up with me, the Fat Kid and mate Carly for being seriously drunk and causing mayhem in the early hours of the morning. FYI the Fat Kid managed to fall out with her Bezzie (I am told that stands for best friend) and decided to sock her in the gob. In the morning neither of them knew what had caused it. Mrs R did, though, because she had to calm things down.
We are all blaming a nasty little shot called Bob Marley, of which we had four each, along with the Fugitive. Don't remember much else but must say there was a great turnout and it was worth every bit of the £400 it cost. Can only remember about £100 worth to be truthful, but that's probably old age, not booze.
Meanwhile, back to the Rat in Mi Kitchen. It is definitely a rat. How do I know? Because there was a blood curdling shriek from Mrs R the other night when she went to the kitchen in her ultra soft socks. Obviously Ratman didn't hear her, decided to make an appearance, then disappeared under the cupboards hey presto when Mrs R pierced the night with her high-pitched wail.
It happened on the same day that the council turned up but, unfortunately, too late for them to hear the evidence. Regardless, they have put some rather evil poison down under the cupboards to surprise our little long-tailed adversary.
I've bought a book about giving up smoking, the first big step. I was encouraged to purchase it when one of the selling points was you can actually read it while having a fag. Can't go wrong.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Rat in mi kitchen
"I'VE got a Rat in mi kitchen, don't know what I'm gonna do.
"Got a Rat in mi kitchen, don't know what I'm gonna do...
"Gonna fix that rat, that's what I'm gonna do..."
Well, maybe, but I think I am going to leave it up to the council man when he arrives on Monday afternoon to interrupt my likely hangover from hell after the nifty fifty birthday bash that Mrs R and I have arranged for Racks Wine Bar in Clifton through Sunday afternoon and into Sunday evening.
Back to the rat. It is probably a mouse, to be quite honest, but UB40 didn't sing about a mouse in their kitchen and probably wouldn't have been able to spit the words with such venom if that was the case.
Anyhoo, the other day Mrs R called to me while working on her computer in the dining room, claiming she had heard some scurrying. I was quick to arrive on the scene but, hearing nothing untoward myself, just put it down to my pregnant wife's new superhearing powers on the basis her senses seem to be working overtime - at least, she seems to be woken at every grumble, squeak and snore I come out with in the night.
Still, to be on the safe side she rang the council and booked for a man to come and rid us of our vermin infestation.
The following day and I was in the kitchen preparing my dinner and thought I would check the bottom cupboard pasta supplies. Pretty soon the evidence was abundantly clear. Previously unopened packs of rice, dried pasta and the like had little chew marks in the corner, allowing the little rotter in question to have a good old feast at our expense.
Now, if it was a good rodent like Ratatouille you would think it would rustle us up a tasty bolognaise for us but, oh no, it just eats its fill of uncooked carbs then retires to somewhere under the floorboards leaving a mess behind it.
Scrambling on the floor with a pencil torch we found a hole where one of the pipes enters the kitchen, and the back of the cupboard has also been chewed through.
We've now bought one of those devices that lets off an ear-splitting noise (to mouse ears, we can't hear it) and also sends out magnetic pulses via the electrics in the house which affects the mouse's nervous system. I can see it cowering away now, claiming "Ooh, I really don't feel myself today... think I've got some kind of bug. Maybe I'd better get out of the house."
Or maybe not.
We shall see...
"Got a Rat in mi kitchen, don't know what I'm gonna do...
"Gonna fix that rat, that's what I'm gonna do..."
Well, maybe, but I think I am going to leave it up to the council man when he arrives on Monday afternoon to interrupt my likely hangover from hell after the nifty fifty birthday bash that Mrs R and I have arranged for Racks Wine Bar in Clifton through Sunday afternoon and into Sunday evening.
Back to the rat. It is probably a mouse, to be quite honest, but UB40 didn't sing about a mouse in their kitchen and probably wouldn't have been able to spit the words with such venom if that was the case.
Anyhoo, the other day Mrs R called to me while working on her computer in the dining room, claiming she had heard some scurrying. I was quick to arrive on the scene but, hearing nothing untoward myself, just put it down to my pregnant wife's new superhearing powers on the basis her senses seem to be working overtime - at least, she seems to be woken at every grumble, squeak and snore I come out with in the night.
Still, to be on the safe side she rang the council and booked for a man to come and rid us of our vermin infestation.
The following day and I was in the kitchen preparing my dinner and thought I would check the bottom cupboard pasta supplies. Pretty soon the evidence was abundantly clear. Previously unopened packs of rice, dried pasta and the like had little chew marks in the corner, allowing the little rotter in question to have a good old feast at our expense.
Now, if it was a good rodent like Ratatouille you would think it would rustle us up a tasty bolognaise for us but, oh no, it just eats its fill of uncooked carbs then retires to somewhere under the floorboards leaving a mess behind it.
Scrambling on the floor with a pencil torch we found a hole where one of the pipes enters the kitchen, and the back of the cupboard has also been chewed through.
We've now bought one of those devices that lets off an ear-splitting noise (to mouse ears, we can't hear it) and also sends out magnetic pulses via the electrics in the house which affects the mouse's nervous system. I can see it cowering away now, claiming "Ooh, I really don't feel myself today... think I've got some kind of bug. Maybe I'd better get out of the house."
Or maybe not.
We shall see...
Friday, January 15, 2010
Italian lamb shanks
I am gutted. Inconsolable. My beloved Corsa Bas which, admittedly, only cost me £500 three years ago has been totalled by an idiot driver who seemed apparently unaware of the danger of speeding down a hill covered in snow and ice.
Mrs R and I were resting peacefully in our bed at 4am on Wednesday morning when our serenity was shattered by a loud bang and crash. Oh dear, we thought, another accident on Blackberry Hill, the main road which passes our idyllic little close in Stapleton. My wife nudged me in a typical wifely way and whispered: "Go and see what has happened?" She did it with a smile on her face, thinking she was encouraging voyeurism at its finest.
When I pulled back the curtain, though, my world shattered around me. There was some saloon car with its front nose buried into Basil's side.
It had been snowing all night and my first conclusion was that the car had reached the bend in the hill, braked and tried to turn, hit a patch of ice, risen up and over the little triangular green outside our house, passed between a big tree and some metal signposts and then smashed into Bas at what must have been a decent speed. Oww!
I went out and the damage was as bad as I feared. The bloke responsible - a taxi driver I believe who was returning home late at night - apologised and said he had just lost control of the car on the icy road. He then had the audacity to ask if it might be possible to move my car! Well, it was before he destroyed it, I almost said.
But, biting my lip and showing my new, calmer side, I dutifully sat in the driver's seat and released the handbrake, letting my wobbly wheels, now at right angles to the ground, carry me as far as they could.
He then inspected his car. "Phew, there doesn't seem to be much damage!" he said.
Well, whoopee do! I was about ready to do some damage myself at that point.
Instead, we swapped insurance details and off he tootled home to tell of his adventures.
I couldn't go to bed, though, so distraught was I. After three fags and a cup of tea to calm my nerves I then took up vigil by the front window. At this stage it was still snowing and every time a car came down the road it seemed to skid in the exact same spot and lose control.
I rang the police and advised them to close the road. They assured me they would do something as soon as they could.
Fifteen minutes later, though, and bang! Another car lost control and slid straight into my neighbour's vehicle across the road. As I watched a car that was following it at a distance then followed the exact same course and rammed the car which had caused the initial damage. It was absolute carnage.
My next door neighbour Nick had had enough. There were no police and no highways patrol officers. He strode up the road, found some cones and blocked it off. It didn't however stop people winding around the cones like it was some bizarre vehicle slalom event before proceeding down the hill.
Luckily, we have a grit box opposite and the few neighbours who had gathered in the early hours took it upon themselves to make the road safe again.
For two hours it had been like watching a demolition derby, one of those videos you see on U-tube or on in the background in some trendy sports bar. Unbelievable.
