Commuters come and commuters go …
When you've been long-distance commuting for as many millennia as I have, eventually the day will come when the ever-dwindling complement of fellow-travellers who were there on your first day trickles away to nothing and leaves you alone … the sole survivor.
That day was today.
With the depressing inevitability of erosion - and yesterday's retirement of John (aka Wiggy for his ludicrously laughable baldy-rug) Old Dive has become the longest-serving commuter on my train.
Don't ask how many years … some of you might not have been born when I started.
The old familiar faces have gradually disappeared and a good many of them I actually miss in a strange and slightly disturbing way.
Here - for no reason other than wallowing in my own nostalgia, and disregarding such occasional and erotic delights as the Thumb-Sucking Girl and the Church Of Fornication - are teensy vignettes of just a few of the people I have slept, snored and drooled with over the years during my three-and-a-half hour journey to work and the three-and-a-half hour journey home again and who have since fallen by the wayside:
- Mary Hopkin, Witchfinder General (for an expalanation of which, please see the Thumb-Sucking post).
- A Woman Called Horse.
A starchy lady of indeterminate age whose grip on reality had slipped to such an extent that she habitually travelled to London dressed for horseriding (boots, jodphurs, riding jacket - the full monty - and read nothing but horse magazines.
She had a short, loud bark of a laugh that could alarm those who didn't know her.
- Underbite and Backspace.
A matching pair of imbecilic sports fans from Ipswich; Underbite because you could have used his lower jaw as a shelf for your coffee mug, and Backspace for the sheer, blank stupidity of his expression, as if God had accidentally hit "backspace" when it came time to insert his brain.
- The Ginger Pig.
A fat, florid and unfeasibly ginger-coiffed man in his sixties who snored quite entertainingly; named after a John LeCarré character.
- Stinky Perfume Girl.
Those of you who know I am anosmic will also know that all an anosmic can register of a perfume is the taste of the solvent in the air. All perfumes "smell" (taste) just like paint, turps and petrol.
Stinky Perfume Girl (after the … ahem … Madonna song of not quite the same name) used to board my train at Stowmarket and I had to hope she sat at least half a dozen seats away from me. If she came any closer I had to endure several minutes of coughing and retching into my hanky before the reeking, fœtid cloud of stench she carried around with her subsided sufficiently to allow safe inhalation.
- Breakfast Boy.
This guy was a small, bearded, gnome-like apparition who for many a year sat at one of the table seats and would entertain the rest of us daily by fussily arranging a veritable smørgasbørd of Tupperware on the table before him, after which he would painstakingly prepare his breakfast, producing cereal, milk, fruit, toast, butter and marmalade from various containers and serving them up in matching Tupperware bowls.
He would pour his coffee from a flask into yet another plastic container, add his sugar from another and then unroll a napkin to display his array of cutlery.
After all that, watching him eat was always a bit of a letdown.
The whole lot would be carefully packed away at the end of his repast; he probably got his secretary to do his washing up when he reached his office.
- Mrs. Stiff.
That's her real name and she did her best to live up to it.
And she managed it heroically while she was awake, sat ramrod-straight and staring unblinkingly at the back of the head of the person in front.
After an hour or so, however, her concentration would inevitably slip, her eyes would close and she would do a passable impersonation of a calving glacier, a slow-motion collapse of her massive bulk, sufficient to start a tsunami were it to happen at sea.
She would end up in a melted heap, mouth agape and drooling horribly, snorting and snuffling and twitching in an amusingly diverting manner.
One just had to hope when the inevitable collapse happened that she would fall away from you and not onto your lap. I've had to wake her innumerable times when several hundredweight of avoirdupois has oozed across the armrest and threatened me with broken ribs and worse.
She was also quite dreadfully warm and clammy to the touch. Icky.
- Monkey Boy.
One of the longest-surviving commuters who only dropped off the grid last Christmas, Monkey Boy was a nice enough chap but was cursed with a head that sat directly upon his torso without any sign of an intervening neck, and he walked with a bow-legged gait and his arms held out to his sides, just like an orang-utan or George W. Bush.
One had to fight the urge to offer him a banana.
There have been many more but I really can't be arsed to dredge them all up; perhaps another time …
Sadly, the modern-day replacements for my old commuting companions are a sorry lot, but I can reassure myself in the knowledge that no more than five percent of them will still be there eighteen months down the line.
Eighteen months seems to be the cut-off point where suicidal despair, physical and mental breakdown or death weed out the true, long-distance commuter from the mere dilettante.
Most of the rest give up between two and five years after starting.
Only true heroes for whom Hell holds no horror have the fortitude, the lazy-assed laissez-faire and the quite breathtaking reserves of patience necessary to become a "lifer".
Lately I have been regularly entertained by a "newbie" on the homeward leg of my journey.
He has yet to be given a name as he's only been there for six months or so, but perhaps you can come up with some suggestions and we'll see if he deserves any of them.
This guy is someone I found sitting in "my" seat one evening at the end of last summer, a big, florid-faced guy in his forties with a quite startling collection of chins that appeared to have spread well beyond the confines of his face and neck.
I smiled and nodded at him and sat in the seat in front.
Just to clarify the "my" seat thing: I like to sit in the middle seat of the carriage facing north on the east side of the train for my return journey … It means I don't get the sun in my eyes and there's a partition directly behind me, not some bastard sitting there, drumming their fingers on my seat or resting their newspaper on the back of my head while I try to sleep.
Anyhoo; the very next day "my" seat is empty and I sit in it, only to find this guy running up the aisle, red-faced and panting and looking on the verge of a massive coronary, asking me politely if I would move as I am sitting in "his" seat.
A conversation ensued, starting somewhat tense and prickly but getting friendly pretty quickly, where the situation was explained to him and it was agreed that he was welcome to the seat on the days I worked from home but if he wanted it any other time he would have to get to it first.
Not many days after that I was walking to my carriage only to see someone running full pelt up the far side of the platform, glancing back at me and trying - amusingly - to hide behind pillars and other people.
Lo and behold, it was our man, desperately and more than a little childishly trying to reach the seat before me.
I continued strolling right past him as he stood, panting alarmingly and stuck fast in the scrummage for the door and got on at the far end of the carriage (where the queue is always much shorter).
When he at last managed to board the train and found me in the seat he made one of those cartoon facial expressions … his jaw hit the floor and his eyes popped out on stalks.
"How did you …?" he gasped, pointing back down the platform in utter confusion.
Hee hee hee, said Old Dive.
And so it has gone on. I manage to beat him nine times out of ten. I may be older but I am fitter and steeped in the ancient and arcane tao of commuting.
Unfortunately I don't think he'll last much longer. I can see him collapsing with a heart attack one of these afternoons, which would be a shame as beating him to "my" seat certainly keeps me fit, and - in my own immature fashion - greatly amused.
One day I too will fall by the wayside, probably suffering a massive coronary as I run up that pesky final escalator after my regular afternoon five mile jog across London from my office in Westminster to the station.
Until that day - and from today onwards - I shall revel in the slightly dubious honour of being the longest-serving "lifer" in my own personal commuter Hell.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
What's Cooking With Dive? Jehovah's Halibut
Mmmm … Halibut!
Second only to the magnificent turbot in the world of flatfish yumminess.
Don't just take my word for it, go watch "Life Of Brian,"
As Matthias, son of Deuteronomy of Gath said at his stoning:"That piece of halibut was worthy of Jehovah."
So … at the risk of being stoned to death (as opposed to merely being stoned), let's hear it for halibut!YAY, HALIBUT!
Here's a dish worthy of any deity you might choose to worship.
I don't choose to worship any of them myself, but at a push, my deity of choice would be Steve Albini.
Steve, you have an open invitation to dinner any time.
Anyhoo …You know the drill: Get your pinnies on and let's go trash the kitchen.
Right … What kind of things do halibut dream of meeting in the culinary afterlife (the après-vie, as Arthur Dent would have it)?
