Mlle du Gers just blogged recently about the sheer volume of people who bitch and whine about the UK, ranging from its culinary abilities to the public services, and weather to what to watch on TV. Well, I just spent a very brief day-patient visit in one of our UK hospitals yesterday, and all I can say to such detractors about our NHS is pfiddlesticks. You lot are boring, moaney gits with bugger all else to talk about, I'm sure. My visit (apart from the fact no hospital visit is ever going to be as much fun as, say, a trip to Alton Towers, or a nice day out at Blackpool) was as stress-free as it could have been, and was staffed by an entirely professional, cheerful and considerate group of nurses and doctors (with one particulary nice male nurse's bottom to appreciate, too, which made the whole indignity of being in an operating theatre in a flimsy gown slightly less terrifying, but still - sooooooo not the place to start telling it like it is under anaesthetic, eh?) . I doubt they ever hear much in the way of thanks, but they bloody well should. Through the medium of dance, perhaps... A whole cabaret of showgirls and men in top hats and penguin suits tap-dancing to some great music hall classics should just about do it...
As if to compound the fact my NHS experience was nothing but pleasant, I spoke to my neighbour on returning to the house, and she was telling me about the expenses her family have to pay in basic healthcare in Eire. She then went on to describe the further expenses on daily living that we as UK citizens consider part and parcel of our social rights, and sadly our discussion strayed onto the severe lack of cancer care afforded to Irish citizens in the east of the country. Yes, that's our neighbour, Eire, the Celtic tiger that was not-so-long-ago lauded by the SNP as a major example of what Scotland could look forward to, should we ever become independent from the rest of the UK.
Now there is talk of severe unemployment in Eire, a potential country on the verge of bankruptcy, and much more in the way of doom and gloom. By this reckoning pestilence, famine and rivers of blood are next on the list. Now I'm no genius, but that doesn't look promising for anyone, and regardless of your political preferences, I'm guessing no-one could argue that was caused by Brown's maleovolent hand of doooooooooom... Not even the Tories could blame Brown for that much chaos, as much as they'd like to. Heck, even the bank bosses couldn't get all the blame for that... well, OK, we could at least try...
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Who's feeling sorry now?
So Fred 'The Shred' Goodwin's house and rather nice car got vandalised. Not that I condone violence, should I add. I'm an upstanding citizen and all that. On the other hand.... the only thing funnier than watching the TV anchor trying hard NOT to cheer publicly and go "Whoops! Isn't that a shame?" sarcastically was watching the fine, upstanding citizens of Edinburgh say "Not that I condone violence or anything, but, well, he was kind of asking for it, wasn't he?". Sadly, its only funny because, lets face it, he's our current scapegoat. But when the axes start to fall on RBS jobs, he's still going to be sitting there with his massive pension... he's not getting repossessed, is he? And no amount of vandalism will sort that out.
Even Oxo mum Linda Bellingham got in on the anarchy by encouraging a revolution. On lightweight housewife's staple diet 'Loose Women'. Hardly the beginning of a massive revolt, then. On the other hand, a revolution's all and good as long as uhm, no-one gets hurt and they stay away from me. By all means go for mass anarchy, as long as there's some kind of organisation involved (let's say, via the PTA?), and it's all over by 3.30 so people can collect the kids from school, OK?
Seriously, though, this is Britain. We couln't get anarchic unless there was a timetable, lunchbreak and a cup of tea with a sarnie involved. Perhaps we could court real controversy by... ooh.... I don't know... refusing to queue at the Post Office? Or panic-buying things that would actually be useful in a crisis? Or stoically continuing through snow-storms without letting the capital grind to a halt for three days?
Even Oxo mum Linda Bellingham got in on the anarchy by encouraging a revolution. On lightweight housewife's staple diet 'Loose Women'. Hardly the beginning of a massive revolt, then. On the other hand, a revolution's all and good as long as uhm, no-one gets hurt and they stay away from me. By all means go for mass anarchy, as long as there's some kind of organisation involved (let's say, via the PTA?), and it's all over by 3.30 so people can collect the kids from school, OK?
Seriously, though, this is Britain. We couln't get anarchic unless there was a timetable, lunchbreak and a cup of tea with a sarnie involved. Perhaps we could court real controversy by... ooh.... I don't know... refusing to queue at the Post Office? Or panic-buying things that would actually be useful in a crisis? Or stoically continuing through snow-storms without letting the capital grind to a halt for three days?