Of course, after all the legal work is done I will probably be lucky to clear £100 for Bas, the brave little motor that has transported me to London and back without a hitch since I joined the Screws six months ago. May he rest in pieces.
Next morning Mrs R and I went to see the midwife and heard our baby's heartbeat. Quite exciting and reminded me that not everything in the world is sh**, even though our boiler broke down on Friday, our shower has been leaking despite three visits from the plumber, and my car is now a wreck.
After the surgery Mrs R took me shopping, much to my frustration. I just wanted to get out of the bleak conditions with the snow already having wormed its way into my socks through my boots.
She was insistent though. She needed a new winter coat and some of her current garments were beginning too... well... stretch a bit. Anyway we called into a few places and found just what she was looking for. It was comfortable, with room to manouevre and in a couple of months it will fit pretty snuggly around her bump. Only one problem, though.
"I'm cutting the label off when I get home," she whispered conspiratorially.
I sneaked a peak when she wasn't looking... it's a size 20!!!
Cooked a very enjoyable meal with a big piece of bone-in lamb the other night. I will call it Italian lamb shanks.
You need:
A big piece of lamb shoulder, or some shanks
A chopped clove of garlic
A chopped carrot
A chopped stick of celery
A chopped whole onion
A tin of tomatoes
1/4lb chopped mushrooms
A pint of lamb or vegetable stock
2 tablespoons each of tomato puree and sundried tomato puree
Some pasta twists (or whatever fancy name they have)
shaved parmisan cheese
To do:
Set the oven at gas mark 9 (about 260 degrees)
Put in the lamb for about half an hour, then remove and wrap in foil
Heat oil on the hob in a hob-proof casserole
Add the chopped garlic, carrot, celery and onion and cook for 15 mins
then add the mushrooms and stir and cook for another five minutes
Add the purees and mix in, then the tomatoes and stock
Add salt and pepper
Turn oven down to gas mark 3
Add the lamb to the casserole then insert into the oven and cook for another two hours or so until the meat falls off the bone.
Remove the meat and return the sauce to the hob. Add the pasta shapes then bring to boil and cook until the pasta is cooked.
Serve the pasta on a plate, add juicy pieces of lamb then grate parmesan over the top.
I think it's a real winner
Gorgeous
Mrs R and I were resting peacefully in our bed at 4am on Wednesday morning when our serenity was shattered by a loud bang and crash. Oh dear, we thought, another accident on Blackberry Hill, the main road which passes our idyllic little close in Stapleton. My wife nudged me in a typical wifely way and whispered: "Go and see what has happened?" She did it with a smile on her face, thinking she was encouraging voyeurism at its finest.
When I pulled back the curtain, though, my world shattered around me. There was some saloon car with its front nose buried into Basil's side.
It had been snowing all night and my first conclusion was that the car had reached the bend in the hill, braked and tried to turn, hit a patch of ice, risen up and over the little triangular green outside our house, passed between a big tree and some metal signposts and then smashed into Bas at what must have been a decent speed. Oww!
I went out and the damage was as bad as I feared. The bloke responsible - a taxi driver I believe who was returning home late at night - apologised and said he had just lost control of the car on the icy road. He then had the audacity to ask if it might be possible to move my car! Well, it was before he destroyed it, I almost said.
But, biting my lip and showing my new, calmer side, I dutifully sat in the driver's seat and released the handbrake, letting my wobbly wheels, now at right angles to the ground, carry me as far as they could.
He then inspected his car. "Phew, there doesn't seem to be much damage!" he said.
Well, whoopee do! I was about ready to do some damage myself at that point.
Instead, we swapped insurance details and off he tootled home to tell of his adventures.
I couldn't go to bed, though, so distraught was I. After three fags and a cup of tea to calm my nerves I then took up vigil by the front window. At this stage it was still snowing and every time a car came down the road it seemed to skid in the exact same spot and lose control.
I rang the police and advised them to close the road. They assured me they would do something as soon as they could.
Fifteen minutes later, though, and bang! Another car lost control and slid straight into my neighbour's vehicle across the road. As I watched a car that was following it at a distance then followed the exact same course and rammed the car which had caused the initial damage. It was absolute carnage.
My next door neighbour Nick had had enough. There were no police and no highways patrol officers. He strode up the road, found some cones and blocked it off. It didn't however stop people winding around the cones like it was some bizarre vehicle slalom event before proceeding down the hill.
Luckily, we have a grit box opposite and the few neighbours who had gathered in the early hours took it upon themselves to make the road safe again.
For two hours it had been like watching a demolition derby, one of those videos you see on U-tube or on in the background in some trendy sports bar. Unbelievable.
Of course, after all the legal work is done I will probably be lucky to clear £100 for Bas, the brave little motor that has transported me to London and back without a hitch since I joined the Screws six months ago. May he rest in pieces.
Next morning Mrs R and I went to see the midwife and heard our baby's heartbeat. Quite exciting and reminded me that not everything in the world is sh**, even though our boiler broke down on Friday, our shower has been leaking despite three visits from the plumber, and my car is now a wreck.
After the surgery Mrs R took me shopping, much to my frustration. I just wanted to get out of the bleak conditions with the snow already having wormed its way into my socks through my boots.
She was insistent though. She needed a new winter coat and some of her current garments were beginning too... well... stretch a bit. Anyway we called into a few places and found just what she was looking for. It was comfortable, with room to manouevre and in a couple of months it will fit pretty snuggly around her bump. Only one problem, though.
"I'm cutting the label off when I get home," she whispered conspiratorially.
I sneaked a peak when she wasn't looking... it's a size 20!!!
Cooked a very enjoyable meal with a big piece of bone-in lamb the other night. I will call it Italian lamb shanks.
You need:
A big piece of lamb shoulder, or some shanks
A chopped clove of garlic
A chopped carrot
A chopped stick of celery
A chopped whole onion
A tin of tomatoes
1/4lb chopped mushrooms
A pint of lamb or vegetable stock
2 tablespoons each of tomato puree and sundried tomato puree
Some pasta twists (or whatever fancy name they have)
shaved parmisan cheese
To do:
Set the oven at gas mark 9 (about 260 degrees)
Put in the lamb for about half an hour, then remove and wrap in foil
Heat oil on the hob in a hob-proof casserole
Add the chopped garlic, carrot, celery and onion and cook for 15 mins
then add the mushrooms and stir and cook for another five minutes
Add the purees and mix in, then the tomatoes and stock
Add salt and pepper
Turn oven down to gas mark 3
Add the lamb to the casserole then insert into the oven and cook for another two hours or so until the meat falls off the bone.
Remove the meat and return the sauce to the hob. Add the pasta shapes then bring to boil and cook until the pasta is cooked.
Serve the pasta on a plate, add juicy pieces of lamb then grate parmesan over the top.
I think it's a real winner
Gorgeous
Friday, January 08, 2010
Snowballs
And a happy New Year to my reader.
Sorry it has taken so long but, quite honestly, I did bugger all at the turn of the decade. In fact, I was tucked up in bed by 11.30 only to be woken up by the horns from the ships moored off Southend together with the statutory annoying firework display.
Then, when I was just getting to sleep again, there came a call from my mate Hayd.
It went something like this:
"Aaappy noooo year! Washu dooooing?"
"I'm in the house on my own. In bed."
"Whaaaa? Ah great. Aaappy nooo year! Washu doing?"
"I just told you! What are you doing?"
"Amat a neighbour's party. Wharrabout choo?"
Oh well, good to see some people having fun.
What a week it's been. Went to bed on Tuesday fully expecting to drive back to Southend on Wednesday in time for work. Pulling the curtains back the following morning, though, I was faced with a complete whiteout. I could hardly see my Corsa Basil, which had been parked on the street the previous night, nor Mrs R's car Millie, as Britain was engulfed in snow hell.
Turning on the radio we discovered that Bristol buses had also ground to a halt, meaning my good lady wife had no means of getting to work. As for me, forget it!