By flukey coincidence I was talking to a halibut just the other day and it told me to stock up on these:
- Organic single cream (or whatever the equivalent is in the Colonies … quick update: thank you, Robyn; apparently it is called half-and-half - or haff'n'haff if you're from Ohio … hee hee);
- Organic new potatoes;- Capers (the village store was shit out of organic, so slap me hard);
- Organic unwaxed lemons;
- Organic watercress;
- Lemon thyme from the garden;
- Mint from the garden;- Parsley from the windowcill;
- Organic artichoke hearts (I used canned for this as I find whole artichokes are a pain in the ass unless they are to be the main ingredient … I'm a lazy bastard);
- A whole bunch of prawns;- A fragrant, spicy, intensely glorious wine worthy of the demise of a noble halibut (as in so many other splendid occasions in life, Gewurtztraminer is the only way to go here).
Oh, and a stonking great halibut steak!
Halibut - while not quite in the same "bankers' bonus" league as turbot - is decidedly not cheap, so you don't want to waste what can be an orgasmic experience by skimping on your other ingredients.
This chunk cost me £8.50 but it was worth every last penny.
Holy frijole, it tasted so gooooood!
So …Let's get simple.
This is a dish that even George W. Bush couldn't fuck up.
Yes, it really is that plain dumb simple.
First up: pre-heat the oven to gas mark 5 (that's the equivalent of something or other if you have an electric oven. I have no idea).
Next up: fire up the hob, grab a saucepan, throw in the spuds and mint, cover 'em in water (no salt … you know my views on that) and away we go.
All you have left to do is to grab a hold of the rest of that bunch of ingredients, pour over a generous glass of Gewurtztraminer to thank the halibut for sacrificing its life on the altar of yumminess, slap a knob of organic, unsalted Irish butter on the top and parcel up the whole shebang in foil.
Here's a piece of advice: no matter how tight you wrap it, some cream and stuff is going to escape so I put mine in a nice Le Creuset fish-baking dish to catch the glop.
As soon as the potato water starts boiling, stick your fish and glop in the oven and go do the Guardian Saturday Prize Crossword (that's my twenty-minute timer).
Peel back the foil and check it after twenty minutes or so. I checked mine after twenty-five as I had a really thick steak - it still needed a few more minutes so I drained the potatoes while I waited.
When it's done, pop it on a plate with some more watercress, mint leaves and a lemon and tuck in!
Voilà! Halibut Baked With All Sorts Of Stuff.
Mmmmmm … Zowee! Pretty much piscatorial perfection.
Yes, I know there's enough there to serve two … why d'you think I'm such a fat bastard?
Enjoy!
I certainly did.
Don't just take my word for it, go watch "Life Of Brian,"
As Matthias, son of Deuteronomy of Gath said at his stoning:"That piece of halibut was worthy of Jehovah."
So … at the risk of being stoned to death (as opposed to merely being stoned), let's hear it for halibut!YAY, HALIBUT!
Here's a dish worthy of any deity you might choose to worship.
I don't choose to worship any of them myself, but at a push, my deity of choice would be Steve Albini.
Steve, you have an open invitation to dinner any time.
Anyhoo …You know the drill: Get your pinnies on and let's go trash the kitchen.
Right … What kind of things do halibut dream of meeting in the culinary afterlife (the après-vie, as Arthur Dent would have it)?
By flukey coincidence I was talking to a halibut just the other day and it told me to stock up on these:
- Organic single cream (or whatever the equivalent is in the Colonies … quick update: thank you, Robyn; apparently it is called half-and-half - or haff'n'haff if you're from Ohio … hee hee);- Organic new potatoes;- Capers (the village store was shit out of organic, so slap me hard);
- Organic unwaxed lemons;
- Organic watercress;
- Lemon thyme from the garden;
- Mint from the garden;- Parsley from the windowcill;
- Organic artichoke hearts (I used canned for this as I find whole artichokes are a pain in the ass unless they are to be the main ingredient … I'm a lazy bastard);
- A whole bunch of prawns;- A fragrant, spicy, intensely glorious wine worthy of the demise of a noble halibut (as in so many other splendid occasions in life, Gewurtztraminer is the only way to go here).
Oh, and a stonking great halibut steak!Halibut - while not quite in the same "bankers' bonus" league as turbot - is decidedly not cheap, so you don't want to waste what can be an orgasmic experience by skimping on your other ingredients.
This chunk cost me £8.50 but it was worth every last penny.
Holy frijole, it tasted so gooooood!
So …Let's get simple.
This is a dish that even George W. Bush couldn't fuck up.
Yes, it really is that plain dumb simple.
First up: pre-heat the oven to gas mark 5 (that's the equivalent of something or other if you have an electric oven. I have no idea).
Next up: fire up the hob, grab a saucepan, throw in the spuds and mint, cover 'em in water (no salt … you know my views on that) and away we go.
All you have left to do is to grab a hold of the rest of that bunch of ingredients, pour over a generous glass of Gewurtztraminer to thank the halibut for sacrificing its life on the altar of yumminess, slap a knob of organic, unsalted Irish butter on the top and parcel up the whole shebang in foil.
Here's a piece of advice: no matter how tight you wrap it, some cream and stuff is going to escape so I put mine in a nice Le Creuset fish-baking dish to catch the glop.
As soon as the potato water starts boiling, stick your fish and glop in the oven and go do the Guardian Saturday Prize Crossword (that's my twenty-minute timer).
Peel back the foil and check it after twenty minutes or so. I checked mine after twenty-five as I had a really thick steak - it still needed a few more minutes so I drained the potatoes while I waited.
When it's done, pop it on a plate with some more watercress, mint leaves and a lemon and tuck in!Voilà! Halibut Baked With All Sorts Of Stuff.
Mmmmmm … Zowee! Pretty much piscatorial perfection.
Yes, I know there's enough there to serve two … why d'you think I'm such a fat bastard?
Enjoy!
I certainly did.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Feeeeeesh!
As I'm still blog-dried and brain-fried let's go shopping instead.
First thing every Saturday morning, this is where Phil and Dive make our first stop on our way to breakfast with the gang.
Sing along:
"She was only the fishmonger's daughter, but she had a wet plaice for me …" etc.
Click on these pics to get much closer to the fishies …
The guy on the left is David, our old schoolfriend. A prog rock and heavy metal fan, he is the only person ever recorded as falling asleep during a Motörhead gig.
Given a few days notice, however, he will fetch me whatever piscatorial treats I desire, from triple-A grade, sashimi-quality fatty tuna to live razor clams and all points between.
Except whalemeat, which is illegal here, dammit!
Big kudos to じゅんさん for bringing us some back from Japan, though. Yay!
Anyhoo … this morning I bought a whopping slab of halibut which I shall probably bake in cream, herbs, chardonnay and capers later.
Because I am a peeeeg when it comes to fish.
Prawn Heaven.
Yum!
Anyhoo, you can find David on Norwich Market; he's the first stall on the left as you approach from Gentleman's Walk.
Go there.
Buy stuff.
It's good!
Don't tell him I sent you or he'll start talking about Rick Wakeman and then you'll never shut him up.
First thing every Saturday morning, this is where Phil and Dive make our first stop on our way to breakfast with the gang.
Sing along:
"She was only the fishmonger's daughter, but she had a wet plaice for me …" etc.
Click on these pics to get much closer to the fishies …
The guy on the left is David, our old schoolfriend. A prog rock and heavy metal fan, he is the only person ever recorded as falling asleep during a Motörhead gig.Given a few days notice, however, he will fetch me whatever piscatorial treats I desire, from triple-A grade, sashimi-quality fatty tuna to live razor clams and all points between.
Except whalemeat, which is illegal here, dammit!
Big kudos to じゅんさん for bringing us some back from Japan, though. Yay!
Anyhoo … this morning I bought a whopping slab of halibut which I shall probably bake in cream, herbs, chardonnay and capers later.Because I am a peeeeg when it comes to fish.