Your my idol, baby...
Ah, like some kind of lovelorn teen, I have finally been re-united with the only true source of passion in my life! Yes, it's true... American Idol is back on TV, and I'm crazy in love again. I'm such a sucker for its evil charms, its ability to totally numb the senses (especially hearing) and the way it makes one feel unnaturally euphoric. Holy smoke, I think I must be an Idol addict.
I can't help myself, I really can't. And no, before you have me off to rehab quicker than Amy Winehouse on a trip to 24-hr Asda's to stock up marker pens, cheap cider and Uhu glue, I can categorically deny that it's not Simon's unfathomably high waistband that does it for me, no no no. Nor is it his hair that resembles the bastard offspring of a neatly trimmed toilet brush and an explosion in an 80's shoulder pad factory. It's not Paula's bizarre combination of delusional self-belief that she is somehow still hip and relevant with the youth of today, and her quasi-prophetic allegories ('You sang like a comfy pair of old jeans'; 'You can dance like a magnificent peacock' - really what does that mean?). It's not even Randy's insistence, despite all evidence to the contrary, that the contestants are dogs (well, with some notable exceptions). Nope. No sireee. Neither is it that other girl (the vaguely attractive one) and her rather anodyne, almost terminally coma-inducing bland observations that amount to someone saying 'you sing OK' to every single contestant.
I mean, blimey, you can really tell if someone is utterly crap, because she actually strays from the being zed-inducingly dull zone, and might say something like 'you could do better', which is like the reality TV equivalent of a teacher saying 'I'm very disappointed in your behaviour', after you've deliberately blown up the chemistry lab, and letting you off with a five minute detention. Lets face it peeps, you know that what you really really want her to say, on prime-time US TV is: "You fucking moron. Seriously. You come on this fucking ace A-list TV show, with INTERNATIONAL coverage. That's INTER-FUCKING-NATIONAL, you dick! And you completely and utterly fuck it up by being so shit even Celine Dion would suggest you took singing lessons. That's Celine Dion, for Christs' sake! She can't even order a McFlurry without warbling unintelligably into the speaker-phone. Are you fucking kidding me? You sang (let me borrow Paula's allegories here, please), like a stinking, shit-soaked pair of Levi 501's on a tramp's arse, and you danced like a peacock getting its cock sliced off with a meat cleaver. You've brought shame on yourself, your family, and this fine country of the US-of-A. You should be locked away, in a soundproof cell, for life. And I mean LIFE. Now go away, and never let me see you're fucking hideous face ever again, or I swear I'll cut out your vocal chords with a rusty spoon and eat them, fricaseed with garlic, in front your whole bastard family. Who spawned you? Satan's music teacher? You're a sorry motherfucker, you really are. Go now, and hang yourself before you bring more shame on your family. GO! BEGONE!"
Sadly, the only real commentary that even reaches this level of vitriol is from bog-brush headed Simon, and even Simon isn't rich enough, or arrogant enough to actually brave the potential lawsuits from that kind of outburst. Shame.
Anyway, no. The reason I so wholeheartedly love the glorious American Idol is that, for some unfathomable reason, the calibre of the American is not only cheesier, more musically adept, and more glitzy, but also the advisors and themes and guests are just so much more, well, A-list. Last week was Motown week, and Stevie Wonder played... I mean, who would we get? Lulu? That's not even Motown.
Even the contestants are infinitely better (again, with notable exceptions), and come across as almost professional before they've even started. They get Jennifer Hudson (who didn't even WIN... how?) and we got Gareth Gates (who's only really famous now for shagging Jordan when she was 6 months pregnant with some footballing scumbags child). And for all you American's in the audience that's Jordan the unnaturally large-chested glamour model, not the sweet, innocent squeaky-voiced Jordin Sparks.
Then again, just about every winner since the year dot has churned out a succession of bland, lazy, pop/r'n'b efforts that make Avril Lavigne's lyric-writing almost Shakespearean in quality. Is this the price of fame in the USA? To sound like James Blunt? Is it any wonder that no-one British (and half-decent) ever cracks the American market? And don't you dare tell me about the terminally popular Leona Lewis. She's so very not a shining example of all that is great about UK music. She's a Beyonce clone, who sounds suspiciously like every other pop princess does once the high-waisted one gets his evil pop-claws into them... and she positively murdered a magnificent pop-rock anthem when she started warbling 'Run'. Good God woman! That was NOT a song to be quiveringly warbled in a ballgown in an atmospheric forest - THAT was a stadium anthem to be sung euphorically at festivals, like Glastonbury, where people actually wear wellies and get covered in glorious mud, and have a fucking blast. You RUINED that song. Ruined.