It was then I remembered I had a doctor's appointment to get my blood pressure tested. We slid up the hill to the surgery and thankfully my GP had managed to get to work and sort me out.
After an enjoyable breakfast in the little cafe around the corner we then headed home. Crossing the little triangular green outside our house (which now, incidentally, was white) I managed to slip on a patch of ice, put my hand down to save myself and let out a yelp of pain. I don't really know the damage I did and it didn't help that I then took a shovel outside and began clearing snow from the road.
By 3pm that afternoon my wrist was in agony but fortunately Florence Nightingale (well, Mrs Rippers anyway) was at the ready with a temporary sling.
Then Mrs Rippers, who is not exactly a fan of the horror genre, wanted to watch the film Drag Me To Hell, on Virgin Movies on Demand. So we paid our £3.95 - and saw about 15 minutes of it. Before long she was hiding her face in her hands as an ugly old gypsy woman put a curse on the film's heroine. When she eventually screamed out loud at a particularly stomach-churning part, I knew the end was nigh. Moments later off went the film and we settled for watching the last two episodes of The Wire Series 3 on DVD - not a bad substitute it has to be said.
Thursday and I was confident of digging out the motor and driving to work, but I ended up marooned at home doing some research required of me by the office lawyer (with reference to a Cardiff City back page exclusive we had done the previous week).
I took the chance to ring some of my contacts, then settled down to watch an enthralling last two hours of the third test between South Africa and England at Cape Town. England needed an unobtainable 467 runs for victory, and had lost three wickets for 132 the previous day. It meant they had to bat all day to save the game and, as is their wont, they kept me on the edge of my seat until the last ball of the day.
Somehow, with Paul Collingwood and Ian Bell having defended stoutly for the entire afternoon, they contrived to lose five wickets in the last 14 overs. It meant that Graham Onions - our No 11 batsman - was left to save the day and face the last over - just as he had done at Centurion Park, Pretoria, two weeks earlier.
And he managed it. Fantastic. England go into the last test on Sunday 1-0 up and with a great chance of claiming the series.
On Sunday Mrs R and I wanted to see the new film Sherlock Holmes, but got our times mixed up. Instead we opted to see the new Sci-fi film Avatar. Quite stunning. The visuals and special effects were breathtaking and the storyline not bad at all.
Sorry it has taken so long but, quite honestly, I did bugger all at the turn of the decade. In fact, I was tucked up in bed by 11.30 only to be woken up by the horns from the ships moored off Southend together with the statutory annoying firework display.
Then, when I was just getting to sleep again, there came a call from my mate Hayd.
It went something like this:
"Aaappy noooo year! Washu dooooing?"
"I'm in the house on my own. In bed."
"Whaaaa? Ah great. Aaappy nooo year! Washu doing?"
"I just told you! What are you doing?"
"Amat a neighbour's party. Wharrabout choo?"
Oh well, good to see some people having fun.
What a week it's been. Went to bed on Tuesday fully expecting to drive back to Southend on Wednesday in time for work. Pulling the curtains back the following morning, though, I was faced with a complete whiteout. I could hardly see my Corsa Basil, which had been parked on the street the previous night, nor Mrs R's car Millie, as Britain was engulfed in snow hell.
Turning on the radio we discovered that Bristol buses had also ground to a halt, meaning my good lady wife had no means of getting to work. As for me, forget it!
It was then I remembered I had a doctor's appointment to get my blood pressure tested. We slid up the hill to the surgery and thankfully my GP had managed to get to work and sort me out.
After an enjoyable breakfast in the little cafe around the corner we then headed home. Crossing the little triangular green outside our house (which now, incidentally, was white) I managed to slip on a patch of ice, put my hand down to save myself and let out a yelp of pain. I don't really know the damage I did and it didn't help that I then took a shovel outside and began clearing snow from the road.
By 3pm that afternoon my wrist was in agony but fortunately Florence Nightingale (well, Mrs Rippers anyway) was at the ready with a temporary sling.
Then Mrs Rippers, who is not exactly a fan of the horror genre, wanted to watch the film Drag Me To Hell, on Virgin Movies on Demand. So we paid our £3.95 - and saw about 15 minutes of it. Before long she was hiding her face in her hands as an ugly old gypsy woman put a curse on the film's heroine. When she eventually screamed out loud at a particularly stomach-churning part, I knew the end was nigh. Moments later off went the film and we settled for watching the last two episodes of The Wire Series 3 on DVD - not a bad substitute it has to be said.
Thursday and I was confident of digging out the motor and driving to work, but I ended up marooned at home doing some research required of me by the office lawyer (with reference to a Cardiff City back page exclusive we had done the previous week).
I took the chance to ring some of my contacts, then settled down to watch an enthralling last two hours of the third test between South Africa and England at Cape Town. England needed an unobtainable 467 runs for victory, and had lost three wickets for 132 the previous day. It meant they had to bat all day to save the game and, as is their wont, they kept me on the edge of my seat until the last ball of the day.
Somehow, with Paul Collingwood and Ian Bell having defended stoutly for the entire afternoon, they contrived to lose five wickets in the last 14 overs. It meant that Graham Onions - our No 11 batsman - was left to save the day and face the last over - just as he had done at Centurion Park, Pretoria, two weeks earlier.
And he managed it. Fantastic. England go into the last test on Sunday 1-0 up and with a great chance of claiming the series.
On Sunday Mrs R and I wanted to see the new film Sherlock Holmes, but got our times mixed up. Instead we opted to see the new Sci-fi film Avatar. Quite stunning. The visuals and special effects were breathtaking and the storyline not bad at all.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Turkey curry
THAT'S it then, festivities over. But it was fun while it lasted. Mrs R and I spent a few days with the Fat Kid, the Vin monster and Big Boy up in good old Sarfend and I can't exactly call it relaxing. From 7am in the morning we were up and about as the two boys surveyed their Everest-style mountain of presents, some of which had been put together by the Fat Kid and myself the night before.
Now, this always drives me crazy. We had bought the Vin monster an electric scooter which weighed a ton and putting on the seat, handlebars etc wasn't as easy as it first looked. Then, of course, we had to charge it for 12 hours which meant hiding it wasn't the easiest of tasks.
The Fat Kid is a natural when it comes to fixing these things. She just looks at the parts and automatically knows where they go, whereas I study the German instructions with Lowry-like diagrams and haven't a clue what they are talking about. Still, between us we got it up and running, though the seat was another matter and we had to wait for the monster's father to turn up to fix it on properly.
Then there was the Big Boy's first ever bike, which was even more complicated with handlebars needing to be attached, pedals and stabilizers put on and the brakes fitted properly. We managed to do this, eventually, minus the brakes, which the Fat Kid didn't consider all that important, really.
And the other downside is that you are then dragged outside by the boys and have to stand around in frrezing cold tempratures watching them perform on their new methods of transport.
Of course, Xmas is the Monster's birthday and he is growing up fast. He now seems himself as th world's biggest fan of JLS, one of those boy bands who rose to fame as part of that annoying commercial money-making scam called the X-factor. He had JLS CD, JLS hoodie, JLS signed poster (a snip at £66 but, well, it was his birthday) and even JLS cake, plus 3 identical JLS calendars from assorted aunties and grannies. By the end of the day I was pretty sick of JLS.
The Fat Kid did tell a funny tale of how Vin and his mates were sat in the back of her car when she took them to the flicks as a birthday treat, singing along to the popsters in the manner of Mike Myers and Co singing Bohemian Rhapsody in Wayne's World.
Anyway, I digress. After making breakfast for everyone, opening prezzies, supervising the boys in the freezing cold and making tea for various callers, it was then on to preparing the Xmas feast and, for the first time in years, I decided we should go with traditional turkey. I was prompted to do this by the Turkey Crowns on offer in Morrisons which looked fantastic and would have no trouble fitting into the oven on the basis they were legless, which was more than I achieved over the whole Xmas period.