Prawn Heaven.Yum!
Anyhoo, you can find David on Norwich Market; he's the first stall on the left as you approach from Gentleman's Walk.
Go there.
Buy stuff.
It's good!
Don't tell him I sent you or he'll start talking about Rick Wakeman and then you'll never shut him up.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Yet More Nada
Here's another perennial chestnut while I'm blog-dry:
Cocks, balls and Shakespeare, from today's Guardian.
Cocks, balls and Shakespeare, from today's Guardian.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Nada
Once again I am blog-dry.
My brain is totally devoid of anything to write.
I hate that!
Meanwhile, here is some light music.
The incomparable Ian Dury and his unfeasibly funky Blockheads, back in 1977, giving it some on the lovely SEXANDDRUGSANDROCKANDROLL.
Yay!
Enjoy.
Oh, and please note the drummer's "If it ain't STIFF it ain't worth a fuck!" teeshirt from Stiff Records. I've still got mine, bought in the same year. You can see it here, in my post from the very first National Drunk Blogging Day back in 2006 (never … EVER again).
My brain is totally devoid of anything to write.
I hate that!
Meanwhile, here is some light music.
The incomparable Ian Dury and his unfeasibly funky Blockheads, back in 1977, giving it some on the lovely SEXANDDRUGSANDROCKANDROLL.
Yay!
Enjoy.
Oh, and please note the drummer's "If it ain't STIFF it ain't worth a fuck!" teeshirt from Stiff Records. I've still got mine, bought in the same year. You can see it here, in my post from the very first National Drunk Blogging Day back in 2006 (never … EVER again).
Monday, March 23, 2009
Plumb Crazy
They're still at it.
Those crazy plum trees outside my bedroom window.
I feel like a voyeur, taking sneaky photos of them having sex.
So … just a little erotic teaser; some foreplay for those who still have snow … Spring IS on its way at last.
Yay!
Those crazy plum trees outside my bedroom window.
I feel like a voyeur, taking sneaky photos of them having sex.
So … just a little erotic teaser; some foreplay for those who still have snow … Spring IS on its way at last.Yay!
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Smothering Sunday
Yay!
For anyone not in the US of A, today is Mothers' Day (I know, mum, I know … EVERY day is Mothers' Day).
Tradition states that we should post embarrassing photos of our mums but I'm over there for lunch today and I want to escape alive so the photo of mum as Butlins' "Miss Hot Pants" for nineteen-seventy-something stays locked in its box.
Instead, here's another one from Butlins that'll send mum scurrying down to the health club and dieting like crazy.
That's Karen (my cousin Trevor's girlfriend), mum in the middle and cousin Claire (who is now wider than she is tall) back in the days when we would take the entire clan to a holiday camp in Bognor or Skegness for a week in the summer and thrill to Knobbly Knees contests, donkey races, oompah bands and - in my case - food poisoning.
Happy Smothering Sunday, mum!
For anyone not in the US of A, today is Mothers' Day (I know, mum, I know … EVERY day is Mothers' Day).
Tradition states that we should post embarrassing photos of our mums but I'm over there for lunch today and I want to escape alive so the photo of mum as Butlins' "Miss Hot Pants" for nineteen-seventy-something stays locked in its box.
Instead, here's another one from Butlins that'll send mum scurrying down to the health club and dieting like crazy.That's Karen (my cousin Trevor's girlfriend), mum in the middle and cousin Claire (who is now wider than she is tall) back in the days when we would take the entire clan to a holiday camp in Bognor or Skegness for a week in the summer and thrill to Knobbly Knees contests, donkey races, oompah bands and - in my case - food poisoning.
Happy Smothering Sunday, mum!
Friday, March 20, 2009
Dumb Friday
Sheesh!
GoogleMaps have at last included a whole bunch of English cities in their "Street View" thang, with the result that the kids have done no work whatsoever this morning as they've been ooh-ing and aah-ing over it.
It's on http://maps.google.co.uk/ if you want to play.
Even Pauline's been at it …
"Ooh, Dive! Come and see! Look at my lovely begonias!" (It seems Google did their photography last summer).
For goodness sake! It's Friday!
It's Friday Frenzy™ time and no bugger is getting any work done.
This will all end in tears.
Worst of all is - you guessed it - our beloved Amanda of little brain.
Pauline typed in the office postcode and was wandering up and down the virtual street, peering in to reception to see Fernando.
Amanda - bless her - shrieked "Hang on; I'm going to go outside and wave. See if you can see me!"
Before we could finish saying "Duh", she had dashed off to reception to wave out of the window at us.
She may be good at her job, but when it comes to reality our heroine is dumber than a box of rocks.
Thank God it's Friday. I'm not sure I can stand much more of this.
GoogleMaps have at last included a whole bunch of English cities in their "Street View" thang, with the result that the kids have done no work whatsoever this morning as they've been ooh-ing and aah-ing over it.
It's on http://maps.google.co.uk/ if you want to play.
Even Pauline's been at it …
"Ooh, Dive! Come and see! Look at my lovely begonias!" (It seems Google did their photography last summer).
For goodness sake! It's Friday!
It's Friday Frenzy™ time and no bugger is getting any work done.
This will all end in tears.
Worst of all is - you guessed it - our beloved Amanda of little brain.
Pauline typed in the office postcode and was wandering up and down the virtual street, peering in to reception to see Fernando.
Amanda - bless her - shrieked "Hang on; I'm going to go outside and wave. See if you can see me!"
Before we could finish saying "Duh", she had dashed off to reception to wave out of the window at us.
She may be good at her job, but when it comes to reality our heroine is dumber than a box of rocks.
Thank God it's Friday. I'm not sure I can stand much more of this.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Springy
It took its sweet time geting here this year but at last Spring has turned up in my garden and the plum trees outside my bedroom window are going at it like sexed-up teenagers.
Tis the season for everything in the northern hemisphere to get it on.
Except undatable Dive, of course; I have to mow the lawn …
Tis the season for everything in the northern hemisphere to get it on.Except undatable Dive, of course; I have to mow the lawn …
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
A Gimp Suit And Some Flippers
Yay! A Maria meme!
Rescued once again from the blah-dom of not being able to think of anything to post.
This one says:
"Google your first name and the words: needs, wants, loves, hates, believes, wishes, sleeps, smells, eats, tastes, and realises."
i.e. "Dive needs" …
Then pick a phrase from the rather disturbing menu Google offers up.
Yay! This could be interesting (or not).
I Googled my first name, rather than Dive.
Googling "Dive needs" would just lead me to ads for scuba shops.
"All your dive needs catered for"
"Yeah, right. I'd like a tropical island with a beautiful and well stocked reef, please."
"Sorry, sir, but it's just what you see on the shelves."
"Rubber goods and oxygen masks? Kinky!
Hokay; rubber goods it is … Gimme a gimp suit* and some flippers."
Right!
Meme time: Let's cherry-pick some doozies from the icky grab-bag of Googledom.
1) Dive needs "a date".
Ha! Actually, this is a really saddo YouTube video about a guy from San Diego who's apparently into unicorns and dragons.
Dream on, kiddo.
Unicorns and dragons?
Listen up: nobody is ever - and I mean EVER - going to date you.
Sometimes I get the feeling that means me, too, but I live in hope. The fact that I'm not into unicorns and dragons at least lifts me off the bottom of the dating list.
Spring is on its way and who knows what that might bring?
Yay!
2) Dive wants "to have a Jewish baby".
What the fuck?
Ew, it's another dating site, this one from "the 310 area code of greater Los Angeles."
What the Holy Hell is going on in California?
C'mon, guys! Get your act together.
3) Dive loves "Christina with pictures and video."
I SO do NOT!
Google, you bloody liar! It seems I am also being linked romantically with "Ann", "cheesecake" and "raisin bran".
I'll take the cheescake.
4) Dive hates "feet".
Holy frijole! The US male is totally fucked-up.