But still, the USA winners still get to make a phenomenal amount of money, get ridiculous amounts of exposure and churns out some bizarrely (Or not so bizarrely, if you consider that the UK X-Factor/Pop Idol route has produced such alumni as Steve 'Psycho killer' Brookstein, Michelle 'McMuffin' McManus, Leon 'Babyface' Jackson and others so memorable I can barely remember them) some pretty big names, such as the stunning Jennifer Hudson and the omni-present Kelly Clarkson. And where did our winners go, huh? Woolworths isn't even around anymore, so they can't end up in its bargain bin... Oh wait... that creepy little Ray Quinn just won Dancing on Ice... but that's only because he promised to NEVER sing another 50's ratpack swing hit ever again. Thank God.
And so here is my addiction paradox: I passionately hate the come down; that post-final-show realisation that whatever the winner produces will inevitably make my ears bleed (Just for the hell of it. Its just something for my ears to do with the tedious time period between the winner releasing their first album and waking up one day and realising they are leading an ultimately futile and pointless musical existance and eventually descending into a drug-fuelled mental breakdown and the subsequent reality TV show charting their pathetic demise.). On the other hand, I love the shownmanship, the 'themes', the glamour, the transition of nerdy music geeks into pop-cultural swans, the fake smile on Paula's face as they hit bad notes, Simon's utter disdain at each and every one of them for even attempting to sing in tune, the TV-show vocabulary ("Thank you for your support; for letting me take this wonderful journey." Did you go anywhere nice? No. You had Simon Cowell glowering/leering at you. That's not a journey. Thats a form of torture. They use that in Gitmo.), and most of all Ryan Seacrest and the never ending super-grin. I mean - he's awful... but strangely, I can't hate him. He's so utterly cheesy (and puzzling... is he gay?...is he straight?...does he even care?) and yet he almost relishes the role. Especially when he pisses off Simon Cowell. And in my books that makes him a hero, dammit.
So until the next episode... I'm off to watch re-runs and savour those Motown hits. Keep 'em coming.
I can't help myself, I really can't. And no, before you have me off to rehab quicker than Amy Winehouse on a trip to 24-hr Asda's to stock up marker pens, cheap cider and Uhu glue, I can categorically deny that it's not Simon's unfathomably high waistband that does it for me, no no no. Nor is it his hair that resembles the bastard offspring of a neatly trimmed toilet brush and an explosion in an 80's shoulder pad factory. It's not Paula's bizarre combination of delusional self-belief that she is somehow still hip and relevant with the youth of today, and her quasi-prophetic allegories ('You sang like a comfy pair of old jeans'; 'You can dance like a magnificent peacock' - really what does that mean?). It's not even Randy's insistence, despite all evidence to the contrary, that the contestants are dogs (well, with some notable exceptions). Nope. No sireee. Neither is it that other girl (the vaguely attractive one) and her rather anodyne, almost terminally coma-inducing bland observations that amount to someone saying 'you sing OK' to every single contestant.
I mean, blimey, you can really tell if someone is utterly crap, because she actually strays from the being zed-inducingly dull zone, and might say something like 'you could do better', which is like the reality TV equivalent of a teacher saying 'I'm very disappointed in your behaviour', after you've deliberately blown up the chemistry lab, and letting you off with a five minute detention. Lets face it peeps, you know that what you really really want her to say, on prime-time US TV is: "You fucking moron. Seriously. You come on this fucking ace A-list TV show, with INTERNATIONAL coverage. That's INTER-FUCKING-NATIONAL, you dick! And you completely and utterly fuck it up by being so shit even Celine Dion would suggest you took singing lessons. That's Celine Dion, for Christs' sake! She can't even order a McFlurry without warbling unintelligably into the speaker-phone. Are you fucking kidding me? You sang (let me borrow Paula's allegories here, please), like a stinking, shit-soaked pair of Levi 501's on a tramp's arse, and you danced like a peacock getting its cock sliced off with a meat cleaver. You've brought shame on yourself, your family, and this fine country of the US-of-A. You should be locked away, in a soundproof cell, for life. And I mean LIFE. Now go away, and never let me see you're fucking hideous face ever again, or I swear I'll cut out your vocal chords with a rusty spoon and eat them, fricaseed with garlic, in front your whole bastard family. Who spawned you? Satan's music teacher? You're a sorry motherfucker, you really are. Go now, and hang yourself before you bring more shame on your family. GO! BEGONE!"