Anyway, I prepared the pigs in blankets, stuffing, honey-roast parsnips, roast potatoes, turkey, beef, sprouts, mashed swede and yorkshire pudding and was pretty pleased with my efforts. Less impressed, though, when all the hard work was done suddenly the two girls appear in the kitchen, inquiring "anything we can do?"
The answer was: "Yes, don't pick at the bloody food until I've dished it up and... go away!"
Unfortunately, the Fat Kid didn't have a kitchen table so the adults ate on trays and the boys had their own little table and chairs out. No matter, from the way the Vin Monster said: "You're like a chef," I think it went down pretty well.
By the evening, though, there was nothing to do but crash and watch Dr Who's Xmas Special, the Gruffalo and Gavin and Stacey. Then to bed for work in the morning, but a fine day was had by all, I think.
Oh yeah, prezzies... I had some shirts, a pair of work trousers, a Joe Strummer DVD, the Ashes 2009 DVD, In the Light and on this evening by the Editors, a Clash CD, an electric knife for cutting food and lots of other bits and bobs. I think I did pretty well...
Btw the Rippers rap went like this...
Subs don't kill stories, lawyers do,
Ask Neil Ashton he'll tell you it's true,
It's a fact that lawyers make you violent,
Particularly when your exclusive is kept silent,
You don't believe me? Here's my tale,
Ash sent a story over on his e mail,
About a ticket scam, plain and true,
But when the lawyers saw it they went "boo hoo",
You can't print this the head man said,
Or Fergie will sue us and we'll pay out a shed (full),
But Neil insisted "I didn't get it wrong,
If you ask me the whole thing pongs!"
No matter, though, it went to the Ed,
And he decided to kill it stone dead.
Chorus
Puns don't kill stories, lawyers do
Sound of the police Woo Woo Woo
(repeat)
He's a sub and his name's Geoff Critch,
Over the last year he's been working like a bitch,
He had to step in when Dykesy was away,
And fill in for Jonesy on another golf day,
He lives up north and has to travel down,
Listening to his i-pod to relieve his frown,
And when he's here he has a little flat,
He shares it with a cockroach so it's not all that,
And then on Sunday when everyone relaxes,
He has to join the Mirror just to pay his taxes
Chorus
His name is Macca and he's my boss,
Supports West Ham and he's at a f***ing loss,
They sell all their players and don't buy none,
If they're not too careful they'll be playing in league one,
The thing about Macca is he likes a rant,
If you do something wrong he'll call you a ...
He's been off the booze since going back to June,
So by 6pm he will be howling at the moon,
Well that's the lot, I've finished my rap,
I thought it was good, but no doubt it was crap...
Loads of Turkey left by the way so it's turkey curry, a la Brigitte Jones, for the next few days
Now, this always drives me crazy. We had bought the Vin monster an electric scooter which weighed a ton and putting on the seat, handlebars etc wasn't as easy as it first looked. Then, of course, we had to charge it for 12 hours which meant hiding it wasn't the easiest of tasks.
The Fat Kid is a natural when it comes to fixing these things. She just looks at the parts and automatically knows where they go, whereas I study the German instructions with Lowry-like diagrams and haven't a clue what they are talking about. Still, between us we got it up and running, though the seat was another matter and we had to wait for the monster's father to turn up to fix it on properly.
Then there was the Big Boy's first ever bike, which was even more complicated with handlebars needing to be attached, pedals and stabilizers put on and the brakes fitted properly. We managed to do this, eventually, minus the brakes, which the Fat Kid didn't consider all that important, really.
And the other downside is that you are then dragged outside by the boys and have to stand around in frrezing cold tempratures watching them perform on their new methods of transport.
Of course, Xmas is the Monster's birthday and he is growing up fast. He now seems himself as th world's biggest fan of JLS, one of those boy bands who rose to fame as part of that annoying commercial money-making scam called the X-factor. He had JLS CD, JLS hoodie, JLS signed poster (a snip at £66 but, well, it was his birthday) and even JLS cake, plus 3 identical JLS calendars from assorted aunties and grannies. By the end of the day I was pretty sick of JLS.
The Fat Kid did tell a funny tale of how Vin and his mates were sat in the back of her car when she took them to the flicks as a birthday treat, singing along to the popsters in the manner of Mike Myers and Co singing Bohemian Rhapsody in Wayne's World.
Anyway, I digress. After making breakfast for everyone, opening prezzies, supervising the boys in the freezing cold and making tea for various callers, it was then on to preparing the Xmas feast and, for the first time in years, I decided we should go with traditional turkey. I was prompted to do this by the Turkey Crowns on offer in Morrisons which looked fantastic and would have no trouble fitting into the oven on the basis they were legless, which was more than I achieved over the whole Xmas period.
Anyway, I prepared the pigs in blankets, stuffing, honey-roast parsnips, roast potatoes, turkey, beef, sprouts, mashed swede and yorkshire pudding and was pretty pleased with my efforts. Less impressed, though, when all the hard work was done suddenly the two girls appear in the kitchen, inquiring "anything we can do?"
The answer was: "Yes, don't pick at the bloody food until I've dished it up and... go away!"
Unfortunately, the Fat Kid didn't have a kitchen table so the adults ate on trays and the boys had their own little table and chairs out. No matter, from the way the Vin Monster said: "You're like a chef," I think it went down pretty well.
By the evening, though, there was nothing to do but crash and watch Dr Who's Xmas Special, the Gruffalo and Gavin and Stacey. Then to bed for work in the morning, but a fine day was had by all, I think.
Oh yeah, prezzies... I had some shirts, a pair of work trousers, a Joe Strummer DVD, the Ashes 2009 DVD, In the Light and on this evening by the Editors, a Clash CD, an electric knife for cutting food and lots of other bits and bobs. I think I did pretty well...
Btw the Rippers rap went like this...
Subs don't kill stories, lawyers do,
Ask Neil Ashton he'll tell you it's true,
It's a fact that lawyers make you violent,
Particularly when your exclusive is kept silent,
You don't believe me? Here's my tale,
Ash sent a story over on his e mail,
About a ticket scam, plain and true,
But when the lawyers saw it they went "boo hoo",
You can't print this the head man said,
Or Fergie will sue us and we'll pay out a shed (full),
But Neil insisted "I didn't get it wrong,
If you ask me the whole thing pongs!"
No matter, though, it went to the Ed,
And he decided to kill it stone dead.
Chorus
Puns don't kill stories, lawyers do
Sound of the police Woo Woo Woo
(repeat)
He's a sub and his name's Geoff Critch,
Over the last year he's been working like a bitch,
He had to step in when Dykesy was away,
And fill in for Jonesy on another golf day,
He lives up north and has to travel down,
Listening to his i-pod to relieve his frown,
And when he's here he has a little flat,
He shares it with a cockroach so it's not all that,
And then on Sunday when everyone relaxes,
He has to join the Mirror just to pay his taxes
Chorus
His name is Macca and he's my boss,
Supports West Ham and he's at a f***ing loss,
They sell all their players and don't buy none,
If they're not too careful they'll be playing in league one,
The thing about Macca is he likes a rant,
If you do something wrong he'll call you a ...
He's been off the booze since going back to June,
So by 6pm he will be howling at the moon,
Well that's the lot, I've finished my rap,
I thought it was good, but no doubt it was crap...
Loads of Turkey left by the way so it's turkey curry, a la Brigitte Jones, for the next few days
Friday, December 18, 2009
Singing for your supper
FOR weeks now the old hands on the Screws, particularly boss Macca, have been harping on about a Christmas tradition. It goes like this... Any new arrivals that calendar year are required to give some kind of performance at the end of the sports desk Xmas lunch. It's called singing for your supper, though why we should have to do this when we have already paid almost £50 for the privilege is completely beyond me.
Anyway, the tale we have had drummed into us is that last year our north east correspondent Martin Hardy performed a passable version of Bladon Races, a bit of a shock really seeing he's from the Newcastle area.
