THERE are moments during your motoring life when you feel a bit like John Cleese in Fawlty Towers or Clockwise. I managed to combine the two on Saturday in a hectic morning that wasn't ideal preparation for the biggest day of the Welsh sporting calendar - Cardiff City in the Championship play-off final against Blackpool at Wembley.
Determined to get to work early I first decided that as my Clio Ramsey had been leaking a bit of water of late it would be best to top it up first to avoid any later catastrophes either on the way to work or on the way home to Bristol afterwards.
Having done this, I set off nice and early.
The clunk came just after leaving the Fat Kid's house but I thought nothing of it. I just assumed something was rolling around in the boot.
Then, 20 minutes later, I suddenly had a thought. I couldn't remember replacing the cap after topping up the water.
Stopping in a layby I lifted the bonnet and my worst fears were realised. Steam was coming out of a gaping hole in my radiator where the cap should have been. Oops.
Then came the dilemma. Do I drive on, find a garage, and just hope they have a cap to fit a Renault? Risky, because I imagine the water could disappear pretty damn fast, evaporating as the temperature grew.
Or do I turn around, drive all the way back and try to find the cap on a rather vast expanse of road just around the corner from my starting point, thus losing all the time gained and making it impossible for me to get to work on time.
My third option was to shout at myself "stupid! stupid! stupid!", though I must admit I did fall short of actually whipping Ramsey with a tree branch.
Eventually I chose the second option, turned the car around and headed back, mumbling under my breath at every motorist in my way, even though it was not their fault I had left my water cap lying around somewhere on the engine when I had left the house that morning.
Finally, after much cussing, I got back to the point where I thought it had fallen off. I scoured the pavements and the road for a good few hundred yards before coming to the conclusion it was a near impossible task.
But wait. Then I saw it lying in the road. Happy days. But not. Some sod had run it over and broken it. I tried to do a temporary repair job on it, then dropped half of it into my radiator. Aaargh! Cue more Fawlty impressions.
Last resort, I pulled out my mobile and dialled the AA explaining, in a frantic way, what the problem was. Bless them, they had someone with me within 15 minutes... and he had a spare water cap on his van.
Having fixed it on and also temporarily repaired a water leak, he was on his way.
Vehicle repair man... I salute you.
More Fawlty impressions followed the next day when Mrs Rippers and I decided to try to put together a chest of drawers for the new arrival. Hmm.
The "easy to assemble" (ha!) kit came from Argos.
First we had to count up whether we had all the right parts. Who puts these things together?
In a bag supposedly containing four screws there were only three. Is it a child's chest of drawers because a child put the bags together and had yet to learn to count up to four? Ridiculous.
Still, we soldiered on and were quite pleased after muscling some screws into a hard piece of wood and attaching a metal runner to it.
Then Mrs Rippers sheepish looked up from the position she had assumed as foreman. "Umm, I have just looked at the instructions again. I think it is on the wrong way around."
Still, after taking two hours to afix the first metal runner we had soon got the hang of it and the second one took 20 minutes - thanks, in no small measure, to the electric screwdriver Mrs Rippers had cunningly purchased.
I don't know about electric screwdriver, I think Dr Who's sonic one is needed here... to whisk us forward into the future when the job is finally completed.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Meet the new boss, same as the old boss...
... and I've been fooled again. The mother-in-law has such a gentle way with her that you don't realise before it is too late that she has chipped away at your resistance and you suddenly find yourself painting the new chest of drawers that you have bought for the coming arrival.
Now, me doing any kind of DIY is like asking the Rev Ian Paisley to take holy communion, but there I was sat outside my back door splashing paint on various strips of wood and, it must be said, most of myself in the process.
Not only that but on Tuesday night our curtain pole in the main bedroom decided to pull itself away from the wall (thanks in no small part from the lovely Mrs Rippers managing to sit on the curtain) and suddenly it was all hands to the pump to get it fixed.
Her mum immediately took charge like some strange mixture of Lawrence Llewellyn Bowen and Field Marshall Montgomery, and was quick to provide the polyfilla which she insisted was a cure for anything.
Try as we might, though, we couldn't get the curtain pole screws to fix into the polyfilla-filled holes and it was then I decided that perhaps brain power rather than brute force was the answer. Swiftly taking control, I suggested that the screws actually needed to screw into something, rather than lamely sit in some sticky gunge until it finally set. And after much elbow grease and aching arms I managed to use Mrs R's miniature Phillips screwdriver to drill the screws into the stone wall. Magically, the curtain pole was then put back on and the screws held it in place! Great, it is still firmly afixed while we speak.
Mind you, I may have made a curtain rod for my own back. Mum in law Amanda said: "You see, you are good at this, if you try."
Oh no.
Anyway, in all seriousness she has been a great help to Mrs Rippers at a time when she was struggling to juggle house, work and a rapidly increasing bump. Amanda went back home to sunny Suffolk yesterday with our thanks ringing in our ears.
Immediately I resumed the position: Prone on the bean bag, watching my favourite DVDs...
I thought Ramsey was about to pack in on me last night. I'd only just got onto the M4 on the long haul to Southend and was pushing 80 when the little Clio started jumping and juddering around like some ageing punk pogoing to the Damned.
Bugger, I thought. I am going to have to stop and call the AA.
Then I had another thought.
When I took the car out of third gear and put it into fifth instead, the rev counter came down from 80 to 30 and normal service was resumed. Doh!
Now, me doing any kind of DIY is like asking the Rev Ian Paisley to take holy communion, but there I was sat outside my back door splashing paint on various strips of wood and, it must be said, most of myself in the process.
Not only that but on Tuesday night our curtain pole in the main bedroom decided to pull itself away from the wall (thanks in no small part from the lovely Mrs Rippers managing to sit on the curtain) and suddenly it was all hands to the pump to get it fixed.
Her mum immediately took charge like some strange mixture of Lawrence Llewellyn Bowen and Field Marshall Montgomery, and was quick to provide the polyfilla which she insisted was a cure for anything.
Try as we might, though, we couldn't get the curtain pole screws to fix into the polyfilla-filled holes and it was then I decided that perhaps brain power rather than brute force was the answer. Swiftly taking control, I suggested that the screws actually needed to screw into something, rather than lamely sit in some sticky gunge until it finally set. And after much elbow grease and aching arms I managed to use Mrs R's miniature Phillips screwdriver to drill the screws into the stone wall. Magically, the curtain pole was then put back on and the screws held it in place! Great, it is still firmly afixed while we speak.
Mind you, I may have made a curtain rod for my own back. Mum in law Amanda said: "You see, you are good at this, if you try."
Oh no.
Anyway, in all seriousness she has been a great help to Mrs Rippers at a time when she was struggling to juggle house, work and a rapidly increasing bump. Amanda went back home to sunny Suffolk yesterday with our thanks ringing in our ears.
Immediately I resumed the position: Prone on the bean bag, watching my favourite DVDs...
I thought Ramsey was about to pack in on me last night. I'd only just got onto the M4 on the long haul to Southend and was pushing 80 when the little Clio started jumping and juddering around like some ageing punk pogoing to the Damned.
Bugger, I thought. I am going to have to stop and call the AA.