This is from yet ANOTHER lame-o dating site and he's from Seattle, laydees. Just keep your feet covered.
5) Dive believes "getting to know Jesus is fundamental for our faith."
YOUR faith, maybe, but not mine, although I suppose that one is true as far as a part of me goes.
Yay, Jesus!
6) Dive wishes "that he could commute from North Delta on one bus the entire way."
No WAY! Commuting from Norfolk to London each day is pooey enough; commuting from somewhere in Bumfuck, USA would stink like a skunk and onion sandwich.
7) Dive sleeps "up to six people, while 'upper Dive' can sleep up to nine."
Yikes! Maybe when I was young and fit and could remember which end of a girl was which, but those days are long gone.
Sigh …
8) Dive smells "like dog biscuits, according to H of Seattle."
Well fuck you, H!
Don't come sniffing round here any more. It's kinda creepy.
9) Dive eats "a pig fœtus after dissection in biology class."
There are places in Google where even I fear to tread.
10) Dive tastes "like chicken."
For goodness sake, guys! This is from - you guessed it - another US dating site. If you fancy a guy who tastes of chicken, head on over to Glendale, Arizona.
That's one place I'll most certainly be avoiding from now on.
11) Dive realises "that there are certain things he desired but that the Lord refused for him to have knowing of those things."
Yup; that's what it says on the icky evangelical site where the Lord apparently has refused for Dive to have knowing of grammar and the English language in general.
Methinks the Lord's name is being taken in vain here by some dumb schmuck too ignorant to realise that things you desire don't just plop into your lap, you have to get out there and earn 'em, bucko.
And while you're at it, ask the Lord for some English lessons.
So now you know.
I hope that has made your day immeasurably richer, though I have my suspicions that it may not.
Have a go yourselves if you're so totally bored with your life that it really HAS come to this …
Though of course I'm not tagging anyone for I am The Death Of Memes.
TTFN
*Those who don't know what a gimp suit is should watch Pulp Fiction.
Or get out your old PS2s and play GTA San Andreas until you reach the part where you're wandering around Las Vegas in a gimp suit, armed with a three foot, purple rubber dildo you found in the showers at the police station …
You didn't do that bit? Well you play the game how you want and I'll play it how I want.
Sheesh!
Rescued once again from the blah-dom of not being able to think of anything to post.
This one says:
"Google your first name and the words: needs, wants, loves, hates, believes, wishes, sleeps, smells, eats, tastes, and realises."
i.e. "Dive needs" …
Then pick a phrase from the rather disturbing menu Google offers up.
Yay! This could be interesting (or not).
I Googled my first name, rather than Dive.
Googling "Dive needs" would just lead me to ads for scuba shops.
"All your dive needs catered for"
"Yeah, right. I'd like a tropical island with a beautiful and well stocked reef, please."
"Sorry, sir, but it's just what you see on the shelves."
"Rubber goods and oxygen masks? Kinky!
Hokay; rubber goods it is … Gimme a gimp suit* and some flippers."
Right!
Meme time: Let's cherry-pick some doozies from the icky grab-bag of Googledom.
1) Dive needs "a date".
Ha! Actually, this is a really saddo YouTube video about a guy from San Diego who's apparently into unicorns and dragons.
Dream on, kiddo.
Unicorns and dragons?
Listen up: nobody is ever - and I mean EVER - going to date you.
Sometimes I get the feeling that means me, too, but I live in hope. The fact that I'm not into unicorns and dragons at least lifts me off the bottom of the dating list.
Spring is on its way and who knows what that might bring?
Yay!
2) Dive wants "to have a Jewish baby".
What the fuck?
Ew, it's another dating site, this one from "the 310 area code of greater Los Angeles."
What the Holy Hell is going on in California?
C'mon, guys! Get your act together.
3) Dive loves "Christina with pictures and video."
I SO do NOT!
Google, you bloody liar! It seems I am also being linked romantically with "Ann", "cheesecake" and "raisin bran".
I'll take the cheescake.
4) Dive hates "feet".
Holy frijole! The US male is totally fucked-up.
This is from yet ANOTHER lame-o dating site and he's from Seattle, laydees. Just keep your feet covered.
5) Dive believes "getting to know Jesus is fundamental for our faith."
YOUR faith, maybe, but not mine, although I suppose that one is true as far as a part of me goes.
Yay, Jesus!
6) Dive wishes "that he could commute from North Delta on one bus the entire way."
No WAY! Commuting from Norfolk to London each day is pooey enough; commuting from somewhere in Bumfuck, USA would stink like a skunk and onion sandwich.
7) Dive sleeps "up to six people, while 'upper Dive' can sleep up to nine."
Yikes! Maybe when I was young and fit and could remember which end of a girl was which, but those days are long gone.
Sigh …
8) Dive smells "like dog biscuits, according to H of Seattle."
Well fuck you, H!
Don't come sniffing round here any more. It's kinda creepy.
9) Dive eats "a pig fœtus after dissection in biology class."
There are places in Google where even I fear to tread.
10) Dive tastes "like chicken."
For goodness sake, guys! This is from - you guessed it - another US dating site. If you fancy a guy who tastes of chicken, head on over to Glendale, Arizona.
That's one place I'll most certainly be avoiding from now on.
11) Dive realises "that there are certain things he desired but that the Lord refused for him to have knowing of those things."
Yup; that's what it says on the icky evangelical site where the Lord apparently has refused for Dive to have knowing of grammar and the English language in general.
Methinks the Lord's name is being taken in vain here by some dumb schmuck too ignorant to realise that things you desire don't just plop into your lap, you have to get out there and earn 'em, bucko.
And while you're at it, ask the Lord for some English lessons.
So now you know.
I hope that has made your day immeasurably richer, though I have my suspicions that it may not.
Have a go yourselves if you're so totally bored with your life that it really HAS come to this …
Though of course I'm not tagging anyone for I am The Death Of Memes.
TTFN
*Those who don't know what a gimp suit is should watch Pulp Fiction.
Or get out your old PS2s and play GTA San Andreas until you reach the part where you're wandering around Las Vegas in a gimp suit, armed with a three foot, purple rubber dildo you found in the showers at the police station …
You didn't do that bit? Well you play the game how you want and I'll play it how I want.
Sheesh!
Monday, March 16, 2009
The Skirl Of The Wild
My wonderful Blogville neighbours Katherine and David have just this weekend celebrated eight years together and yesterday Katherine posted their wedding song, Two Trees, which you can find here (it's worth it).
I had not heard that song before, but it starts with an instrumental section played on the uilleann pipes and - as always happens when I hear them - I gasped and was totally transfixed.
I don't know what it is - something atavistic; some long-buried folk memory perhaps - but the uilleann pipes pull at something deep in my soul and they pull hard!
I adore them above all other instruments.
Here is one of my own favourite pieces, from Kathryn Tickell's glorious album "Debatable Lands".
This is called "Our Kate" and features Kathryn on Northumbrian pipes and Troy Donockley on the Uilleann pipes.
A piano joins them after a little while and the two pipes split into harmony and I go straight to Heaven with tears streaming down my face.
Every time.
Happy Anniversary, Katherine and David.
I had not heard that song before, but it starts with an instrumental section played on the uilleann pipes and - as always happens when I hear them - I gasped and was totally transfixed.
I don't know what it is - something atavistic; some long-buried folk memory perhaps - but the uilleann pipes pull at something deep in my soul and they pull hard!
I adore them above all other instruments.
Here is one of my own favourite pieces, from Kathryn Tickell's glorious album "Debatable Lands".
This is called "Our Kate" and features Kathryn on Northumbrian pipes and Troy Donockley on the Uilleann pipes.
A piano joins them after a little while and the two pipes split into harmony and I go straight to Heaven with tears streaming down my face.
Every time.
Happy Anniversary, Katherine and David.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
What's Cooking With Dive? Toona Boona
I am an Englishman.
The tao of the Englishman is: "If all else fails, there is always curry."