Sadly, the only real commentary that even reaches this level of vitriol is from bog-brush headed Simon, and even Simon isn't rich enough, or arrogant enough to actually brave the potential lawsuits from that kind of outburst. Shame.
Anyway, no. The reason I so wholeheartedly love the glorious American Idol is that, for some unfathomable reason, the calibre of the American is not only cheesier, more musically adept, and more glitzy, but also the advisors and themes and guests are just so much more, well, A-list. Last week was Motown week, and Stevie Wonder played... I mean, who would we get? Lulu? That's not even Motown.
Even the contestants are infinitely better (again, with notable exceptions), and come across as almost professional before they've even started. They get Jennifer Hudson (who didn't even WIN... how?) and we got Gareth Gates (who's only really famous now for shagging Jordan when she was 6 months pregnant with some footballing scumbags child). And for all you American's in the audience that's Jordan the unnaturally large-chested glamour model, not the sweet, innocent squeaky-voiced Jordin Sparks.
Then again, just about every winner since the year dot has churned out a succession of bland, lazy, pop/r'n'b efforts that make Avril Lavigne's lyric-writing almost Shakespearean in quality. Is this the price of fame in the USA? To sound like James Blunt? Is it any wonder that no-one British (and half-decent) ever cracks the American market? And don't you dare tell me about the terminally popular Leona Lewis. She's so very not a shining example of all that is great about UK music. She's a Beyonce clone, who sounds suspiciously like every other pop princess does once the high-waisted one gets his evil pop-claws into them... and she positively murdered a magnificent pop-rock anthem when she started warbling 'Run'. Good God woman! That was NOT a song to be quiveringly warbled in a ballgown in an atmospheric forest - THAT was a stadium anthem to be sung euphorically at festivals, like Glastonbury, where people actually wear wellies and get covered in glorious mud, and have a fucking blast. You RUINED that song. Ruined.
But still, the USA winners still get to make a phenomenal amount of money, get ridiculous amounts of exposure and churns out some bizarrely (Or not so bizarrely, if you consider that the UK X-Factor/Pop Idol route has produced such alumni as Steve 'Psycho killer' Brookstein, Michelle 'McMuffin' McManus, Leon 'Babyface' Jackson and others so memorable I can barely remember them) some pretty big names, such as the stunning Jennifer Hudson and the omni-present Kelly Clarkson. And where did our winners go, huh? Woolworths isn't even around anymore, so they can't end up in its bargain bin... Oh wait... that creepy little Ray Quinn just won Dancing on Ice... but that's only because he promised to NEVER sing another 50's ratpack swing hit ever again. Thank God.
And so here is my addiction paradox: I passionately hate the come down; that post-final-show realisation that whatever the winner produces will inevitably make my ears bleed (Just for the hell of it. Its just something for my ears to do with the tedious time period between the winner releasing their first album and waking up one day and realising they are leading an ultimately futile and pointless musical existance and eventually descending into a drug-fuelled mental breakdown and the subsequent reality TV show charting their pathetic demise.). On the other hand, I love the shownmanship, the 'themes', the glamour, the transition of nerdy music geeks into pop-cultural swans, the fake smile on Paula's face as they hit bad notes, Simon's utter disdain at each and every one of them for even attempting to sing in tune, the TV-show vocabulary ("Thank you for your support; for letting me take this wonderful journey." Did you go anywhere nice? No. You had Simon Cowell glowering/leering at you. That's not a journey. Thats a form of torture. They use that in Gitmo.), and most of all Ryan Seacrest and the never ending super-grin. I mean - he's awful... but strangely, I can't hate him. He's so utterly cheesy (and puzzling... is he gay?...is he straight?...does he even care?) and yet he almost relishes the role. Especially when he pisses off Simon Cowell. And in my books that makes him a hero, dammit.
So until the next episode... I'm off to watch re-runs and savour those Motown hits. Keep 'em coming.
Monday, March 2, 2009
I've forgotten what I was going to blog about.