Then I had another thought.
When I took the car out of third gear and put it into fifth instead, the rev counter came down from 80 to 30 and normal service was resumed. Doh!
Friday, May 14, 2010
Kitchen Cabinet
In the spirit of coalition government, I now find myself with two bosses. Mrs Rippers, no doubt tired of nagging me about all the things that need to be done by the time the new arrival turns up in about six weeks time(!), has called in her mum for support and I am now firmly in the minority in the House of Frenchay Commons.
Only joking, of course. Myself and Amanda get on famously, and it has to be said she has been a great help to Mrs Rippers and myself, particularly in terms of ironing all my shirts, t shirts (something I have rarely done) and even my jim jams (which NEVER used to happen). It means, though, that at least I find myself able to lie rigidly in my new fold-up bed at the Fat Kid's.
Amanda's quiet, persuasive ways have definitely kick-started me into a few other things, and I have now re-arranged the kitchen completely so that there is room for the new bottle sterilizer and all things associated with baby feeding in the kitchen.
You may recall that during the reign of Ridsdale (our rather unwanted, furry house guest) we had to move everything out of the kitchen cabinets and put them into various tins and things on the work tops. It meant there was barely room to swing a rat, let alone cat, but the disappearance of the troublesome critter has meant the plan was due a re-think.
Interestingly, though, when I went through all the various tins, plastic containers and boxes I uncovered a huge supply of biscuits. In fact, in some of them there was just one pack of biccies or a couple of bars of chocolate.
I didn't realise that Mrs R's hoarding capacity for sweet things was so great and once re-arranged I found that I now have complete access to my kitchen work surfaces without having to throw away any of my lovely wife's hidden treats.
Talking of beds, I got a wee bit distressed at turning up in Shoeburyness every week to find that the Vin Monster and Big Boy had taken to using my blow-up bed as an early morning bouncy castle. Unfortunately it meant that these handy inflatables didn't last for long, despite their cost, so Mrs Rippers decided I needed a more sturdy sleeping place.
She pointed out on the Argos website that there was a fold away chair/bed which would do the trick admirably and ordered it for me straight away. It arrived at the Fat Kid's a couple of days later and is, indeed, comfy with the added advantage that it doesn't deflate in the night, leaving you lying on a hard, uncomfortable floor.
The down side? As the Fat Kid put it last night "That is probably the smallest bed in the world". Still, as long as I lie with my legs and arms close to my sides (a position much easier to adopt with the new ironed jim jams) then I can generally manage a more comfortable night's sleep.
Bad news on the jobs front for myself and everyone who helps put together the Welsh edition at the Screws. Like elsewhere, we have been hit by cutbacks (Wow, it's only a couple of days since David Cam-moron came to power). The outcome is that the edition going to the principality has been cut and I now find myself as a minister without portfolio. Hopefully something will be sorted out to keep me in the lifestyle to which I am accustomed, and there are various irons in the fire. I wish everyone else affected the best of luck too because the last year has been a real blast, and I've loved every minute of it.
Only joking, of course. Myself and Amanda get on famously, and it has to be said she has been a great help to Mrs Rippers and myself, particularly in terms of ironing all my shirts, t shirts (something I have rarely done) and even my jim jams (which NEVER used to happen). It means, though, that at least I find myself able to lie rigidly in my new fold-up bed at the Fat Kid's.
Amanda's quiet, persuasive ways have definitely kick-started me into a few other things, and I have now re-arranged the kitchen completely so that there is room for the new bottle sterilizer and all things associated with baby feeding in the kitchen.
You may recall that during the reign of Ridsdale (our rather unwanted, furry house guest) we had to move everything out of the kitchen cabinets and put them into various tins and things on the work tops. It meant there was barely room to swing a rat, let alone cat, but the disappearance of the troublesome critter has meant the plan was due a re-think.
Interestingly, though, when I went through all the various tins, plastic containers and boxes I uncovered a huge supply of biscuits. In fact, in some of them there was just one pack of biccies or a couple of bars of chocolate.
I didn't realise that Mrs R's hoarding capacity for sweet things was so great and once re-arranged I found that I now have complete access to my kitchen work surfaces without having to throw away any of my lovely wife's hidden treats.
Talking of beds, I got a wee bit distressed at turning up in Shoeburyness every week to find that the Vin Monster and Big Boy had taken to using my blow-up bed as an early morning bouncy castle. Unfortunately it meant that these handy inflatables didn't last for long, despite their cost, so Mrs Rippers decided I needed a more sturdy sleeping place.
She pointed out on the Argos website that there was a fold away chair/bed which would do the trick admirably and ordered it for me straight away. It arrived at the Fat Kid's a couple of days later and is, indeed, comfy with the added advantage that it doesn't deflate in the night, leaving you lying on a hard, uncomfortable floor.
The down side? As the Fat Kid put it last night "That is probably the smallest bed in the world". Still, as long as I lie with my legs and arms close to my sides (a position much easier to adopt with the new ironed jim jams) then I can generally manage a more comfortable night's sleep.
Bad news on the jobs front for myself and everyone who helps put together the Welsh edition at the Screws. Like elsewhere, we have been hit by cutbacks (Wow, it's only a couple of days since David Cam-moron came to power). The outcome is that the edition going to the principality has been cut and I now find myself as a minister without portfolio. Hopefully something will be sorted out to keep me in the lifestyle to which I am accustomed, and there are various irons in the fire. I wish everyone else affected the best of luck too because the last year has been a real blast, and I've loved every minute of it.
Friday, May 07, 2010
Cooking with Jean Christophe
Well, there goes the election and what a damp squib it all was. Thinking back to that glorious night in 1997 when all the bigwigs like Michael Portillo and Chris Patten were booted out of office, I was quite looking forward to sitting in front of the TV and watching the story unfold.
Unfortunately, aided by a few glasses of beer, I never really got started. In fact, the results coming in were so slow that when I dozed off after over three hours of watching the scoreline read: Labour 3 Tories 0. Imagine my surprise then when I woke up and found out that comeback kid Cameron had turned it around and was leading by a significant margin, though not significant enough to form a majority Tory government, thank goodness. I don't think I could stand the sleazy richkids in power again, and one look at that snooty toff from Richmond, who just happens to be a millionaire (or is it billionaire) thanks to Daddy's money, was enough to leave me with my head buried back under the pillow.
Still, there is lot more to come.
Talking about damp squibs, I had some fun with some damp squids on Wednesday (see what I did there?). Mrs Rippers bought me a day's course at the Jean Christophe Novelli academy and, though the big man himself failed to make an appearance, we were told the patter of tiny feet upstairs was his nipper running around.
I must admit it was a pretty fun day. Situated at a farmhouse at a place called Tea Green just outside Luton, there were 16 of us at the Novelli Academy to experience there "Beside the Seaside" course advising us on various things involving fish.
The theme seemed to be very much the same. Of the 16, 13 of us were blokes and nearly all of us had been bought the course as "presents" by a female member of the family. I guess it was a gentle hint that they are becoming sick to death of various meat-based chillis and curries (hot, extra hot, eye-wateringly hot etc).
My fellow students did a wide range of jobs - There was a policeman and a solicitor for starters.