When you've been feeling a little like poor Old Dive has of late, making a curry is a great and sure-fire perk-me-up.
Our national dish (which I - as an outrageously pretentious food snob have never eaten) is chicken tikka masala; which actually does not exist in any form in the Indian subcontinent and according to legend was invented by a cheeky cook in a London curry house in response to an ignorant English customer demanding "Where's my gravy?" at which he is said to have returned to his kitchen and added a tin of Heinz cream of tomato soup and a few spices to the dry-fried chicken tikka and the rest is history.
There are hundreds of curries in India, Pakistan and Bangladesh and for each curry there are hundreds of recipes; regional variations and "Anglified" mutations.
Most "Indian" restaurants here are actually Bangladeshi and the average Brit would stare, stupefied at genuine Indian cuisine.
I was fortunate enough to learn my own curries from Lady Caroline Egerton (delightful spouse of the late and sadly missed diplomat and spook, Sir Stephen), when I designed their country house on his retirement.
I spent a whole summer virtually living over there, supervising the works and Lady Caroline found an apt and enthusiastic pupil, eager to learn all the recipes she herself had learned during her childhood in the Raj.
Lady C. taught me dozens of regional Indian dishes, some taking minutes, some a whole day to cook but all delicious.
She also taught me that anyone who uses "curry powder", "spice mixes" or those Godawful jars of curry sauce should under no circumstances ever be allowed near a kitchen.
Not only will they never know what a curry actually tastes like, they are missing out on some of the biggest fun and most astounding aromas known to true food lovers.
Making curries is an art and a delight beyond words.
Today, we'll be making a mild fish curry, a tuna bhuna (I usually make prawn bhuna but I ate most of the prawns yesterday and had a tuna steak to dispose of … plus it rhymes nicely: toona boona).
Lynn: you can make this with chicken so you don't get grossed out; the rest of the recipe's the same.
So …
You know the drill: pinnies on and follow me into the kitchen …
Oh, before you do that, run upstairs to the CD shelves (see last week) and grab Lata Mangeshkar - The Legend and stick the first CD on nice and loud.
Lata was the woman who provided all the classic songs in Bollywood movies for decades (the pretty girls playing the lead roles could never sing like her) and The Legend is a thoroughly wonderful 2CD collection of her greatest hits; perfect for cooking and eating Indian dishes.
Hoo-ray for Bollywood!
Anyhoo …
Here are some of the things we'll be eating today:
Boffo garlic, a strong, large organic onion, (all this is organic, by the way, as always so to save repeating myself, yadda-yadda …) a pepper - any colour, a couple of ripe tomatoes and some chilis (as strong or as mild as you like … you're the ones who will have to eat this when you've cooked it).
I'm a huge chili fan but fish dishes demand subtely so I'll be de-seeding two of those chilis and only leaving the hot stuff in the third.
You'll also need some fish …
Like I say, I usually make prawn bhuna but I ate most of them and all I have left today is enough to make a garnish so we'll be cooking that scrummy tuna steak instead.
We'll be using all sorts of spices but to start us off we'll need green cardamom pods, cumin seeds and coriander seeds.
Those are my own coriander seeds. When my coriander leaf (cilantro) gets leggy I just stick the plants on the patio and let 'em go wild, then harvest the seeds in late autumn. Yum!
By the way, popping open some green cardamom pods and chewing the little black, slightly lemony seeds inside them is a great cure for garlic breath should your date not eat garlic when you do and you want him or her to let you near them later on …
See? It IS worth reading this crap sometimes!
Righty-ho!
Time for one of the finest things a man living on his own can do in a kitchen:
Dry frying spices! Yay!
Woohoo!
I love this part of curry making. It gets all sorts of spidey senses tingling and the unwary may need to wear a drool bib while they do it.
Heat up the hob and the wok … HOT!
Toss in the spices and jiggle 'em around until they squeal.
After a little while a deliciously fragrant smoke will start to rise and the cumin will begin to look toasty.
This is the moment (don't let it burn or you'll have to start over).
Pick out the cardamom pods (with a spoon, unless you like hopping round the kitchen screaming with burned fingers) and then it's pestle and mortar time.
Those with long blog memories will know all about me and my pestle and mortar fetish.
This one is my old heavy cast iron spice-grinding one.
Just inhale the gorgeous aroma rising from those piping hot spices as you crush and blend them and their aromatic oils have dirty sex right under your nose.
Wowee!
If your taste buds don't orgasm you're probably dead.
Time to get cooking.
Cut the tuna into bite-sized chunks and whop it in a flat-bottomed heavy pan with a splash of organic sunflower oil.
Put the rice in the steamer and switch it on. Organic Basmati is the ONLY rice to use here. If you have a clay tandoor in your kitchen (which I don't) you can make naan bread, too, but rice will be enough today as I have to eat all of this myself (God, I need a girlfriend, if only because I tend to cook for two and then have to eat the lot myself).
Brown off the tuna until it is almost (but not quite) seared all over … we want a little bit of red left because otherwise while it rests it will dry out.
Set it aside. See the little bits of red still left in the middles? That's how you want it if you want succulent tuna as opposed to dried out cardboardy tuna.
Back to the pan! Yay!
What we have here is (clockwise from bottom-right):
- about a thumb-sized chunk of fresh ginger root, finely chopped;
- a good clove of yummy garlic, finely chopped;
- half of that onion, finely chopped;
- and half of it just chunked. This is one of the secrets of "restaurant-style" Indian cooking. They throw in roughly chunked onions so you get those huge, juicy bits in your sauce.
You'll also want those chilis and the pepper and a can of organic plum tomatoes. I don't usually use the ready chopped variety, by the way, but they were on special and I'm a cheapskate.
Right!
Ready?
Fry off the onion and garlic. High heat to start with until they are good and sizzly, then reduce it to minimum and just let 'em sweat down to translucency for a few minutes.
Then whack in the chili, ginger and pepper and stir for a couple more minutes before adding your dry-fried spices and cardamoms (mixed with a tiny amount of water to make a paste).
When it's all good and hot, toss in the seared tuna and give it a nice stir.
After that, gradually add the chopped tomatoes, followed by a teaspoon of turmeric and a teaspoon of garam masala and let that lot simmer until your rice is done.
While you're waiting, you'll have a couple of minutes to dance around the kitchen, Bollywood style and make a garnish with coriander leaf and a deseeded tomato.
Hokay …
You have rice, some prawns, some garnish and a curry. Toss a handful of coriander leaves into the curry and give it a final stir and then dish it up.
Splot a big blob of yoghurt on the side in case the chilis are too hot for your guests (or you can make a cucumber raitha but I really couldn't be arsed).
Most idiots try gulping down water or beer if they get chili burn but milk or yoghurt are the only things that work. Always have them to hand.
Serve your rhyming tuna bhuna with scrummy Indian lager and appropriate music.
Enjoy!
The tao of the Englishman is: "If all else fails, there is always curry."
When you've been feeling a little like poor Old Dive has of late, making a curry is a great and sure-fire perk-me-up.
Our national dish (which I - as an outrageously pretentious food snob have never eaten) is chicken tikka masala; which actually does not exist in any form in the Indian subcontinent and according to legend was invented by a cheeky cook in a London curry house in response to an ignorant English customer demanding "Where's my gravy?" at which he is said to have returned to his kitchen and added a tin of Heinz cream of tomato soup and a few spices to the dry-fried chicken tikka and the rest is history.
There are hundreds of curries in India, Pakistan and Bangladesh and for each curry there are hundreds of recipes; regional variations and "Anglified" mutations.
Most "Indian" restaurants here are actually Bangladeshi and the average Brit would stare, stupefied at genuine Indian cuisine.
I was fortunate enough to learn my own curries from Lady Caroline Egerton (delightful spouse of the late and sadly missed diplomat and spook, Sir Stephen), when I designed their country house on his retirement.
I spent a whole summer virtually living over there, supervising the works and Lady Caroline found an apt and enthusiastic pupil, eager to learn all the recipes she herself had learned during her childhood in the Raj.