Anyway, as one of five new arrivals I thought I had better prepare properly for the big event and wracked my brain to come up with something to do. At first I was thinking of a football theme, like the Anfield Rap, but then it dawned on me that as a representative of Wales perhaps I should look closer to the principality for my inspiration. Finally, after 10 minutes of hard work, I came up with my version of the old Goldie Lookin' Chain classic Guns don't kill People... the twist was that I was to sing Subs Don't Kill Stories, Lawyers Do.
It dawned on me that to carry out such a desperate task I would at least needs some props to hide behind. Well, more regular readers of this neverending story may recall that I am the proud owner of a couple of Do Rags, which were purchased a few years back during an England cricket tour of the West Indies. That would solve one problem, and a baseball hat might also come in handy to hide behind and cover my head when pelted with dangerous flying objects.
I decided the verses should, perhaps, be about characters in the office and I wanted to sing the praises of one individual in particular, the hard-working Critch.
Now Critch has a rather noticeable stubble which, when he hasn't gone near the rasor for a while, can turn into the beginnings of a beard. He is also the oldest member of our happy clan so I thought it only right that said beard should be grey.
Finding one, though, was presenting a bit of a problem.
On Monday Mrs R and I visited Cribbs Causeway, the vast shopping centre on the outskirts of Bristol. Yet despite managing to sort a fair deal of the Xmas shopping, the grey beard eluded me. Then, taking an experimental route home through Patchway, we spotted a Xmas party store and did a quick about-turn to study all the fancy dress costumes etc. Finally, my lady wife discovered a long grey beard which we decided, with a fair bit of work, could be reformed into the desired facial appendage.
That night we got out the scissors and scythed away at the tough, grey stuff until it looked vaguely acceptable. We also, during our trip, found one of those giant, echoey kids imitation microphones which I thought would only add to the theme.
Suitably equipped, I set off for London early on Tuesday morning for the Bash of the Day.
Booking into the Holiday Inn down the road from Fortress Wapping was easily enough but getting from Limehouse into the city was a mare which reminded me why I had quit the smoke in the first place. A catalogue of closed stations and tube trains breaking down meant I didn't reach the meeting place - the Bell around the corner from Canon Street Station, until half an hour later than intended.
The place was already heaving with the great and the good from the Screws and I soon linked up for a beer with Bobby Bowden, the man who takes sole responsibility for my return to London. After a couple of lubricating Fosters we started talking about the forthcoming events, and I must admit the alarm bells suddenly went off in my head when he said he recalled Martin Hardy singing "Fog on the Tyne" at the previous dinner. "I thought it was Bladon Races?" I said, watching his eyes carefully to see if the whole thing was a wind-up. He just shrugged it aside - "What's the difference? It was all in Geordie anyway."
Good answer.
Once the great and the good were all gathered together it was on to a restaurant called the Don, an Italian in the heart of the city, where we were invited into a dining room exclusively for our use. I must say the service was excellent and the food - though hardly the kind of large Xmas dinner that I will be tucking into on the day in question - was tasty and, in the case of the pudding, very rich and filling.
Then, after a speech from Macca came the obligatory raffle in which, somehow, the world's two biggest gamblers and close cohorts Lethal and Adders, managed to carry off the first two prizes. There were cries of "fix, fix" but they just laughed it off and pocketed the cash, totally oblivious to the accusations of scandal going on around them.
And then it came. Macca announced that the new boys had to sing for their supper in "time-honoured News of the World tradition". He then revealed that, in fact, the tradition had only begun this year and this would be the first time. He then took up his post as Simon Cowell on the top table and invited his secretary and one of the other girls to take up the roles as Cheryl Cole and Danni Minogue from the X-factor. To complete the line up came one of the old skool Screws writers David Harrison, as Louis Walsh.
First up was Ash, our chief soccer writer, who passed out free lighters to the 35 guests then requested the lights be turned low before launching himself into what can only be described as Robbie Williams' Angels, as sung by Bob Dylan. The high notes were certainly a test too much but he deserved top marks for bravery and at least he got the audience singing along.
Critch followed with a 20-minute speech on why he had chosen to sing a certain song which wasn't funny but made his dad laugh. It turned out to be Laurel and Hardy's Trail of the Lonesome Pine.
And following swiftly on we had young soccer writer Greg and Internet Editor Adam in a duet, complete with dreadlock wigs containing coloured beads, revisiting the back catalogue of the little known Millie Vanilli (and I probably haven't spelt that right).
Finally, after a nervous wait brought on by the fact it was decided in alphabetical order, I was on "stage" or, rather, standing alone in the corner of the room with all eyes turned on me. I quickly hid behind a corner and opened my props bag. God knows how someone like David Bowie managed 20 costume changes a performance because I was struggling to get the Do Rag on straight and nervously trying to get the baseball hat out without spilling everything else onto the floor from the bag.
The chatter going on in the room suggested they thought I might have done a runner but finally... finally... I appeared, fully dressed for the occasion, to perform the first verse of my rap.
Then another costume break. And this time I could not for the life of me find the Critch beard. Now this, you understand, was my moment of comedy gold, the thing that would make the whole show work... and it had either fallen out of my bag on the way to the pub or was still back home in Bristol.
I scrambled around for ages, I could hear the natives getting restless, my heart was beating ten to the dozen and I was breaking out in a sweat. Oh Lordy. Then, finally, I put my hands on the beard, strapped it on and rejoined my audience.
Glad to say the reception was worth waiting for as I sang my verse about the great Critch.
To end on a make or break note I opted for a verse about the boss Macca. When I say make or break I mean it was either going to make him see the funny side or he was going to break my ankles. Thankfully it was the former.
After that we all moved on to a pub called the Vintry, then ended up in a bar called Revolution by which time I was so twatted I could feel my legs giving way so made my exit, jumping into a waiting taxi to be swiftly taken back to my hotel. A very enjoyable day, though, and I will put the contents of my rap up on my next posting.
Fortunately, and wisely, I have taken the week off.
Anyway, the tale we have had drummed into us is that last year our north east correspondent Martin Hardy performed a passable version of Bladon Races, a bit of a shock really seeing he's from the Newcastle area.
Anyway, as one of five new arrivals I thought I had better prepare properly for the big event and wracked my brain to come up with something to do. At first I was thinking of a football theme, like the Anfield Rap, but then it dawned on me that as a representative of Wales perhaps I should look closer to the principality for my inspiration. Finally, after 10 minutes of hard work, I came up with my version of the old Goldie Lookin' Chain classic Guns don't kill People... the twist was that I was to sing Subs Don't Kill Stories, Lawyers Do.
It dawned on me that to carry out such a desperate task I would at least needs some props to hide behind. Well, more regular readers of this neverending story may recall that I am the proud owner of a couple of Do Rags, which were purchased a few years back during an England cricket tour of the West Indies. That would solve one problem, and a baseball hat might also come in handy to hide behind and cover my head when pelted with dangerous flying objects.
I decided the verses should, perhaps, be about characters in the office and I wanted to sing the praises of one individual in particular, the hard-working Critch.
Now Critch has a rather noticeable stubble which, when he hasn't gone near the rasor for a while, can turn into the beginnings of a beard. He is also the oldest member of our happy clan so I thought it only right that said beard should be grey.
Finding one, though, was presenting a bit of a problem.
On Monday Mrs R and I visited Cribbs Causeway, the vast shopping centre on the outskirts of Bristol. Yet despite managing to sort a fair deal of the Xmas shopping, the grey beard eluded me. Then, taking an experimental route home through Patchway, we spotted a Xmas party store and did a quick about-turn to study all the fancy dress costumes etc. Finally, my lady wife discovered a long grey beard which we decided, with a fair bit of work, could be reformed into the desired facial appendage.
That night we got out the scissors and scythed away at the tough, grey stuff until it looked vaguely acceptable. We also, during our trip, found one of those giant, echoey kids imitation microphones which I thought would only add to the theme.
Suitably equipped, I set off for London early on Tuesday morning for the Bash of the Day.