Well, no, actually there was a very nice crab bisque for starters, but you know what I am saying.
Of course, my chosen profession created some interest, particularly when I was struggling to open up an Oyster Shell and one wag commented: "I didn't think you journalists ever had trouble sticking the knife in!"
Anyway, we went on to debone a mackerel, prepare a crab, fry said mackerel, try raw Oysters and caviar, and prepare a barbecued squid with prawn, asparagus and tomato. All through the day we snacked and I must admit by the time it was over at about 4.50pm I was pretty damn full. Still, hopefully some of the recipes will be forwarded to me and I will be able to try out my new creations on Mrs Rippers and maybe her mum Amanda, too, who is staying at our bijou cottage for a few days. I'm in desperate need of recipes at the mo, so don't be surprised to see some appearing on here, too.
Unfortunately, aided by a few glasses of beer, I never really got started. In fact, the results coming in were so slow that when I dozed off after over three hours of watching the scoreline read: Labour 3 Tories 0. Imagine my surprise then when I woke up and found out that comeback kid Cameron had turned it around and was leading by a significant margin, though not significant enough to form a majority Tory government, thank goodness. I don't think I could stand the sleazy richkids in power again, and one look at that snooty toff from Richmond, who just happens to be a millionaire (or is it billionaire) thanks to Daddy's money, was enough to leave me with my head buried back under the pillow.
Still, there is lot more to come.
Talking about damp squibs, I had some fun with some damp squids on Wednesday (see what I did there?). Mrs Rippers bought me a day's course at the Jean Christophe Novelli academy and, though the big man himself failed to make an appearance, we were told the patter of tiny feet upstairs was his nipper running around.
I must admit it was a pretty fun day. Situated at a farmhouse at a place called Tea Green just outside Luton, there were 16 of us at the Novelli Academy to experience there "Beside the Seaside" course advising us on various things involving fish.
The theme seemed to be very much the same. Of the 16, 13 of us were blokes and nearly all of us had been bought the course as "presents" by a female member of the family. I guess it was a gentle hint that they are becoming sick to death of various meat-based chillis and curries (hot, extra hot, eye-wateringly hot etc).
My fellow students did a wide range of jobs - There was a policeman and a solicitor for starters.
Well, no, actually there was a very nice crab bisque for starters, but you know what I am saying.
Of course, my chosen profession created some interest, particularly when I was struggling to open up an Oyster Shell and one wag commented: "I didn't think you journalists ever had trouble sticking the knife in!"
Anyway, we went on to debone a mackerel, prepare a crab, fry said mackerel, try raw Oysters and caviar, and prepare a barbecued squid with prawn, asparagus and tomato. All through the day we snacked and I must admit by the time it was over at about 4.50pm I was pretty damn full. Still, hopefully some of the recipes will be forwarded to me and I will be able to try out my new creations on Mrs Rippers and maybe her mum Amanda, too, who is staying at our bijou cottage for a few days. I'm in desperate need of recipes at the mo, so don't be surprised to see some appearing on here, too.
Thursday, May 06, 2010
All le rage
It's difficult to believe it, but Mrs Rippers and I were celebrating our first wedding anniversary this weekend. A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since then - in fact, it has been a bit of a tidal wave.
We have been on honeymoon to Cuba, moved in together in our little country cottage in Bristol, I've started a new job on the Screws and Mrs R has somehow managed to get herself with child. Amazing.
I think it had all got to her a bit and she had to take two weeks off because she was practically exhausted, but things have improved recently and it meant we could get away for an anniversary break.
I booked us into the Savill Court Hotel near Egham, Surrey. When I mentioned the destination of our anniversary break there were a few chuckles from some of the crew at the Screws, expecting me to announce I was whisking her off to Paris or somewhere. "Egham?" asked cockney Cliff, unable to surprise the smile on his face.
I am delighted to report, however, that it was an absolutely fantastic break. The tree-lined driveway led to a very nice country house in acres of grounds, and when we went for a wander we ended up taking in the air at Windsor Great Park just down the road. We must have walked about two miles, not bad for my pregnant wife though she was struggling a bit at the end and desperate for somewhere to sit down. It was rather bracing, too, the lovely warm weather having disappeared, typically, just before we went away.
After our walk we got dressed and headed into Egham for a meal at the Brasserie Gerard. These are a French chain of restaurants and are very nice indeed in a bistro sort of way. A bit pricey maybe but we certainly enjoyed our meals. Mrs Rippers had a demi poulet (or half a chicken for those Anglophiles with little grasp of the French language) while I enjoyed boeuf bourginon.
As a starter I had some lovely battered squid with tartare sauce while Mrs R tucked into a very nice cream of mushroom soup.
A pleasant change.
The following day I suddenly became aware of a new phenomenon. Apparently pregnancy, as well as causing cravings, cramps, insomnia and other minor irritations, also causes road rage. True.
After swimming 64 lengths of the hotel pool we set off for Runnymede, which was just down the road. It seemed appropriate to visit the home of democracy in the week of the general election and we had a short walk to the place commemorating where the Magna Carta was signed.
Then, after an aborted trip to Windsor where the cars queued around the block, we decided to visit Oxford.
By this stage Mrs Rippers had control of Ramsey and it was then that the trouble ensued. We were trying to manouevre our way through a packed long-stay car park when Mrs R politely allowed a woman to pull out in front of us.
But rather than drive on she immediately reversed into the parking space we had our eye on. Well, how dare she! I saw the red mist glaze over my mild-mannered wife's eyes and then, having finally discovered where the horn was, she gave five sharp blasts and shook her fist Tim Henman style.
I was a little bit perturbed (and scared) I had to admit, and tried to talk her down. But as we drove around the corner there was another car blocking our path. Now Ramsey might be a small car, but the gap between the car and a parked van on the right was no way big enough for him to go through. But, revving her engine in the style of a female Jenson Button, she lined up the gap and started to move forward. "No, no," I screamed for dear life, "What the hell are you doing?" Fortunately she stopped just in time as my knuckles went white holding on to the handle above the passenger door.
After that little episode I needed a stiff drink. Unfortunately, I couldn't have one because I fully intended to take over behind the wheel for the rest of the journey back to Bristol. So instead I settled for an orange juice in the Morse Bar of the Randolph Hotel, so called because apparently Inspector Morse himself used to drink there (though I can't recall seeing an episode where that was the case). There were plenty of pictures of John Thaw on the walls though, and we took the chance of an impromptu photo shoot ourselves.
A splendid day, but a salient warning. Don't attempt to park in a space if the car behind you is being driven by Mrs Rippers.
We have been on honeymoon to Cuba, moved in together in our little country cottage in Bristol, I've started a new job on the Screws and Mrs R has somehow managed to get herself with child. Amazing.
I think it had all got to her a bit and she had to take two weeks off because she was practically exhausted, but things have improved recently and it meant we could get away for an anniversary break.
I booked us into the Savill Court Hotel near Egham, Surrey. When I mentioned the destination of our anniversary break there were a few chuckles from some of the crew at the Screws, expecting me to announce I was whisking her off to Paris or somewhere. "Egham?" asked cockney Cliff, unable to surprise the smile on his face.