Lady C. taught me dozens of regional Indian dishes, some taking minutes, some a whole day to cook but all delicious.
She also taught me that anyone who uses "curry powder", "spice mixes" or those Godawful jars of curry sauce should under no circumstances ever be allowed near a kitchen.
Not only will they never know what a curry actually tastes like, they are missing out on some of the biggest fun and most astounding aromas known to true food lovers.
Making curries is an art and a delight beyond words.
Today, we'll be making a mild fish curry, a tuna bhuna (I usually make prawn bhuna but I ate most of the prawns yesterday and had a tuna steak to dispose of … plus it rhymes nicely: toona boona).
Lynn: you can make this with chicken so you don't get grossed out; the rest of the recipe's the same.
So …
You know the drill: pinnies on and follow me into the kitchen …
Oh, before you do that, run upstairs to the CD shelves (see last week) and grab Lata Mangeshkar - The Legend and stick the first CD on nice and loud.
Lata was the woman who provided all the classic songs in Bollywood movies for decades (the pretty girls playing the lead roles could never sing like her) and The Legend is a thoroughly wonderful 2CD collection of her greatest hits; perfect for cooking and eating Indian dishes.
Hoo-ray for Bollywood!
Anyhoo …Here are some of the things we'll be eating today:
Boffo garlic, a strong, large organic onion, (all this is organic, by the way, as always so to save repeating myself, yadda-yadda …) a pepper - any colour, a couple of ripe tomatoes and some chilis (as strong or as mild as you like … you're the ones who will have to eat this when you've cooked it).
I'm a huge chili fan but fish dishes demand subtely so I'll be de-seeding two of those chilis and only leaving the hot stuff in the third.
You'll also need some fish …Like I say, I usually make prawn bhuna but I ate most of them and all I have left today is enough to make a garnish so we'll be cooking that scrummy tuna steak instead.
We'll be using all sorts of spices but to start us off we'll need green cardamom pods, cumin seeds and coriander seeds.Those are my own coriander seeds. When my coriander leaf (cilantro) gets leggy I just stick the plants on the patio and let 'em go wild, then harvest the seeds in late autumn. Yum!
By the way, popping open some green cardamom pods and chewing the little black, slightly lemony seeds inside them is a great cure for garlic breath should your date not eat garlic when you do and you want him or her to let you near them later on …
See? It IS worth reading this crap sometimes!
Righty-ho!
Time for one of the finest things a man living on his own can do in a kitchen:
Dry frying spices! Yay!
Woohoo!
I love this part of curry making. It gets all sorts of spidey senses tingling and the unwary may need to wear a drool bib while they do it.
Heat up the hob and the wok … HOT!Toss in the spices and jiggle 'em around until they squeal.
After a little while a deliciously fragrant smoke will start to rise and the cumin will begin to look toasty.
This is the moment (don't let it burn or you'll have to start over).
Pick out the cardamom pods (with a spoon, unless you like hopping round the kitchen screaming with burned fingers) and then it's pestle and mortar time.Those with long blog memories will know all about me and my pestle and mortar fetish.
This one is my old heavy cast iron spice-grinding one.
Just inhale the gorgeous aroma rising from those piping hot spices as you crush and blend them and their aromatic oils have dirty sex right under your nose.
Wowee!
If your taste buds don't orgasm you're probably dead.
Time to get cooking.Cut the tuna into bite-sized chunks and whop it in a flat-bottomed heavy pan with a splash of organic sunflower oil.
Put the rice in the steamer and switch it on. Organic Basmati is the ONLY rice to use here. If you have a clay tandoor in your kitchen (which I don't) you can make naan bread, too, but rice will be enough today as I have to eat all of this myself (God, I need a girlfriend, if only because I tend to cook for two and then have to eat the lot myself).
Brown off the tuna until it is almost (but not quite) seared all over … we want a little bit of red left because otherwise while it rests it will dry out.
Set it aside. See the little bits of red still left in the middles? That's how you want it if you want succulent tuna as opposed to dried out cardboardy tuna.
Back to the pan! Yay!What we have here is (clockwise from bottom-right):
- about a thumb-sized chunk of fresh ginger root, finely chopped;
- a good clove of yummy garlic, finely chopped;
- half of that onion, finely chopped;
- and half of it just chunked. This is one of the secrets of "restaurant-style" Indian cooking. They throw in roughly chunked onions so you get those huge, juicy bits in your sauce.
You'll also want those chilis and the pepper and a can of organic plum tomatoes. I don't usually use the ready chopped variety, by the way, but they were on special and I'm a cheapskate.
Right!Ready?
Fry off the onion and garlic. High heat to start with until they are good and sizzly, then reduce it to minimum and just let 'em sweat down to translucency for a few minutes.
Then whack in the chili, ginger and pepper and stir for a couple more minutes before adding your dry-fried spices and cardamoms (mixed with a tiny amount of water to make a paste).
When it's all good and hot, toss in the seared tuna and give it a nice stir.
After that, gradually add the chopped tomatoes, followed by a teaspoon of turmeric and a teaspoon of garam masala and let that lot simmer until your rice is done.
While you're waiting, you'll have a couple of minutes to dance around the kitchen, Bollywood style and make a garnish with coriander leaf and a deseeded tomato.Hokay …
You have rice, some prawns, some garnish and a curry. Toss a handful of coriander leaves into the curry and give it a final stir and then dish it up.
Splot a big blob of yoghurt on the side in case the chilis are too hot for your guests (or you can make a cucumber raitha but I really couldn't be arsed).Most idiots try gulping down water or beer if they get chili burn but milk or yoghurt are the only things that work. Always have them to hand.
Serve your rhyming tuna bhuna with scrummy Indian lager and appropriate music.Enjoy!
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Sigh …
Has anyone seen my blog-mojo?
The fucker's done a runner again.
Try as I might, there's nothing in my brain remotely blogworthy.
I'm feeling vaguely meancholic; the weekend stretches before me like a yawning abyss of household chores with only tonight's opera to brighten it up.
I got back from the city this morning with a shopping bag full of goodies from David the fishmonger and have just woken from some kind of trance, having spent the past half an hour chugging a great big bag of shell-on prawns, dipping 'em in home-made chili oil and crunching those lovely pink, juicy guys one after another.
I had bought them to cook with but I think I must have got distracted whilst putting things in the fridge because here I am with a bowlful of prawn heads (okay, at least I can freeze those for my next stock) and a vague sense of having been listening to Frank Bridge's piano trios but I don't actually remember any of it.
Where's the fun in gorging myself on piri-piri prawns if I can't remember the pleasure afterward?
Sigh …
What's wrong with me?
I've not been sleeping well since before Christmas.
I get cravings for odd food.
Some days my brain is full of ideas; others - like today - it is just sitting there like a blancmange.
I mean it's completely empty.
I've just been in there, poking around in dusty corners, looking for thoughts.
Nada.
No amount of rifling or rummagery produces a single sentient spark.
Is this what getting old feels like?
Lethargy and lassitude?
I do hope not because being young again isn't an option.
And anyway, being young sucked.
I feel like I've got lost just lately.
I don't know where I've gone and I kinda miss me, so if anyone finds me, please put me back where I belong.
Bed would be nice.
I could do with the sleep.
Hey ho. I'd better get up off my lazy ass and hit the housework.
Bleah …
The fucker's done a runner again.
Try as I might, there's nothing in my brain remotely blogworthy.
I'm feeling vaguely meancholic; the weekend stretches before me like a yawning abyss of household chores with only tonight's opera to brighten it up.
I got back from the city this morning with a shopping bag full of goodies from David the fishmonger and have just woken from some kind of trance, having spent the past half an hour chugging a great big bag of shell-on prawns, dipping 'em in home-made chili oil and crunching those lovely pink, juicy guys one after another.