I have. It's true. Five minutes ago I had an inspiring idea - I started to edit a blog and 'whooooomph' ... the idea has gone. Shame really. It was going to be life-changing.
Anyhoo, in the absence of something actually interesting to talk about, I'll tell you about my new job. You see, I've been working recently in a sandwich making emporium. Well, less of an emporium and more of a ... cupboard. Seriously. Its not even big enough to swing a cat. Which would, on the other hand, be quite ill advised and unhygenic. Thinking about it - in the interests of public health and the cat's sanity its probably quite fortunate one can't swing a cat in there.
You would think, of course, that sandwich making was a simple affair, what with having a basic set of ingredients and the like. Nooo nooo - how wrong you'd be. It takes great skill to apply the correct thickness and even spreadability of the butter, for example, so that one doesn't get a big chunk of butter in one bite, and a gloop of filling in the next. I'm a bit of a sandwich-making expert by now, and have become more than a little picky when eating the products of rival brands or establishments. I am, in fact, a sandwich connoisseur. That's something to put on the CV.
I have, as a matter of course, already covered the learning stages - such as dropping a toasted sandwich on the floor just after spending five minutes cooking it (At home I would usually apply the three-second-rule, but thats just not the done thing in a catering establishment is it?), and the inevitable 'oh shit I just tried to pack up this sandwich and it disintegrated in my hand and I now have mayonnaise running down towards my elbow' moment. I've come to realise that I will never consider sandwich eating in the same frivoulous light again.
Of course, as I'm also on one of those dreaded diets (aaaaaaaagh! - you know the type - its one of those where you feel perpetually hungry and irritable, and would gouge your own eyes out with a rusty spoon for just the merest hint of chocolate), the daily temptation to consume my own body-weight in sandwich-related produce is becoming overwhelmingly torturous. I think I need hypnotherapy. Or a patch like what those cigarette smokers have that feed you nicotine - except in my case it would most definitely be chocolate and cheese. Yes. Very definitely cheese. Mmmmmmmmm. Of every flavour (except blue, 'cos mould just seems a bit 'yeuch' to eat).
Anyway, the sandwichery pays a wee dose of beer money and keeps me in a life of modest comfort, as long as I have no ambitions to retire on a Fred Goodwin-sized pension (which is, quite rightly, a scandalous amount. Although the real scandal is that his pension is not considered exceptional for a corporate fat-cat. And these are the same people who create redundancies as cost-cutting excercises). I can afford, at least, a night out once a month and at least give Alfie (my new car - technically not new as he's 10 years old, but he's new to me) a few drinks of petrol every once in a while. It also meant that last Saturday I ventured out for a few bevvies with her lady-ship, mademoiselle Lara, and one of her good chums. The night ended for poor Lara thanks to a painful wrist which kept bothering her, but her chum allowed me to indulge in a wee trip to the local nightspot whereupon I realised two things:
A) I was ageing very untrendily, because I only knew 3 of the songs I heard all night, and two of those were at least 10 years old, I'm sure... and I was now definitely getting very old, because I couldn't dance like Beyonce ...
and B) (After encountering another friend drunk and swaying, talking to herself in an animated fashion) Being drunk and talking to oneself is never ever going to be an attractive image - and one I shall endeavour to avoid at all costs in the future.
Anyhoo, in the absence of something actually interesting to talk about, I'll tell you about my new job. You see, I've been working recently in a sandwich making emporium. Well, less of an emporium and more of a ... cupboard. Seriously. Its not even big enough to swing a cat. Which would, on the other hand, be quite ill advised and unhygenic. Thinking about it - in the interests of public health and the cat's sanity its probably quite fortunate one can't swing a cat in there.
You would think, of course, that sandwich making was a simple affair, what with having a basic set of ingredients and the like. Nooo nooo - how wrong you'd be. It takes great skill to apply the correct thickness and even spreadability of the butter, for example, so that one doesn't get a big chunk of butter in one bite, and a gloop of filling in the next. I'm a bit of a sandwich-making expert by now, and have become more than a little picky when eating the products of rival brands or establishments. I am, in fact, a sandwich connoisseur. That's something to put on the CV.