I am delighted to report, however, that it was an absolutely fantastic break. The tree-lined driveway led to a very nice country house in acres of grounds, and when we went for a wander we ended up taking in the air at Windsor Great Park just down the road. We must have walked about two miles, not bad for my pregnant wife though she was struggling a bit at the end and desperate for somewhere to sit down. It was rather bracing, too, the lovely warm weather having disappeared, typically, just before we went away.
After our walk we got dressed and headed into Egham for a meal at the Brasserie Gerard. These are a French chain of restaurants and are very nice indeed in a bistro sort of way. A bit pricey maybe but we certainly enjoyed our meals. Mrs Rippers had a demi poulet (or half a chicken for those Anglophiles with little grasp of the French language) while I enjoyed boeuf bourginon.
As a starter I had some lovely battered squid with tartare sauce while Mrs R tucked into a very nice cream of mushroom soup.
A pleasant change.
The following day I suddenly became aware of a new phenomenon. Apparently pregnancy, as well as causing cravings, cramps, insomnia and other minor irritations, also causes road rage. True.
After swimming 64 lengths of the hotel pool we set off for Runnymede, which was just down the road. It seemed appropriate to visit the home of democracy in the week of the general election and we had a short walk to the place commemorating where the Magna Carta was signed.
Then, after an aborted trip to Windsor where the cars queued around the block, we decided to visit Oxford.
By this stage Mrs Rippers had control of Ramsey and it was then that the trouble ensued. We were trying to manouevre our way through a packed long-stay car park when Mrs R politely allowed a woman to pull out in front of us.
But rather than drive on she immediately reversed into the parking space we had our eye on. Well, how dare she! I saw the red mist glaze over my mild-mannered wife's eyes and then, having finally discovered where the horn was, she gave five sharp blasts and shook her fist Tim Henman style.
I was a little bit perturbed (and scared) I had to admit, and tried to talk her down. But as we drove around the corner there was another car blocking our path. Now Ramsey might be a small car, but the gap between the car and a parked van on the right was no way big enough for him to go through. But, revving her engine in the style of a female Jenson Button, she lined up the gap and started to move forward. "No, no," I screamed for dear life, "What the hell are you doing?" Fortunately she stopped just in time as my knuckles went white holding on to the handle above the passenger door.
After that little episode I needed a stiff drink. Unfortunately, I couldn't have one because I fully intended to take over behind the wheel for the rest of the journey back to Bristol. So instead I settled for an orange juice in the Morse Bar of the Randolph Hotel, so called because apparently Inspector Morse himself used to drink there (though I can't recall seeing an episode where that was the case). There were plenty of pictures of John Thaw on the walls though, and we took the chance of an impromptu photo shoot ourselves.
A splendid day, but a salient warning. Don't attempt to park in a space if the car behind you is being driven by Mrs Rippers.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Terror Nova
I spent a very pleasant day in Cardiff, reviving the boozeday Tuesday tradition with the Wonderful Withers of WoS.
Poor old Mrs R has not been very well lately, unable to sleep and having two weeks off work because of exhaustion. So, as you would expect, I stayed around to comfort and look after her. Or, more to the point, I jumped in my car Ramsey, hurtled over the bridge, and went on the razz with the wonderful one.
This is our first anniversary week and I can't believe that this has come about so quickly. It only seemed right that I should celebrate the build up with the wonderful one, my best man, while my car was being given a good overhaul by mechanic Charlie.
Having dropped off Ramsey, I wandered into town and then went around to drop my stuff off at Withers' new gaffe. Interesting. It is a flat on the Taff Embankment in a less than salubrious part of Grangetown in Cardiff. Although the flat is very amenable the wonderful one is a bit worried about the people with whom he co-habits.
On the bottom floor there are four able-bodied lads, all aged around the early 20s, who seem to spend all their time sitting on the green opposite, chilling out in deck chairs and juggling with empty vodka bottles. bizarre.
Withers is convinced they are part of the witness protection scheme, but I'm not so sure. They all have rather posh motors, but seem to do nothing in the way of work to justify them. Make your own mind up.
Still, as long as the Wonderful One is happy with his lot.
From his flat we walked down to Cardiff Bay where an hour outside in the sun at the Ely Jenkins pub resulted in a big red blotch forming on the Wonderful One's shaved pate. As good as any holiday, he assured me, as we then moved around to the Terra Nova to have lunch.
Lunch? That was a laugh. It almost finished up as a late night supper.
The girl at the bar reminded me of a Monty Python character manning the infamous cheese shop. "No haven't got any of that", "No, that's off", "Oh yeah we have got that ... oh sorry, the cat has just eaten it".
Eventually, having settled for cheese burgers they finally arrived and very tasty they were, too. But by then the sun had gone in and I was losing the will to live.
At that moment Shutts turned up and perhaps the increasing shadows were down to the fact he loomed over us, insisted he was looking forward to a few cheeky ones, then knocked back a diet coke before dropping us off in town.
It was off then to the new old O'Neills where I have to say the standard of barmaid has slipped somewhat. One of them managed to fill a glass full of foam before assuring me: "It will settle". No chance.
I insisted on a refill and finally the Wonderful One got his deserved pint.
We were then joined by the Fugitive and after a couple of beers we moved around the corner to look for Las Iguanas. Apparently, it no longer exists.
The boozer standing in its place was ok, and we had a pint before moving inside where a very pleasant girl waited our table.
A little while later I heard her telling the barman about how her brother worked as a reporter on the Sun in the United States.
There followed a string of invective by him about tabloid journos which forced me to intervene very sharply, telling him he didn't have a clue what he was talking about. I fell just short of saying "Do you know who I am?" Still, he looked pretty chastised and I got a blue bottle key ring in the process.
One of my colleague, Mr Jolly, rents out houses and has a similar problem to mine. He is experiencing visits from grey, hairy rodents with long tails.
His immediate boss, chief sub Jonesy, isn't too happy, though. Apparently Jolly named his first rat Jonesy.
Jolly's latest rat, who has sadly departed this mortal coil, also has a newsworthy name.
We have a Celtic-supporting, Glasgow-based scribe called Bob in the office, and Jolly decided his second rodent should take his name.
Today we hear that both Jonesy and Bob got caught in traps and died a painful death.
Oh dear!
Poor old Mrs R has not been very well lately, unable to sleep and having two weeks off work because of exhaustion. So, as you would expect, I stayed around to comfort and look after her. Or, more to the point, I jumped in my car Ramsey, hurtled over the bridge, and went on the razz with the wonderful one.
This is our first anniversary week and I can't believe that this has come about so quickly. It only seemed right that I should celebrate the build up with the wonderful one, my best man, while my car was being given a good overhaul by mechanic Charlie.
Having dropped off Ramsey, I wandered into town and then went around to drop my stuff off at Withers' new gaffe. Interesting. It is a flat on the Taff Embankment in a less than salubrious part of Grangetown in Cardiff. Although the flat is very amenable the wonderful one is a bit worried about the people with whom he co-habits.
On the bottom floor there are four able-bodied lads, all aged around the early 20s, who seem to spend all their time sitting on the green opposite, chilling out in deck chairs and juggling with empty vodka bottles. bizarre.