I had bought them to cook with but I think I must have got distracted whilst putting things in the fridge because here I am with a bowlful of prawn heads (okay, at least I can freeze those for my next stock) and a vague sense of having been listening to Frank Bridge's piano trios but I don't actually remember any of it.
Where's the fun in gorging myself on piri-piri prawns if I can't remember the pleasure afterward?
Sigh …
What's wrong with me?
I've not been sleeping well since before Christmas.
I get cravings for odd food.
Some days my brain is full of ideas; others - like today - it is just sitting there like a blancmange.
I mean it's completely empty.
I've just been in there, poking around in dusty corners, looking for thoughts.
Nada.
No amount of rifling or rummagery produces a single sentient spark.
Is this what getting old feels like?
Lethargy and lassitude?
I do hope not because being young again isn't an option.
And anyway, being young sucked.
I feel like I've got lost just lately.
I don't know where I've gone and I kinda miss me, so if anyone finds me, please put me back where I belong.
Bed would be nice.
I could do with the sleep.
Hey ho. I'd better get up off my lazy ass and hit the housework.
Bleah …
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Homo Habilis Divii
Yup … Dive the handyman.
For some strange reason (I truly believe I will suddenly understand women the moment before I die and will leave this world with a very surprised look on my face) Lynn and Petrea seem to find the fact that I put up some crappy shelves in the gym on Sunday somehow sexy.
To knock that sexiness on the head, here are the crappy shelves.
I just needed somewhere to put a whole load of CDs and DVDs and there happened to be a spare wall in the gym so …
Just as well I left room for expansion. I can squeeze another three shelves up there and there are hundreds more CDs in the studio …
Sheesh!
And yes, laydees; that is where I get nekkid and sweaty (not currently having any reason to do so in the bedroom).
So …
Let's get serious with a screwdriver …
At the risk of causing swoons and simpering from Tewkesbury to Pasadena, pray allow me to take you way back in the mists of time to when I bought my first house.
I believe the term for this kind of thing is "a fixer-upper".
Well … I fixed the fucker up myself.
It took me eighteen months and at the end of it I never wanted to see any of it ever again, so I sold it on the very day I finished it.
Hmmm … This doesn't look good.
Right! Throw some old curtains over everything and let's rip the shit out of this place!
Having re-wired and re-plumbed it (and stupidly not taken photos … these are about all I could find … if only I knew then what weemen find sexy), I started replastering the ceilings and walls.
Note the neat re-wiring job on the new dimmer switch.
And okay, Ming the Menstrual did have a sweet ass, I'll give her that.
I do have a weakness for a cute bippy, laydees please take note.
Katie says:
Fuck off! This is MY dust sheet. Go find your own.
She also got kinda fascinated by just about everything …
"Wotcha doin'?"
"I'm hitting crap with a hammer, what's it LOOK like I'm doing?"
Anyhoo …
Here's some Divery:
Before …
During …
And after.
I used to love all this stuff.
Ming even helped with the papering. Sort of.
Dive and Nigel put up a greenhouse …
According to the instructions it was supposed to be a table but you know what Ikea are like.
While Dive and Phil make a start on the front garden.
Cheeses of Nazareth, I wish I were that skinny today!
Phil celebrates ripping the old kitchen to bits by adopting a classic eighties bad hair-do.
That's dad on the right. I love my dad and miss him a lot. He taught me how to do all this crap (except wallpapering … mum's the expert at that … I thought I'd better mention it before SHE did … OW)!
Note the little red First Aid kit on the right. Probably the most essential piece of kit for home renovations.
Check out the Osama bin Dickwad beard!
Fuck me, what was I thinking?
At least I found a use for one of those crappy jumpers I used to get for Christmas.
Hey, I've still got that drill! I used it to put the shelves up at the weekend. Yay!
"Feed me! … Stop dicking around with all this kitchen crap and FEED ME!"
There's always one screw … one fucking awkward screw you just can't get at.
Yay for a nice new gas hob!
Actually I could do with a new one here but bollocks to making another kitchen; I'll pay some other fucker to do that.
Anyhoo … I kinda liked that kitchen.
It was bigger than the crappy one I'm stuck with today.
Hey ho.
So … There you have it.
I can cook, iron and put up shelves.
All I need now is a pretty girl to do all that stuff for …
… with a cute bippy, of course.
To knock that sexiness on the head, here are the crappy shelves.I just needed somewhere to put a whole load of CDs and DVDs and there happened to be a spare wall in the gym so …
Just as well I left room for expansion. I can squeeze another three shelves up there and there are hundreds more CDs in the studio …Sheesh!
And yes, laydees; that is where I get nekkid and sweaty (not currently having any reason to do so in the bedroom).
So …
Let's get serious with a screwdriver …
At the risk of causing swoons and simpering from Tewkesbury to Pasadena, pray allow me to take you way back in the mists of time to when I bought my first house.
I believe the term for this kind of thing is "a fixer-upper".Well … I fixed the fucker up myself.
It took me eighteen months and at the end of it I never wanted to see any of it ever again, so I sold it on the very day I finished it.
Hmmm … This doesn't look good.
Right! Throw some old curtains over everything and let's rip the shit out of this place!
Having re-wired and re-plumbed it (and stupidly not taken photos … these are about all I could find … if only I knew then what weemen find sexy), I started replastering the ceilings and walls.
Note the neat re-wiring job on the new dimmer switch.And okay, Ming the Menstrual did have a sweet ass, I'll give her that.
I do have a weakness for a cute bippy, laydees please take note.
Katie says:Fuck off! This is MY dust sheet. Go find your own.
She also got kinda fascinated by just about everything …"Wotcha doin'?"
"I'm hitting crap with a hammer, what's it LOOK like I'm doing?"
Anyhoo …Here's some Divery:
Before …
During …
And after.
I used to love all this stuff.
Ming even helped with the papering. Sort of.
Dive and Nigel put up a greenhouse …According to the instructions it was supposed to be a table but you know what Ikea are like.
While Dive and Phil make a start on the front garden.Cheeses of Nazareth, I wish I were that skinny today!
Phil celebrates ripping the old kitchen to bits by adopting a classic eighties bad hair-do.That's dad on the right. I love my dad and miss him a lot. He taught me how to do all this crap (except wallpapering … mum's the expert at that … I thought I'd better mention it before SHE did … OW)!
Note the little red First Aid kit on the right. Probably the most essential piece of kit for home renovations.
Check out the Osama bin Dickwad beard!Fuck me, what was I thinking?
At least I found a use for one of those crappy jumpers I used to get for Christmas.
Hey, I've still got that drill! I used it to put the shelves up at the weekend. Yay!
"Feed me! … Stop dicking around with all this kitchen crap and FEED ME!"
There's always one screw … one fucking awkward screw you just can't get at.Yay for a nice new gas hob!
Actually I could do with a new one here but bollocks to making another kitchen; I'll pay some other fucker to do that.
Anyhoo … I kinda liked that kitchen.
It was bigger than the crappy one I'm stuck with today.Hey ho.
So … There you have it.
I can cook, iron and put up shelves.
All I need now is a pretty girl to do all that stuff for …
… with a cute bippy, of course.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Worky
Much too rushed and busy to post.
Maybe tomorrow - when I am working from home - I'll look up some of the photos of all the work I did on my first house to thrill Lynn. Hee hee.
TTFN.
Maybe tomorrow - when I am working from home - I'll look up some of the photos of all the work I did on my first house to thrill Lynn. Hee hee.
TTFN.
Sunday, March 08, 2009
What's Cooking With Dive? Another Sweary Risotto
Hokay … Mark keeps asking for more cookery posts but I've not really got time to do much at the moment so to tide him over, here's yet another risotto (I'm gonna keep on posting risottos until the Yanks learn how to pronounce the word correctly) which I just made after spending the day putting up shelves in the gym.
Today, it's Squealy Piggy And Silly Mushroom Risotto.
Here's the piggy.
You know the drill: Local … Organic … Free range.