I have, as a matter of course, already covered the learning stages - such as dropping a toasted sandwich on the floor just after spending five minutes cooking it (At home I would usually apply the three-second-rule, but thats just not the done thing in a catering establishment is it?), and the inevitable 'oh shit I just tried to pack up this sandwich and it disintegrated in my hand and I now have mayonnaise running down towards my elbow' moment. I've come to realise that I will never consider sandwich eating in the same frivoulous light again.
Of course, as I'm also on one of those dreaded diets (aaaaaaaagh! - you know the type - its one of those where you feel perpetually hungry and irritable, and would gouge your own eyes out with a rusty spoon for just the merest hint of chocolate), the daily temptation to consume my own body-weight in sandwich-related produce is becoming overwhelmingly torturous. I think I need hypnotherapy. Or a patch like what those cigarette smokers have that feed you nicotine - except in my case it would most definitely be chocolate and cheese. Yes. Very definitely cheese. Mmmmmmmmm. Of every flavour (except blue, 'cos mould just seems a bit 'yeuch' to eat).
Anyway, the sandwichery pays a wee dose of beer money and keeps me in a life of modest comfort, as long as I have no ambitions to retire on a Fred Goodwin-sized pension (which is, quite rightly, a scandalous amount. Although the real scandal is that his pension is not considered exceptional for a corporate fat-cat. And these are the same people who create redundancies as cost-cutting excercises). I can afford, at least, a night out once a month and at least give Alfie (my new car - technically not new as he's 10 years old, but he's new to me) a few drinks of petrol every once in a while. It also meant that last Saturday I ventured out for a few bevvies with her lady-ship, mademoiselle Lara, and one of her good chums. The night ended for poor Lara thanks to a painful wrist which kept bothering her, but her chum allowed me to indulge in a wee trip to the local nightspot whereupon I realised two things:
A) I was ageing very untrendily, because I only knew 3 of the songs I heard all night, and two of those were at least 10 years old, I'm sure... and I was now definitely getting very old, because I couldn't dance like Beyonce ...
and B) (After encountering another friend drunk and swaying, talking to herself in an animated fashion) Being drunk and talking to oneself is never ever going to be an attractive image - and one I shall endeavour to avoid at all costs in the future.
A retro moment to savour...
Sometimes life just makes you smile. On the way to work the other day I encountered some people (grown-ups, mind... not ickle lickle kiddies) on space-hoppers bouncing into town. Dressed as fairies.
Now - if you can't smile at that thought, then you're a miserable bastard and there's no hope for humanity.
Now - if you can't smile at that thought, then you're a miserable bastard and there's no hope for humanity.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Mushroom Magic
In an attempt to become self-sufficient, I've recently attempted to grow my own veggies. To be fair, I'm not the most green-fingered person I know, and I can usually kill a cactus within 7 days or so, so I figured it would be best to start the drive for all that self-sustaining eco-hippiness malarky with a wee bit of mushroom growing. Nice and simple I thought.
Two weeks of fartin' about with logs, cardboard boxes, 'shocking' methods and clingfilm later, and the little funghi were ready to start growing in abundance.
The resulting crop has, unsurprisingly, been a whopping 2 mushrooms. Which, considering my lack of horticultural skills, is more than satisfactory to me. A resulting smug grin has spread across my face for the last couple of days, and I must confess to having a rather jaunty spring in my step to match an attitude of: "See, you chaps down at The Guardian aren't the only peeps to grow one's own veggies and feel good about it... us plebs can do it too, so nah nah nah". Plus, one of the mushrooms is (or rather, was) the size of a dinner plate - who knew funghi could be so impressive? And then, when I was relating to my friend about the size of the wee fellas, the resulting "Noooo waays" and "Nooo, reallys" made me feel like one of those people you see on documentaries that grow oversized prize-winning marrows and onions for agricultural shows... I had a true flush of pride at my skills.
So anyway, last night was the night of the BIG EAT... whereupon I was forced (for practical reasons -the 'shrooms had started to look less than thriving) to harvest the wee fellas and make something with them. The problem, of course, is that I am on a diet, which is never a good time to eat 'shrooms, as I am of the school of thought that the only genuinely fabulously best way to eat mushrooms ever is to smother them in creamy, cheesey sauce. I mean, after all that effort I does seem a little decadent to then throw them away, does it not? I did briefly feel a sense of queasiness, in part because it felt like eating one's cute pet fungus (if such a thing existed), but mainly because they are shittake mushrooms, and I never feel particularly comfortable eating anything with 'shit' in the title.