Withers is convinced they are part of the witness protection scheme, but I'm not so sure. They all have rather posh motors, but seem to do nothing in the way of work to justify them. Make your own mind up.
Still, as long as the Wonderful One is happy with his lot.
From his flat we walked down to Cardiff Bay where an hour outside in the sun at the Ely Jenkins pub resulted in a big red blotch forming on the Wonderful One's shaved pate. As good as any holiday, he assured me, as we then moved around to the Terra Nova to have lunch.
Lunch? That was a laugh. It almost finished up as a late night supper.
The girl at the bar reminded me of a Monty Python character manning the infamous cheese shop. "No haven't got any of that", "No, that's off", "Oh yeah we have got that ... oh sorry, the cat has just eaten it".
Eventually, having settled for cheese burgers they finally arrived and very tasty they were, too. But by then the sun had gone in and I was losing the will to live.
At that moment Shutts turned up and perhaps the increasing shadows were down to the fact he loomed over us, insisted he was looking forward to a few cheeky ones, then knocked back a diet coke before dropping us off in town.
It was off then to the new old O'Neills where I have to say the standard of barmaid has slipped somewhat. One of them managed to fill a glass full of foam before assuring me: "It will settle". No chance.
I insisted on a refill and finally the Wonderful One got his deserved pint.
We were then joined by the Fugitive and after a couple of beers we moved around the corner to look for Las Iguanas. Apparently, it no longer exists.
The boozer standing in its place was ok, and we had a pint before moving inside where a very pleasant girl waited our table.
A little while later I heard her telling the barman about how her brother worked as a reporter on the Sun in the United States.
There followed a string of invective by him about tabloid journos which forced me to intervene very sharply, telling him he didn't have a clue what he was talking about. I fell just short of saying "Do you know who I am?" Still, he looked pretty chastised and I got a blue bottle key ring in the process.
One of my colleague, Mr Jolly, rents out houses and has a similar problem to mine. He is experiencing visits from grey, hairy rodents with long tails.
His immediate boss, chief sub Jonesy, isn't too happy, though. Apparently Jolly named his first rat Jonesy.
Jolly's latest rat, who has sadly departed this mortal coil, also has a newsworthy name.
We have a Celtic-supporting, Glasgow-based scribe called Bob in the office, and Jolly decided his second rodent should take his name.
Today we hear that both Jonesy and Bob got caught in traps and died a painful death.
Oh dear!
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Picnic at the zoo
I'm beginning to think that I am in the middle of some biblical moment.
First there was the infestation of slugs, then the appearance of the "ghost" rat which no amount of poison, traps etc has managed to solve.
Now, when Mrs Rippers and I wandered into our kitchen the other day, we found that there was a "plague" of black flies.
Either they have arrived because Ridsdale has departed from this mortal coil and they were feasting on his remains, or some higher being decides our life is far too comfortable at the moment.
To be fair, these flies are the most sluggish, lazy flying things I have ever encountered. They just flop about like the wonderful Withers after a boozy session, waiting to be swatted or squirted with some dire insecticide.
I opened the back door the other day and gave them a whole two hours to find their escape route... yet one was still hanging about when I returned. The solution? A firm tap with a recent Wales on Sunday. Knew it would be good for something.
Well after all the Buggy-fuss I can now reveal we are the proud owners of a baby mobile which cost us a little under £200, with car seat included. Result! Particularly as Mrs Rippers was keen to snap up a "bargain" for a little under £500 not long ago only for me to intervene with help from the Fat Kid.
Well, the Fat Kid came down on Saturday to help out with the buggy hunt and it was her expert advice that swung the deal. And after saving so much money I rewarded her, the vin monster and the big boy with a day out at Bristol Zoo.
Pretty expensive, to be honest, and for a place that carries the logo of an elephant on every sign for miles around I found it a mite strange that they don't even have any on site. At least I think they don't, unless they were hiding behind the giant fruit bats we came across hanging outside their cage.
While there we had a picnic and when we returned in the evening I also got the Fat Kid a bottle of rose wine. Amazingly, she managed to get rather squiffy on two glasses, though I have to admit they were pretty big glasses.
Poor old Mrs Rippers has been suffering from insomnia. She can't get to sleep for love nor money and was in such a state on Tuesday that the doc gave her a week off work to recover.
Not only that, but the Fat Kid has a severe case of laryngitis and is feeling very sorry for herself.
For the rest of us, it's some welcome peace from her shouting at the boys about their ability to cover the carpet in choco pops.
First there was the infestation of slugs, then the appearance of the "ghost" rat which no amount of poison, traps etc has managed to solve.
Now, when Mrs Rippers and I wandered into our kitchen the other day, we found that there was a "plague" of black flies.
Either they have arrived because Ridsdale has departed from this mortal coil and they were feasting on his remains, or some higher being decides our life is far too comfortable at the moment.
To be fair, these flies are the most sluggish, lazy flying things I have ever encountered. They just flop about like the wonderful Withers after a boozy session, waiting to be swatted or squirted with some dire insecticide.
I opened the back door the other day and gave them a whole two hours to find their escape route... yet one was still hanging about when I returned. The solution? A firm tap with a recent Wales on Sunday. Knew it would be good for something.
Well after all the Buggy-fuss I can now reveal we are the proud owners of a baby mobile which cost us a little under £200, with car seat included. Result! Particularly as Mrs Rippers was keen to snap up a "bargain" for a little under £500 not long ago only for me to intervene with help from the Fat Kid.
Well, the Fat Kid came down on Saturday to help out with the buggy hunt and it was her expert advice that swung the deal. And after saving so much money I rewarded her, the vin monster and the big boy with a day out at Bristol Zoo.
Pretty expensive, to be honest, and for a place that carries the logo of an elephant on every sign for miles around I found it a mite strange that they don't even have any on site. At least I think they don't, unless they were hiding behind the giant fruit bats we came across hanging outside their cage.
While there we had a picnic and when we returned in the evening I also got the Fat Kid a bottle of rose wine. Amazingly, she managed to get rather squiffy on two glasses, though I have to admit they were pretty big glasses.
Poor old Mrs Rippers has been suffering from insomnia. She can't get to sleep for love nor money and was in such a state on Tuesday that the doc gave her a week off work to recover.
Not only that, but the Fat Kid has a severe case of laryngitis and is feeling very sorry for herself.
For the rest of us, it's some welcome peace from her shouting at the boys about their ability to cover the carpet in choco pops.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Easy meat
Well, having seen my beloved Gas get completely annihilated by Southampton 5-1 on Tuesday (total revenge for our beating them 3-2 at St Mary's) I am glad to say there was one little bit of compensation on the horizon.
I usually have a bet on the outcome with my colleague in crime, sports news ed Dykesy, but this time we decided to do things a bit differently.
It started off as a £5 bet but, always one for an opportunity when it comes to throwing his money away, Dykesy decided that we should do things a bit differently. "I know, I'll bet that your lot win and you bet that my lot win. Then, the loser won't be so disappointed."