This is tenderloin from a local farm where the pigs are given free run of a huge deciduous wood and root amongst acorns, wild garlic, pignuts and herbs. It is my favourite place for pork; the flavour and texture of the meat is simply awesome.
And here are the silly mushrooms: Today I'm using yellow oysters, plus ほんしめじ andしろしめじ mushrooms (all locally grown and organic).
Sainsbury's do a non-organic "Taste The Difference" selection like this but I can get them cheaper, MUCH fresher and of course organic from the mushroom farm.
Flavour, people … FLAVOUR!
Right!
Pinnies on.
Let's get cooking.
First up:
Slice up that yummy tenderloin into greedy bite-sized pieces and whop 'em in a red hot pan.
Slap!
Sizzle!
Yay!
Brown those suckers off.
Here's yet another reason (as if you need another one apart from taste, texture, health and animal welfare) for always using organic: try this with factory-produced industrial/chemical "pork" and all you'll get is a panful of bubbling water with some icky little bits of "meat" floating in it and … er … not going brown.
Not only was this piggy allowed a fun life in the wild woods but it was not pumped full of growth hormones and antibiotics, fed on the bits of other animals we deem unfit to eat and killed at six weeks old; this merry little porker took six months of squealing and rooting and running free to reach the same size as an industrial/chemical piglet (poor little fuckers) and got to eat what it damned-well pleased.
And after it was slaughtered, it was not pumped full of water to bulk up its weight for profiteering supermarkets (anyone idiotic enough to buy "meat" from a supermarket deserves a fucking hard slap around the head on top of all the health problems they'll be storing up for themselves).
Hence: Slap an organic piggy in the pan and it browns properly, rather than just sits there and boils in a kind of unpleasant scummy water.
When it's done, slip it onto a plate and then pour a generous glass of good chardonnay into the pan to de-glaze it.
Scrub the wine around until it picks up all of that delicious brown porky-flavour and - when the pan is clean - pour the whole lot into your stock (for which, see many sweary imprecations in past posts and in particular this post on stock-making).
Righto … Whap that pan back on the heat.
Good.
Next - as always - top-bollocks olive oil; I'm using my favourite Gallo "Grande Escolha" as the intensity will complement the richness of the piggy and mushroom flavours.
Sploosh a good load in there and whap the heat up.
When it's hot enough, throw in a rough-chopped strong organic onion and a couple of cloves of the best garlic money can buy, then stir it around and reduce the heat to minimum so that lot sweats out for a couple of minutes.
When that's done, add your organic Arborio rice and hit the heat again, mixing the whole lot well so that every grain is coated in the hot, aromatic oil.
You know what's coming:
Olfactory Orgasm Time! Woohoo!
Add another generous glass of totally excellent chardonnay and a handful of roughly torn basil leaves …
Stir …
I N H A L E …
If that isn't one of the finest experiences in the known universe then I'm Rush fucking Limbaugh.
Hokay; we've done risotto enough times now for everyone to know all about adding the glorious home-made stock a sploosh at a time, allowing each beautiful spoonful to soak right into the rice until it begins to get gloopy.
The wine and pork-browning from earlier will make this particular risotto a nice comforting autumnal brown. Mmmmmmmm …
When you've only got around a cup of stock left, toss in the guppins.
Browned pork and mushrooms.
Yum!
Slowly add the rest of the stock and wait for the Magic Gloopy Moment™ when it's time to add a tablespoon of white truffle oil (fuck me! Can you smell that?) turn off the heat, finely grate a heap of organic Parmesan in there, stir it around and then LEAVE IT for a minute or two to do its sex thang.
While it's doing that, avert your eyes in a decorous manner and rip the shit out of the herbs on the windowsill to make a garnish.
Plate it up.
Roughly grate some more Parmesan on top.
Garnish.
Eat the fucker.
Squealy piggy and silly mushroom risotto.
Enjoy.
I know I did.
And now I'm enjoying the aftertaste with some more wine.
Mmmmmmmmm …
Today, it's Squealy Piggy And Silly Mushroom Risotto.
Here's the piggy.You know the drill: Local … Organic … Free range.
This is tenderloin from a local farm where the pigs are given free run of a huge deciduous wood and root amongst acorns, wild garlic, pignuts and herbs. It is my favourite place for pork; the flavour and texture of the meat is simply awesome.
And here are the silly mushrooms: Today I'm using yellow oysters, plus ほんしめじ andしろしめじ mushrooms (all locally grown and organic).Sainsbury's do a non-organic "Taste The Difference" selection like this but I can get them cheaper, MUCH fresher and of course organic from the mushroom farm.
Flavour, people … FLAVOUR!
Right!
Pinnies on.
Let's get cooking.
First up:
Slice up that yummy tenderloin into greedy bite-sized pieces and whop 'em in a red hot pan.
Slap!
Sizzle!
Yay!
Brown those suckers off.
Here's yet another reason (as if you need another one apart from taste, texture, health and animal welfare) for always using organic: try this with factory-produced industrial/chemical "pork" and all you'll get is a panful of bubbling water with some icky little bits of "meat" floating in it and … er … not going brown.Not only was this piggy allowed a fun life in the wild woods but it was not pumped full of growth hormones and antibiotics, fed on the bits of other animals we deem unfit to eat and killed at six weeks old; this merry little porker took six months of squealing and rooting and running free to reach the same size as an industrial/chemical piglet (poor little fuckers) and got to eat what it damned-well pleased.
And after it was slaughtered, it was not pumped full of water to bulk up its weight for profiteering supermarkets (anyone idiotic enough to buy "meat" from a supermarket deserves a fucking hard slap around the head on top of all the health problems they'll be storing up for themselves).
Hence: Slap an organic piggy in the pan and it browns properly, rather than just sits there and boils in a kind of unpleasant scummy water.
When it's done, slip it onto a plate and then pour a generous glass of good chardonnay into the pan to de-glaze it.Scrub the wine around until it picks up all of that delicious brown porky-flavour and - when the pan is clean - pour the whole lot into your stock (for which, see many sweary imprecations in past posts and in particular this post on stock-making).
Righto … Whap that pan back on the heat.Good.
Next - as always - top-bollocks olive oil; I'm using my favourite Gallo "Grande Escolha" as the intensity will complement the richness of the piggy and mushroom flavours.
Sploosh a good load in there and whap the heat up.
When it's hot enough, throw in a rough-chopped strong organic onion and a couple of cloves of the best garlic money can buy, then stir it around and reduce the heat to minimum so that lot sweats out for a couple of minutes.
When that's done, add your organic Arborio rice and hit the heat again, mixing the whole lot well so that every grain is coated in the hot, aromatic oil.
You know what's coming:Olfactory Orgasm Time! Woohoo!
Add another generous glass of totally excellent chardonnay and a handful of roughly torn basil leaves …
Stir …
I N H A L E …
If that isn't one of the finest experiences in the known universe then I'm Rush fucking Limbaugh.
Hokay; we've done risotto enough times now for everyone to know all about adding the glorious home-made stock a sploosh at a time, allowing each beautiful spoonful to soak right into the rice until it begins to get gloopy.
The wine and pork-browning from earlier will make this particular risotto a nice comforting autumnal brown. Mmmmmmmm …
When you've only got around a cup of stock left, toss in the guppins.Browned pork and mushrooms.
Yum!
Slowly add the rest of the stock and wait for the Magic Gloopy Moment™ when it's time to add a tablespoon of white truffle oil (fuck me! Can you smell that?) turn off the heat, finely grate a heap of organic Parmesan in there, stir it around and then LEAVE IT for a minute or two to do its sex thang.While it's doing that, avert your eyes in a decorous manner and rip the shit out of the herbs on the windowsill to make a garnish.
Plate it up.Roughly grate some more Parmesan on top.
Garnish.
Eat the fucker.
Squealy piggy and silly mushroom risotto.
Enjoy.
I know I did.
And now I'm enjoying the aftertaste with some more wine.
Mmmmmmmmm …
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