Booking into the Holiday Inn down the road from Fortress Wapping was easily enough but getting from Limehouse into the city was a mare which reminded me why I had quit the smoke in the first place. A catalogue of closed stations and tube trains breaking down meant I didn't reach the meeting place - the Bell around the corner from Canon Street Station, until half an hour later than intended.
The place was already heaving with the great and the good from the Screws and I soon linked up for a beer with Bobby Bowden, the man who takes sole responsibility for my return to London. After a couple of lubricating Fosters we started talking about the forthcoming events, and I must admit the alarm bells suddenly went off in my head when he said he recalled Martin Hardy singing "Fog on the Tyne" at the previous dinner. "I thought it was Bladon Races?" I said, watching his eyes carefully to see if the whole thing was a wind-up. He just shrugged it aside - "What's the difference? It was all in Geordie anyway."
Good answer.
Once the great and the good were all gathered together it was on to a restaurant called the Don, an Italian in the heart of the city, where we were invited into a dining room exclusively for our use. I must say the service was excellent and the food - though hardly the kind of large Xmas dinner that I will be tucking into on the day in question - was tasty and, in the case of the pudding, very rich and filling.
Then, after a speech from Macca came the obligatory raffle in which, somehow, the world's two biggest gamblers and close cohorts Lethal and Adders, managed to carry off the first two prizes. There were cries of "fix, fix" but they just laughed it off and pocketed the cash, totally oblivious to the accusations of scandal going on around them.
And then it came. Macca announced that the new boys had to sing for their supper in "time-honoured News of the World tradition". He then revealed that, in fact, the tradition had only begun this year and this would be the first time. He then took up his post as Simon Cowell on the top table and invited his secretary and one of the other girls to take up the roles as Cheryl Cole and Danni Minogue from the X-factor. To complete the line up came one of the old skool Screws writers David Harrison, as Louis Walsh.
First up was Ash, our chief soccer writer, who passed out free lighters to the 35 guests then requested the lights be turned low before launching himself into what can only be described as Robbie Williams' Angels, as sung by Bob Dylan. The high notes were certainly a test too much but he deserved top marks for bravery and at least he got the audience singing along.
Critch followed with a 20-minute speech on why he had chosen to sing a certain song which wasn't funny but made his dad laugh. It turned out to be Laurel and Hardy's Trail of the Lonesome Pine.
And following swiftly on we had young soccer writer Greg and Internet Editor Adam in a duet, complete with dreadlock wigs containing coloured beads, revisiting the back catalogue of the little known Millie Vanilli (and I probably haven't spelt that right).
Finally, after a nervous wait brought on by the fact it was decided in alphabetical order, I was on "stage" or, rather, standing alone in the corner of the room with all eyes turned on me. I quickly hid behind a corner and opened my props bag. God knows how someone like David Bowie managed 20 costume changes a performance because I was struggling to get the Do Rag on straight and nervously trying to get the baseball hat out without spilling everything else onto the floor from the bag.
The chatter going on in the room suggested they thought I might have done a runner but finally... finally... I appeared, fully dressed for the occasion, to perform the first verse of my rap.
Then another costume break. And this time I could not for the life of me find the Critch beard. Now this, you understand, was my moment of comedy gold, the thing that would make the whole show work... and it had either fallen out of my bag on the way to the pub or was still back home in Bristol.
I scrambled around for ages, I could hear the natives getting restless, my heart was beating ten to the dozen and I was breaking out in a sweat. Oh Lordy. Then, finally, I put my hands on the beard, strapped it on and rejoined my audience.
Glad to say the reception was worth waiting for as I sang my verse about the great Critch.
To end on a make or break note I opted for a verse about the boss Macca. When I say make or break I mean it was either going to make him see the funny side or he was going to break my ankles. Thankfully it was the former.
After that we all moved on to a pub called the Vintry, then ended up in a bar called Revolution by which time I was so twatted I could feel my legs giving way so made my exit, jumping into a waiting taxi to be swiftly taken back to my hotel. A very enjoyable day, though, and I will put the contents of my rap up on my next posting.
Fortunately, and wisely, I have taken the week off.
Monday, December 07, 2009
Food of the World
Word reaches me that Meeja Wales' own version of Thelma and Louis, Smashy and Paps, have decided they are going on a worldwide tour. The two brave souls have both handed in their notice - a huge loss for the newspapers they sweated blood for over the last few years - and are going to spend six months travelling around to the four corners of the earth.
I say brave because the hardest thing, surely, will be for them to handle six months of each other's company. Even when they shared a house in Cardiff they hardly ever saw each other.
And that's not the only breaking news from the hub of Welsh journalism. Ben double glazing has already left for pastures new, apparently trying his luck working for Cardiff's self-styled Sleaze Brothers freelance operation, and will soon be joined there by Catherine Mary.
Meanwhile Sandra Hoy-palloy has apparently got herself up the duff again and Cat, the incredible laughing news editor, is also with child. Like I said before, there must be something in the water.
Other departures include Katie Stormin Norman and Gavin the gig guide Allen. Wonder if anyone has actually looked into these departures and questioned whether anything might not be quite right at the centre of Welsh journalism? Unlikely, but I hear the Little Bowling Ball has already been given lessons on how to turn the lights off at the end of his 20 hours a day, seven days a week shift.
I discovered all this gossip when I had a wet-your-whistle stop visit from the Fugitive, the Wonderful One and Shutts at my Bristol hideaway yesterday.
I picked up Withers from Bristol Airport where it outrageously cost me £4.50 to park for 20 minutes. The Wonderful One, who would have had to pay £6 to get a bus to Temple Meads, was true to type though, his hand never venturing near his moth-devoured wallet.
When he got off the plane he looked remarkably well for someone who had spent the previous night at a Glasgow "Burlesque" evening and had woken up fully dressed in tuxedo.
He had even worn a top-hat for the occasion which he had bought from a mysterious hat shop that suddenly materialised in Grangetown. As Paps suggested, it sounded like something out of the much-loved kids programme Mr Benn. Actually brought a smile to the miserable one's face, so I'm told.
The Fugitive and Shutts later arrived at Chez Rippers and I was soon escorting them down the hill and around the corner to my lively local The Masons Arms where Withers immediately took a liking to the Stroudy cider while I made up for lost time quaffing back pints of Fosters. The Fugitive, though, was driving and had to refrain from the imbibing. As for Shutts, the tee-total one stuck to his diet cokes.
Interesting to see Shutts trying to meander his way around our little old cottage, though. It looked like a scene from Gulliver's Travels as the 6ft and lots Welsh giant ducked to avoid the low-beamed ceilings.
Congrats to Wathanovski and the Teacher on the birth of their first child - a daughter. Sorry, can't remember the name and deleted the message from my phone but the Welsh football correspondent is "over the moon".
Talking of celebrations, we were rewarded with a can of Carling each for work on the 16-page all-singing, all-dancing News of the World World Cup draw supplement after working an extra long Friday to put it together.
Boss Macca presented the cans with a flourish and thanked us for "all our hard work", removing them from his own personal fridge (I imagine they were gifts from the Premier League sponsors originally).
Lovely gesture nonetheless.
Next morning, though, I was feeling a bit ropey. And the reason manifested itself when I got to work and was informed that the lager we had supped at the end of the previous night's shift might not be quite contemporaneous.
"It was 14 months past its sell-by date," one of my informants revealed before making his excuses and leaving.
It was luxury, though, that because of the late-night working the company splashed out for a hotel room for the night for me. I stayed at the Holiday Inn at Limehouse - and very pleasant it was, too.
I say brave because the hardest thing, surely, will be for them to handle six months of each other's company. Even when they shared a house in Cardiff they hardly ever saw each other.
And that's not the only breaking news from the hub of Welsh journalism. Ben double glazing has already left for pastures new, apparently trying his luck working for Cardiff's self-styled Sleaze Brothers freelance operation, and will soon be joined there by Catherine Mary.
Meanwhile Sandra Hoy-palloy has apparently got herself up the duff again and Cat, the incredible laughing news editor, is also with child. Like I said before, there must be something in the water.