Good idea, and I am still looking for the catch, to be perfectly honest, particularly when as the week wore on he kept upping the stakes. I thought maybe he knew that Saints boss Alan Pardew was going to have to play his Under 15 side against us (mind you, they probably cost a few mill to put together - after all, it's the youth set up that discovered Theo Walcott and Gareth Bale).
Eventually we settled on £17, the vastly inflated cost of my admission to the derelict bombsite known as the Mem.
After that it was down to my old hero, Rickie Lambert - the man we sold and never replaced at the start of the season - to score the first two Saints goals as we were roasted on the pitch.
Leaving the ground at the bitter end at least I had the compensation of thinking: "Dykesy, you tw@t!"
A wit next to me put his finger on the reason for our defeat. "I blame the ball boys," he said. "They kept getting the ball back too quickly!"
Ramsey needed an overhaul on Monday so I paid a visit to my old mate Charlie in Cardiff. Having a few hours to kill I wondered what on earth I was going to do. I bought a £3 all-day bus travel pass and took a trip into the centre of town, fully intending to go swimming. The bus system has all changed in Cardiff and it now means that rather than get a trip straight to the International Swimming Pool on the No 8 or 9 I now had to get a 38 or 39 into town and change buses in the centre.
While my journey progressed I noticed that Glamorgan were playing their first county championship game at Sophia Gardens and that Monty Panesar was in the Sussex team. It was a no brainer. I quickly changed my plans and hot-footed it to the Swalec Stadium to watch a morning's cricket in the beautiful spring sunshine.
When Charlie called later in the day to ask if I could collect the car it all seemed a simple matter. Return to the bus stop, catch the bus back to his garage, pick up the car, hand over the cash and toddle off back over the bridge.
I hadn't counted on the ability of Cardiff Council and Cardiff Bus to cause complete traffic chaos.
I went to all the bus stops I knew where the bus might pick me up and take me back - including the one across the road from where I had alighted earlier. No chance.
I ended up walking a mile around Cardiff City centre without finding the appropriate stop or any pointers as to where the bus might actually pick up.
In the end I walked, fuming and rather hot and sweaty, back to Charlie's garage having been unable to use my All Day pass. Thanks Cardiff Council, thanks Cardiff Bus.
As Woody would say: What a bunch of numpties!
I usually have a bet on the outcome with my colleague in crime, sports news ed Dykesy, but this time we decided to do things a bit differently.
It started off as a £5 bet but, always one for an opportunity when it comes to throwing his money away, Dykesy decided that we should do things a bit differently. "I know, I'll bet that your lot win and you bet that my lot win. Then, the loser won't be so disappointed."
Good idea, and I am still looking for the catch, to be perfectly honest, particularly when as the week wore on he kept upping the stakes. I thought maybe he knew that Saints boss Alan Pardew was going to have to play his Under 15 side against us (mind you, they probably cost a few mill to put together - after all, it's the youth set up that discovered Theo Walcott and Gareth Bale).
Eventually we settled on £17, the vastly inflated cost of my admission to the derelict bombsite known as the Mem.
After that it was down to my old hero, Rickie Lambert - the man we sold and never replaced at the start of the season - to score the first two Saints goals as we were roasted on the pitch.
Leaving the ground at the bitter end at least I had the compensation of thinking: "Dykesy, you tw@t!"
A wit next to me put his finger on the reason for our defeat. "I blame the ball boys," he said. "They kept getting the ball back too quickly!"
Ramsey needed an overhaul on Monday so I paid a visit to my old mate Charlie in Cardiff. Having a few hours to kill I wondered what on earth I was going to do. I bought a £3 all-day bus travel pass and took a trip into the centre of town, fully intending to go swimming. The bus system has all changed in Cardiff and it now means that rather than get a trip straight to the International Swimming Pool on the No 8 or 9 I now had to get a 38 or 39 into town and change buses in the centre.
While my journey progressed I noticed that Glamorgan were playing their first county championship game at Sophia Gardens and that Monty Panesar was in the Sussex team. It was a no brainer. I quickly changed my plans and hot-footed it to the Swalec Stadium to watch a morning's cricket in the beautiful spring sunshine.
When Charlie called later in the day to ask if I could collect the car it all seemed a simple matter. Return to the bus stop, catch the bus back to his garage, pick up the car, hand over the cash and toddle off back over the bridge.
I hadn't counted on the ability of Cardiff Council and Cardiff Bus to cause complete traffic chaos.
I went to all the bus stops I knew where the bus might pick me up and take me back - including the one across the road from where I had alighted earlier. No chance.
I ended up walking a mile around Cardiff City centre without finding the appropriate stop or any pointers as to where the bus might actually pick up.
In the end I walked, fuming and rather hot and sweaty, back to Charlie's garage having been unable to use my All Day pass. Thanks Cardiff Council, thanks Cardiff Bus.
As Woody would say: What a bunch of numpties!
Friday, April 09, 2010
Marlin in green pepper and tomato sauce
Our chief sports sub Jonesy has been looking for a new career that will make him a pot load of money. His search has been going on for years, so I am reliably informed.
Every week he will come in, like some latter-day Yosser Hughes of Boys from the Blackstuff fame, and announce: "I could do that... go on Gissa job."
Recent ideas that have come from the fertile area of his mind reserved for making a quick buck have included taking over our local hostelry (or dive as we like to call it) and turning it into a trendy wine bar and forming our own CSI team. His idea was CSI Wapping and he gave certain members of the staff jobs in his new "regime", pronouncing that Critch would be the explosive expert because he would like to "blow things up".
All very amusing but it took a new twist in the Cape Horner on Thursday night when he arrived shortly after Screws' celebrity lawyer Tom Crony joined our motley crew. Taking a quick peak at what the legal eagle was inbibing, Jonesy quickly declared he would have a pint of IPA, too.
Now, for a man who normally quaffs lager, this was a great break with tradition, and it soon dawned on us that he was actually intending to become a Crony clone.
All became clear when he turned to Critch, who is in the middle of house hunting in the Essex countryside, and announced: "I know Critch... I'll do your conveyancing. I could be a lawyer, honestly. I could do that... gissa job!"
None of us were entirely convinced, particularly the ambushed Critch.
The other day Mrs Rippers put her head round the door with a very concerned look on her face.
"Come here," she said.
"What's wrong?" I asked, but she was staying schtum.
I dropped what I was doing and joined her in the bathroom where it immediately became clear something strange was afoot.
There was this strange buzzing noise, like a drilling sound.
We wondered whether maybe there was a problem with the plumbing, or perhaps someone was attempting to drill there way into our bathroom from outside, a kind of super rat that would make Ridsdale seem merely a slight inconvenience.
As my ears adjusted, though, I was able to track down the source of the sound.
In a little beaker, just above the sink, my wife's vibrating toothbrush was still going strong.
She looked rather sheepish when I showed her the root of the problem.
I've had some marlin steaks in the freezer for some time now. I bought them from a company called Good Taste Foods who come around in a van and sell you all kinds of weird and wonderful products for your freezer.
I purchased a carton of exotic fish, not realising that some of them were not suitable for pregnant ladies - particularly the marlin and swordfish. Hence why they have been sitting in the freezer since then.