Nevertheless, they were delicious, and I found a low-fat creamy(ish) sauce on t'interweb, which I naturally added more creme fraiche to for added luxuriousness... Ahhh - who really cares if I never lose any weight, eh?
Two weeks of fartin' about with logs, cardboard boxes, 'shocking' methods and clingfilm later, and the little funghi were ready to start growing in abundance.
The resulting crop has, unsurprisingly, been a whopping 2 mushrooms. Which, considering my lack of horticultural skills, is more than satisfactory to me. A resulting smug grin has spread across my face for the last couple of days, and I must confess to having a rather jaunty spring in my step to match an attitude of: "See, you chaps down at The Guardian aren't the only peeps to grow one's own veggies and feel good about it... us plebs can do it too, so nah nah nah". Plus, one of the mushrooms is (or rather, was) the size of a dinner plate - who knew funghi could be so impressive? And then, when I was relating to my friend about the size of the wee fellas, the resulting "Noooo waays" and "Nooo, reallys" made me feel like one of those people you see on documentaries that grow oversized prize-winning marrows and onions for agricultural shows... I had a true flush of pride at my skills.
So anyway, last night was the night of the BIG EAT... whereupon I was forced (for practical reasons -the 'shrooms had started to look less than thriving) to harvest the wee fellas and make something with them. The problem, of course, is that I am on a diet, which is never a good time to eat 'shrooms, as I am of the school of thought that the only genuinely fabulously best way to eat mushrooms ever is to smother them in creamy, cheesey sauce. I mean, after all that effort I does seem a little decadent to then throw them away, does it not? I did briefly feel a sense of queasiness, in part because it felt like eating one's cute pet fungus (if such a thing existed), but mainly because they are shittake mushrooms, and I never feel particularly comfortable eating anything with 'shit' in the title.
Nevertheless, they were delicious, and I found a low-fat creamy(ish) sauce on t'interweb, which I naturally added more creme fraiche to for added luxuriousness... Ahhh - who really cares if I never lose any weight, eh?
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Snow
It would appear, if one was to refer only to newspapers and the media, that the whole of the UK is currently in a state of emergency and is completely overwhelmed by snow. That bastion of British media - the good 'ol BBC - kindly informed us on Monday that "Britain has ground to a halt", following a massive extreme weather 'event'. Which made the general observation "It's been snowing" sound like it should have been accompanied by fanfares, ticker-tape, two hours of fireworks, a couple of high-profile performing artists and a sell-out gig complete with merchandising. Naturally, as the event reached its artistic climax, resplendent with an outrageously decadent musical number and a cacophony of fireworks, ITV would, understandably, cut to commercial break and show, oh, a tic tac advert, perhaps...
Of course, England - and when I say England I really mean LONDON, naturally ground to a halt. Because of course, the tube couldn't cope with the masses of snow (hint, guys - it's underground...there's no snow there). And it would appear those city-types that holiday in Val D'Isere every year uhm, well... don't actually know how to deal with snow very well. It would appear the fluffy white stuff is harder to contemplate when one isn't in a five-star chalet surrounded by one's chums, quaffing eggnog.
Britain, on the other hand, didn't technically grind to a halt, because lo, large swathes of oooh, the rest of Britain (y'know, the parts that aren't England) were not actually inundated with snow on Monday. They are largely inundated now. I should add. Just not three days ago. And of course, as the lovely man from Aberdeen pointed out - Scotland didn't actually grind to a halt. People just decided to spend 2 hours getting to work instead of 20 minutes. And wear warmer clothes.
Of course, England - and when I say England I really mean LONDON, naturally ground to a halt. Because of course, the tube couldn't cope with the masses of snow (hint, guys - it's underground...there's no snow there). And it would appear those city-types that holiday in Val D'Isere every year uhm, well... don't actually know how to deal with snow very well. It would appear the fluffy white stuff is harder to contemplate when one isn't in a five-star chalet surrounded by one's chums, quaffing eggnog.
Britain, on the other hand, didn't technically grind to a halt, because lo, large swathes of oooh, the rest of Britain (y'know, the parts that aren't England) were not actually inundated with snow on Monday. They are largely inundated now. I should add. Just not three days ago. And of course, as the lovely man from Aberdeen pointed out - Scotland didn't actually grind to a halt. People just decided to spend 2 hours getting to work instead of 20 minutes. And wear warmer clothes.
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