Other departures include Katie Stormin Norman and Gavin the gig guide Allen. Wonder if anyone has actually looked into these departures and questioned whether anything might not be quite right at the centre of Welsh journalism? Unlikely, but I hear the Little Bowling Ball has already been given lessons on how to turn the lights off at the end of his 20 hours a day, seven days a week shift.
I discovered all this gossip when I had a wet-your-whistle stop visit from the Fugitive, the Wonderful One and Shutts at my Bristol hideaway yesterday.
I picked up Withers from Bristol Airport where it outrageously cost me £4.50 to park for 20 minutes. The Wonderful One, who would have had to pay £6 to get a bus to Temple Meads, was true to type though, his hand never venturing near his moth-devoured wallet.
When he got off the plane he looked remarkably well for someone who had spent the previous night at a Glasgow "Burlesque" evening and had woken up fully dressed in tuxedo.
He had even worn a top-hat for the occasion which he had bought from a mysterious hat shop that suddenly materialised in Grangetown. As Paps suggested, it sounded like something out of the much-loved kids programme Mr Benn. Actually brought a smile to the miserable one's face, so I'm told.
The Fugitive and Shutts later arrived at Chez Rippers and I was soon escorting them down the hill and around the corner to my lively local The Masons Arms where Withers immediately took a liking to the Stroudy cider while I made up for lost time quaffing back pints of Fosters. The Fugitive, though, was driving and had to refrain from the imbibing. As for Shutts, the tee-total one stuck to his diet cokes.
Interesting to see Shutts trying to meander his way around our little old cottage, though. It looked like a scene from Gulliver's Travels as the 6ft and lots Welsh giant ducked to avoid the low-beamed ceilings.
Congrats to Wathanovski and the Teacher on the birth of their first child - a daughter. Sorry, can't remember the name and deleted the message from my phone but the Welsh football correspondent is "over the moon".
Talking of celebrations, we were rewarded with a can of Carling each for work on the 16-page all-singing, all-dancing News of the World World Cup draw supplement after working an extra long Friday to put it together.
Boss Macca presented the cans with a flourish and thanked us for "all our hard work", removing them from his own personal fridge (I imagine they were gifts from the Premier League sponsors originally).
Lovely gesture nonetheless.
Next morning, though, I was feeling a bit ropey. And the reason manifested itself when I got to work and was informed that the lager we had supped at the end of the previous night's shift might not be quite contemporaneous.
"It was 14 months past its sell-by date," one of my informants revealed before making his excuses and leaving.
It was luxury, though, that because of the late-night working the company splashed out for a hotel room for the night for me. I stayed at the Holiday Inn at Limehouse - and very pleasant it was, too.
Thursday, December 03, 2009
A spoon full of sugar...
I'M beginning to think I have followed the wrong vocation. Judging by what has been going on for the last week I think I should be renamed Dr Rippers or, worse still, nurse.
While the delightful Mrs R has been feeling worse for wear following the shocking news of her pregnancy (I already feel extremely guilty for putting her through this experience) my incredible shrinking daughter is now just over eight stone and was laid low this week with a virus surprise, surprise.
You see, The Fat Kid is going to have to be renamed the extremely Skinny Kid before long.
The trouble is she tends to live off a bowl of cereal and a couple of slimming biscuits per day on the basis that she believes her nickname. I keep telling her it's rubbish but she won't listen to me. She goes to the gym three times a week but doesn't realise that she actually needs food to supply the energy to enable her to complete all these spinning classes.
Result: Her body gave in last week over sheer exhaustion.
Poor old fat, I mean Skinny, kid. You can even feel her ribs these days and where once she was just a smidgen smaller than me she now also seems to have shrunk so that she only comes up to my chin. Gonna have to fatten her up over christmas, I think.
Meanwhile, poor old Mrs R is really struggling. She can't stay up past 9pm and doesn't enjoy the fact that strange things seem to be happening to her body which are totally outside her control. I would like to help but don't know what to say - it's hormone hell, by the sound of things.
On a good note, I went to see the Gas play Exeter City at home on Tuesday. My fab football team managed to win 1-0 and move into the top six again. Never mind the fact that they were totally mullered, battered, outplayed for 89 minutes they somehow managed to hang on for their first clean sheet in 13 games.
Going up, going up, going up - lord save us.
Sadly, I missed the only goal of the game. I was standing freezing away in the Family Enclosure with my mate Haydn, whose son Liam plays for one of their junior teams and thus gets his dad free entry to the ground, when I decided that nothing was going to happen. Thirty three minutes in and the Gas had barely mustered a shot.
Sods law! As I am tinkling away an almighty roar goes up and Darryl Duffy has put the Boys in Blue ahead. Great.
I had to wait until shortly after nine the following morning to see the goal that had sent us soaring into the upper echelons of the division.
While the delightful Mrs R has been feeling worse for wear following the shocking news of her pregnancy (I already feel extremely guilty for putting her through this experience) my incredible shrinking daughter is now just over eight stone and was laid low this week with a virus surprise, surprise.
You see, The Fat Kid is going to have to be renamed the extremely Skinny Kid before long.
The trouble is she tends to live off a bowl of cereal and a couple of slimming biscuits per day on the basis that she believes her nickname. I keep telling her it's rubbish but she won't listen to me. She goes to the gym three times a week but doesn't realise that she actually needs food to supply the energy to enable her to complete all these spinning classes.
Result: Her body gave in last week over sheer exhaustion.
Poor old fat, I mean Skinny, kid. You can even feel her ribs these days and where once she was just a smidgen smaller than me she now also seems to have shrunk so that she only comes up to my chin. Gonna have to fatten her up over christmas, I think.
Meanwhile, poor old Mrs R is really struggling. She can't stay up past 9pm and doesn't enjoy the fact that strange things seem to be happening to her body which are totally outside her control. I would like to help but don't know what to say - it's hormone hell, by the sound of things.
On a good note, I went to see the Gas play Exeter City at home on Tuesday. My fab football team managed to win 1-0 and move into the top six again. Never mind the fact that they were totally mullered, battered, outplayed for 89 minutes they somehow managed to hang on for their first clean sheet in 13 games.
Going up, going up, going up - lord save us.
Sadly, I missed the only goal of the game. I was standing freezing away in the Family Enclosure with my mate Haydn, whose son Liam plays for one of their junior teams and thus gets his dad free entry to the ground, when I decided that nothing was going to happen. Thirty three minutes in and the Gas had barely mustered a shot.
Sods law! As I am tinkling away an almighty roar goes up and Darryl Duffy has put the Boys in Blue ahead. Great.
I had to wait until shortly after nine the following morning to see the goal that had sent us soaring into the upper echelons of the division.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Roll out the Barrel
UP here on the Screws our sports news editor Dykesy has gone on leave for a month. The young whippersnapper has just had a baby daughter, Connie, and I am wondering whether this fertility thing is catching because he actually sits next to me.
While he is up to his armpits in nappies, however, he is being sorely missed back in Fortress Wapping, and not necessarily for his immense journalistic skills.
Popping into the local boozer, the Wilted Rose, for a quick beer before getting the Shoeburyness train back to the Fat Kid's den, I happened to overhear a conversation between two of the bar staff. It had been a busy day, apparently, and they had taken £140. Of course, it was Thursday and we just happen to enjoy a few bevvies there at lunchtime on that day.
The problem was that the beer had run out and they were at a loss what to do. "I tried to change the barrel but I couldn't," said a rather distraught serving wench.
"Oh, sh**, I don't know how to do it either," said her colleague.
Then the barmaid had a brainwave. "Don't worry, I'll get Dykesy to do it. He'll sort it out when he comes in," she said.
Unfortunately I had to spoil her plan. "Sorry, I work with Dykesy and he is off for a month," I said.
"Oh no!" she replied. "We always get him to go down to the cellar and sort it out when it needs changing. I think his folks used to run a pub or something."
Got the message, Dykesy? Come back soon!