No matter, casting around for something for lunch the other day I decided it was high time I cooked the marlin. Finding a recipe on the good old internet, and slightly altering it, I set about the task with gusto.
INGREDIENTS
2 Marlin steaks
half a chopped onion
A chopped green pepper
6 ozs tomato sauce (ketchup)
Half a tin of tomatoes
1 tsp worcestershire sauce
a handful of chilli flakes
TO DO:
Put a tablespoon or so of oil in frying pan
Heat, then fry the onions and green pepper for five minutes.
Add salt and pepper
Add in the tomato sauce and worcestershire sauce and continue cooking for 5 minutes.
Then add the half tin of tomatoes and chilli flakes.
Bring to boil then pour the whole lot over the marlin in an ovenproof dish.
Cook in the oven at gas mark 4 for 15 to 20 minutes.
I had this with some cheese potato wedges with one of those packets you can get by Schwarz's or the like.
Very tasty, quite firm fish. A bit like eating a chewy pork chop. And very nice they were, too.
Every week he will come in, like some latter-day Yosser Hughes of Boys from the Blackstuff fame, and announce: "I could do that... go on Gissa job."
Recent ideas that have come from the fertile area of his mind reserved for making a quick buck have included taking over our local hostelry (or dive as we like to call it) and turning it into a trendy wine bar and forming our own CSI team. His idea was CSI Wapping and he gave certain members of the staff jobs in his new "regime", pronouncing that Critch would be the explosive expert because he would like to "blow things up".
All very amusing but it took a new twist in the Cape Horner on Thursday night when he arrived shortly after Screws' celebrity lawyer Tom Crony joined our motley crew. Taking a quick peak at what the legal eagle was inbibing, Jonesy quickly declared he would have a pint of IPA, too.
Now, for a man who normally quaffs lager, this was a great break with tradition, and it soon dawned on us that he was actually intending to become a Crony clone.
All became clear when he turned to Critch, who is in the middle of house hunting in the Essex countryside, and announced: "I know Critch... I'll do your conveyancing. I could be a lawyer, honestly. I could do that... gissa job!"
None of us were entirely convinced, particularly the ambushed Critch.
The other day Mrs Rippers put her head round the door with a very concerned look on her face.
"Come here," she said.
"What's wrong?" I asked, but she was staying schtum.
I dropped what I was doing and joined her in the bathroom where it immediately became clear something strange was afoot.
There was this strange buzzing noise, like a drilling sound.
We wondered whether maybe there was a problem with the plumbing, or perhaps someone was attempting to drill there way into our bathroom from outside, a kind of super rat that would make Ridsdale seem merely a slight inconvenience.
As my ears adjusted, though, I was able to track down the source of the sound.
In a little beaker, just above the sink, my wife's vibrating toothbrush was still going strong.
She looked rather sheepish when I showed her the root of the problem.
I've had some marlin steaks in the freezer for some time now. I bought them from a company called Good Taste Foods who come around in a van and sell you all kinds of weird and wonderful products for your freezer.
I purchased a carton of exotic fish, not realising that some of them were not suitable for pregnant ladies - particularly the marlin and swordfish. Hence why they have been sitting in the freezer since then.
No matter, casting around for something for lunch the other day I decided it was high time I cooked the marlin. Finding a recipe on the good old internet, and slightly altering it, I set about the task with gusto.
INGREDIENTS
2 Marlin steaks
half a chopped onion
A chopped green pepper
6 ozs tomato sauce (ketchup)
Half a tin of tomatoes
1 tsp worcestershire sauce
a handful of chilli flakes
TO DO:
Put a tablespoon or so of oil in frying pan
Heat, then fry the onions and green pepper for five minutes.
Add salt and pepper
Add in the tomato sauce and worcestershire sauce and continue cooking for 5 minutes.
Then add the half tin of tomatoes and chilli flakes.
Bring to boil then pour the whole lot over the marlin in an ovenproof dish.
Cook in the oven at gas mark 4 for 15 to 20 minutes.
I had this with some cheese potato wedges with one of those packets you can get by Schwarz's or the like.
Very tasty, quite firm fish. A bit like eating a chewy pork chop. And very nice they were, too.
Tuesday, April 06, 2010
Dykesy's law
My colleague Dykesy on the Screws has some very strange ways about him and one is the way he comes up with some rather bizarre decrees that the rest of us have to follow. Why we follow them I have absolutely no idea, because we really should just ignore them.
Nevertheless, rather like an indoctrinated sect, we religiously follow the rules of our news editor, which are known in these parts as Dykesy's law.
And one of these strange decrees is that once the clocks have gone forward and British summertime commences that it is illegal to wear a big winter coat to work.
Now, bearing in mind global warming and the fact that only last week there was snow falling in the northern parts of the country this can be quite a chore. Plus the fact on occasion the quaint little phrase April Showers can actually mean a torrent, nay deluge, of rain. Summertime in these parts is not quite the same as it might be in, say, Australia or on the Costa Brava.
Last week though the mighty one, having given his annual sermon and ripped into anyone who wore anything even resembling warm outdoor clothing, was hoisted by his own petard.
Not having past his driving test, he arrived at work after a particularly arduous journey courtesy of our pretty unpredictable public transport system, cursing and muttering under his breath.
Having had to wait on cold platforms for an indeterminate period, and then having to trudge through London's streets during a downpour, the inclement "Spring" weather had left him with wet socks and a chill permeating every bone in his body.
One wonders whether the law may be repealed in the near future.
When you are swimming length after length of the local pool there isn't really much to think about, so you tend to find your mind wandering. This happened to me as I tried to work off some of the Easter excesses this morning.
Midway through my session I began to think about the impending birth of my second child and the things we might encounter as he or she grows into a teenager. And somehow I hit upon the worst case scenario.
What if, I wondered to myself, my son or daughter came in one day and decided to have one of those "honest" conversations? Would it go something like this?
"Hi mum, dad. There is something I have got to tell you."
Both Mrs R and myself, though obviously being filled with trepidation, would put on a united front. We would sit our offspring down at the table, turn off our phones, and ask: "Of course, dear, what is it?"
"Well, for some time now I have been hiding a secret from you but have decided to come clean. I don't really know how to tell you this but... I am a sh**head."
Can you imagine it? All that time we had been dropping off the youngster, believing them to be going to a convention of the gay/lesbian rights group, they had actually been sneaking down to Ashton Gate to see the team whose name we dare not mention.
Awful... simply awful.
Nevertheless, rather like an indoctrinated sect, we religiously follow the rules of our news editor, which are known in these parts as Dykesy's law.
And one of these strange decrees is that once the clocks have gone forward and British summertime commences that it is illegal to wear a big winter coat to work.
Now, bearing in mind global warming and the fact that only last week there was snow falling in the northern parts of the country this can be quite a chore. Plus the fact on occasion the quaint little phrase April Showers can actually mean a torrent, nay deluge, of rain. Summertime in these parts is not quite the same as it might be in, say, Australia or on the Costa Brava.
Last week though the mighty one, having given his annual sermon and ripped into anyone who wore anything even resembling warm outdoor clothing, was hoisted by his own petard.
Not having past his driving test, he arrived at work after a particularly arduous journey courtesy of our pretty unpredictable public transport system, cursing and muttering under his breath.