While he is up to his armpits in nappies, however, he is being sorely missed back in Fortress Wapping, and not necessarily for his immense journalistic skills.
Popping into the local boozer, the Wilted Rose, for a quick beer before getting the Shoeburyness train back to the Fat Kid's den, I happened to overhear a conversation between two of the bar staff. It had been a busy day, apparently, and they had taken £140. Of course, it was Thursday and we just happen to enjoy a few bevvies there at lunchtime on that day.
The problem was that the beer had run out and they were at a loss what to do. "I tried to change the barrel but I couldn't," said a rather distraught serving wench.
"Oh, sh**, I don't know how to do it either," said her colleague.
Then the barmaid had a brainwave. "Don't worry, I'll get Dykesy to do it. He'll sort it out when he comes in," she said.
Unfortunately I had to spoil her plan. "Sorry, I work with Dykesy and he is off for a month," I said.
"Oh no!" she replied. "We always get him to go down to the cellar and sort it out when it needs changing. I think his folks used to run a pub or something."
Got the message, Dykesy? Come back soon!
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Oats so difficult
When I was about to tie the knot no one warned me about how much screwing was involved. No, sssh, quiet at the back, what I mean is however much you insist during courtship that DIY stores are completely out of bounds eventually you find that, rather than buying ready-made furniture, you are in Ikea stocking up on some preposterously awkward flatpacks.
Obviously not only does marriage come with certain financial obligations you didn't really factor into the equation when you were down on bended knee declaring undying love, but it also seems to administer an instant brain labotomy, wiping away completely all the good, sensible principles you held dear as a single person.
I fell into this trap because Mrs R, tired of sending me subliminal messages about improving our abode which obviously weren't getting through, has taken to leaving little TO DO lists around the house, hoping that I might get the hint. You find them in strategic places, like next to your tobacco on the mantlepiece, and can't avoid having a nose to see what they say. Among the things listed on this one was: Get a dining room table.
Well, being a bit financially challenged at the moment and with Mrs R having revealed the earth-shattering news that she is up the duff, my guilt gene kicked in with remarkable force and somehow I found myself at the aforementioned warehouse from hell buying a dining table and chairs.
Putting them together involved digging out the only two small screwdrivers I could find and concentrating manically on an instruction leaftlet full of diagrams which make the whole thing look so easy. Yeh, well.
The first problem you find is that, although it seems you have everything in front of you, it pretty soon dawns on you that there is one vital bolt missing from the package. Never mind, just carry on regardless rather than ring Ikea and have to make the whole miserable trip again just to pick up the missing item.
What it ends up like is a lesson in contortionism as you vainly try to get all the parts together at the same time. Fit one bit, and another falls off... screw in one part and you find that the part is actually upside down even though it looks exactly the same whichever way you hold it.
And then, when you think you have finally cracked it, you realise you don't have the Phillips screwdriver required, just an itty bitty normal implement on which you will have to exert the kind of pressure that a WWF wrestler might attempt as he tries to get his foe to submit.
Thankfully the end result is a reasonable looking table and four decent chairs, total cost £90 and a stunning array of blisters.
But what about the satisfaction of actually finishing the job? Pah, I would rather pull out my own teeth with a pair of pliers than go through that experience again.
On Sunday we met up with old colleagues Claire and Neil, with daughter Amelia, and Natalie and her boyfriend, also called Neil, or Neil the power as I will now refer to him to avoid confusion. The power? Well, I understand he works in a power station so it will have to do.
The latter two had travelled down from Carlisle so that The Power could go through the pain and suffering of watching his beloved football team play my shambolic lot at the Memorial Ground. For a while it looked like they would inflict the sixth defeat in a row on the Gas, leading twice only to go down to a goal three minutes into injury time. I actually felt a bit sorry for the geezer after all the travelling he had done to encounter such despair.
No matter we had a very enjoyable lunch in the White Lion on Frenchay Common and later Claire, Neil and Amelia had a tour of the cottage before heading back to Cardiff.
Poor Mrs R hasn't been feeling too good since the big news. As such I have been trying to help her out the best I can. This morning I attempted to make her porridge. This, like the table and chairs, hinted that it would be a breeze. The clue was on the packet, after all. Oats so Simple.
It involved opening a sachet, putting the oats in a bowl, filling the sachet with milk and then heating in the microwave for two minutes. What could be easier?
Umm, quite a bit. What it didn't say was the flimsy sachet wasn't really built to hold milk and that the slightest movement ended up with the majority of its contents on the floor. Having mopped that up I tried again, put the porridge in the microwave and then served it up to my ravenous wife.
One look at her face told me it wasn't quite the way she liked it. I think my porridge making duties will be going exactly the same way as my DIY career.
Obviously not only does marriage come with certain financial obligations you didn't really factor into the equation when you were down on bended knee declaring undying love, but it also seems to administer an instant brain labotomy, wiping away completely all the good, sensible principles you held dear as a single person.
I fell into this trap because Mrs R, tired of sending me subliminal messages about improving our abode which obviously weren't getting through, has taken to leaving little TO DO lists around the house, hoping that I might get the hint. You find them in strategic places, like next to your tobacco on the mantlepiece, and can't avoid having a nose to see what they say. Among the things listed on this one was: Get a dining room table.
Well, being a bit financially challenged at the moment and with Mrs R having revealed the earth-shattering news that she is up the duff, my guilt gene kicked in with remarkable force and somehow I found myself at the aforementioned warehouse from hell buying a dining table and chairs.
Putting them together involved digging out the only two small screwdrivers I could find and concentrating manically on an instruction leaftlet full of diagrams which make the whole thing look so easy. Yeh, well.
The first problem you find is that, although it seems you have everything in front of you, it pretty soon dawns on you that there is one vital bolt missing from the package. Never mind, just carry on regardless rather than ring Ikea and have to make the whole miserable trip again just to pick up the missing item.
What it ends up like is a lesson in contortionism as you vainly try to get all the parts together at the same time. Fit one bit, and another falls off... screw in one part and you find that the part is actually upside down even though it looks exactly the same whichever way you hold it.
And then, when you think you have finally cracked it, you realise you don't have the Phillips screwdriver required, just an itty bitty normal implement on which you will have to exert the kind of pressure that a WWF wrestler might attempt as he tries to get his foe to submit.
Thankfully the end result is a reasonable looking table and four decent chairs, total cost £90 and a stunning array of blisters.
But what about the satisfaction of actually finishing the job? Pah, I would rather pull out my own teeth with a pair of pliers than go through that experience again.
On Sunday we met up with old colleagues Claire and Neil, with daughter Amelia, and Natalie and her boyfriend, also called Neil, or Neil the power as I will now refer to him to avoid confusion. The power? Well, I understand he works in a power station so it will have to do.
The latter two had travelled down from Carlisle so that The Power could go through the pain and suffering of watching his beloved football team play my shambolic lot at the Memorial Ground. For a while it looked like they would inflict the sixth defeat in a row on the Gas, leading twice only to go down to a goal three minutes into injury time. I actually felt a bit sorry for the geezer after all the travelling he had done to encounter such despair.
No matter we had a very enjoyable lunch in the White Lion on Frenchay Common and later Claire, Neil and Amelia had a tour of the cottage before heading back to Cardiff.
Poor Mrs R hasn't been feeling too good since the big news. As such I have been trying to help her out the best I can. This morning I attempted to make her porridge. This, like the table and chairs, hinted that it would be a breeze. The clue was on the packet, after all. Oats so Simple.
It involved opening a sachet, putting the oats in a bowl, filling the sachet with milk and then heating in the microwave for two minutes. What could be easier?
Umm, quite a bit. What it didn't say was the flimsy sachet wasn't really built to hold milk and that the slightest movement ended up with the majority of its contents on the floor. Having mopped that up I tried again, put the porridge in the microwave and then served it up to my ravenous wife.
One look at her face told me it wasn't quite the way she liked it. I think my porridge making duties will be going exactly the same way as my DIY career.
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