Having had to wait on cold platforms for an indeterminate period, and then having to trudge through London's streets during a downpour, the inclement "Spring" weather had left him with wet socks and a chill permeating every bone in his body.
One wonders whether the law may be repealed in the near future.
When you are swimming length after length of the local pool there isn't really much to think about, so you tend to find your mind wandering. This happened to me as I tried to work off some of the Easter excesses this morning.
Midway through my session I began to think about the impending birth of my second child and the things we might encounter as he or she grows into a teenager. And somehow I hit upon the worst case scenario.
What if, I wondered to myself, my son or daughter came in one day and decided to have one of those "honest" conversations? Would it go something like this?
"Hi mum, dad. There is something I have got to tell you."
Both Mrs R and myself, though obviously being filled with trepidation, would put on a united front. We would sit our offspring down at the table, turn off our phones, and ask: "Of course, dear, what is it?"
"Well, for some time now I have been hiding a secret from you but have decided to come clean. I don't really know how to tell you this but... I am a sh**head."
Can you imagine it? All that time we had been dropping off the youngster, believing them to be going to a convention of the gay/lesbian rights group, they had actually been sneaking down to Ashton Gate to see the team whose name we dare not mention.
Awful... simply awful.
Friday, April 02, 2010
Market fodder
I joined my old pal Stu and a few of his drinking buddies for a trip around Smithfield market last night. I must admit I had never been to the area before but I must say it is a pretty decent place for a pub crawl.
We started off in a boozer called the Rising Sun where the ale drinkers among us were delighted to find Sam Smith's retailing at less than £2 a pint. It meant standing in a tight corner by the dart board as the place was rammed with medical students from nearby St Barts, but pretty soon the booze was flowing.
Stu's mates were a lively crew. I'd met Chris Holmes (a self-proclaimed Cardiff City fan) before, but it was a pleasure to get to know Hughesy, the defence correspondent from the Daily Mirror, and one of the Sun news subs, Joel.
Eventually my ageing legs got the better of me and I persuaded my associates to move on to another boozer called the Hand and Shears and, to my delight, it was here that we found seats around a small table and settled in for the night.
Unfortunately the clock soon ticked around to 11.30 and we were sent on our merry way to find a taxi. Only, no one really fancied going home. Thankfully there was a late opening hostelry on the other side of the market and we sneaked in there for a chat about the merits of Quintin Tarrantino and a few more "scoops", as a pint of alcohol seems to be referred to up here.
At this point the seal had been well and truly broken and I moved into the dark recesses of the place to find the toilet. This is where everything seemed to go a bit surreal.
Behind a curtain I found a door marked gentlemen and waded into a pitch black room which seemed to have a hot-air blower giving out excrutiating warmth from a corner. I wasn't about to stop around long, having no idea what my surroundings looked like. I am guessing, therefore, that in daylight the room resembled "the worst toilet in the world" from the movie Trainspotting.
I didn't stop around for long, though, regaling the tale of the strange loo to my colleagues.
Strange, then, that when they in turn had to pay a visit they returned later to say they had no idea what I was talking about. The room was reasonably lit, albeit with candles, and relatively clean.
When I returned a good while later I suddenly realised my mistake. I was either completely blind to my surroundings or someone with a sense of humour had removed the sign which said: "These toilets are out of order, please use the ones opposite." Ho hum.
On evenings like this there is one equation that inevitably comes true. It is Me plus booze equals lost items. On this occasion my rucksack, containing a change of clothes for work the following day, my mobile phone charger and my blood pressure tablets was nowhere to be seen.
This launched a string of colourful curses.
"Did you leave it back in the Hand and Shears?" asked Stu.
"Yes, I think I must have done," I replied, and set off in search.
Reaching the hostelry a feeling of dread came over me. The back door had a metal grill in front of it and there were no lights on.
I tapped gently at the front door a few times, but it seemed obvious to me that if someone was on the premises they had headed for bed some time ago.
There was nothing for it but to return to our late drinking den and beg Stu, who is well over 6ft, to lend me - 5ft 4ins - a shirt, tie, socks and pants for the following day.
It was then that Joel piped up: "I'm sure you had it on you when you came in."
A few seconds searching proved him correct. The bag was a mere five feet from me, sitting resplendent on a leather sofa.
Phew!
We started off in a boozer called the Rising Sun where the ale drinkers among us were delighted to find Sam Smith's retailing at less than £2 a pint. It meant standing in a tight corner by the dart board as the place was rammed with medical students from nearby St Barts, but pretty soon the booze was flowing.
Stu's mates were a lively crew. I'd met Chris Holmes (a self-proclaimed Cardiff City fan) before, but it was a pleasure to get to know Hughesy, the defence correspondent from the Daily Mirror, and one of the Sun news subs, Joel.
Eventually my ageing legs got the better of me and I persuaded my associates to move on to another boozer called the Hand and Shears and, to my delight, it was here that we found seats around a small table and settled in for the night.
Unfortunately the clock soon ticked around to 11.30 and we were sent on our merry way to find a taxi. Only, no one really fancied going home. Thankfully there was a late opening hostelry on the other side of the market and we sneaked in there for a chat about the merits of Quintin Tarrantino and a few more "scoops", as a pint of alcohol seems to be referred to up here.
At this point the seal had been well and truly broken and I moved into the dark recesses of the place to find the toilet. This is where everything seemed to go a bit surreal.
Behind a curtain I found a door marked gentlemen and waded into a pitch black room which seemed to have a hot-air blower giving out excrutiating warmth from a corner. I wasn't about to stop around long, having no idea what my surroundings looked like. I am guessing, therefore, that in daylight the room resembled "the worst toilet in the world" from the movie Trainspotting.
I didn't stop around for long, though, regaling the tale of the strange loo to my colleagues.
Strange, then, that when they in turn had to pay a visit they returned later to say they had no idea what I was talking about. The room was reasonably lit, albeit with candles, and relatively clean.
When I returned a good while later I suddenly realised my mistake. I was either completely blind to my surroundings or someone with a sense of humour had removed the sign which said: "These toilets are out of order, please use the ones opposite." Ho hum.
On evenings like this there is one equation that inevitably comes true. It is Me plus booze equals lost items. On this occasion my rucksack, containing a change of clothes for work the following day, my mobile phone charger and my blood pressure tablets was nowhere to be seen.
This launched a string of colourful curses.
"Did you leave it back in the Hand and Shears?" asked Stu.
"Yes, I think I must have done," I replied, and set off in search.
Reaching the hostelry a feeling of dread came over me. The back door had a metal grill in front of it and there were no lights on.
I tapped gently at the front door a few times, but it seemed obvious to me that if someone was on the premises they had headed for bed some time ago.
There was nothing for it but to return to our late drinking den and beg Stu, who is well over 6ft, to lend me - 5ft 4ins - a shirt, tie, socks and pants for the following day.
It was then that Joel piped up: "I'm sure you had it on you when you came in."
A few seconds searching proved him correct. The bag was a mere five feet from me, sitting resplendent on a leather sofa.
Phew!
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Say cheese (yuk!)
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!)
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!)
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
