Katie And Dive Do London Pt.1

I wish they all could be California girls …

For those of you who don't yet haunt Katiefornia, please allow me to introduce the smartest, funniest, coolest and most truly beautiful person in the San Francisco Bay area, the delightful Katie.

Katie's been staying with her wonderful friend Eric in Paris (not PDP Eric) and has just spent a spectacular few days in Tuscany before heading up here to rainy London to bring sunshine and happiness to Old Dive.

Here's what we got up to … (cue swirly effect and tinkly, time-travel music).

4:40 AM, Tuesday morning, I am dashing round the house like a mad thing, making sure I have camera batteries, changeable layers of clothing (the weather forecast says storm force winds and torrential, horizontal rain but when have they ever been right?), my "big boys' brolly"; the storm-proof one that's hefty enough for me to use as a walking stick in case my back goes again, and loads more crap.
It turns out my bag for the day is as big as Katie's for her entire stay in London; she is a seasoned planet-hopper and knows how to travel light.

Hokay … Drive into Norwich and get on the stupid train.
I leave an hour early which is just as well because my train is an hour late (I am a seasoned commuter and I know how these things happen).

So … I get to London before Katie's train is due in.
Rather than meet her at her hotel I hie me to the glory that is St.Pancras railway station, home of jolly Sir John Betjeman, here standing near the famous clock and gazing at the quite beautifully restored Victorian roof that now houses the terminal for Eurostar trains coming in from Paris and Brussels.

Unlike my own trains, these sleek beauties run on time.
The middle one has just pulled in to platform 7 at 09:52 on the dot, having hauled its precious cargo all the way from Paris Gard du Nord.

Downstairs at the ARRIVALS gate I scan the hundreds of faces and am beginning to wonder whether Katie has missed her train when suddenly she is there, not looking for me in the crowd as we're due to meet at the hotel.
I grab a hasty and blurred photo and chase after her.

There is much squealing and hugging.
I love it when blogs collide.

St.Pancras station is currently being restored. It is my favourite station; an architectural gem.

Just along Euston Road and around the corner we enter Bloomsbury - Virginia Woolf country - where we find Katie's hotel nestled in a beautiful, tree-lined crescent with a little park. It's a haven from the traffic noise and bustle just a hundred yards away.
That's Katie's room, arrowed; a quaint, Dickensian garret room with a view over the park and the massive old plane trees and the tennis courts below.

It is only a couple of streets away from the mutant Las Vegas monstrosity that Mme and MB stayed at a few weeks ago and which gave MB and I such a fit of architects' giggles.
Katie and I pass it on our way into the city and decide she has made the right choice. I am so impressed with the little hotel that the next time I'm stuck in London with crap trains it's the first place I'll be heading to look for a room.

So anyhoo …
No sooner is Katie booked in than we are heading out across the city, aiming in a generally meandering way for the utterly breathtaking Rothko Show at Tate Modern; the first in a marathon series of cultural highlights we gleefully devour over the coming days.

Just around the corner from the hotel Katie screeches to a halt and photographs this cool mosaic entrance to one of the houses.
This sets the tone for the entire trip. For anyone who doesn't remember this fabulous creation, Katie is - amongst a myriad of other talents - a great mosaicist and hunting them down becomes our quest.

But a whole lot happens before we hit the mosaic trail …
Tune in tomorrow for the first part of our epic two day trek.

Let's Make A Racket - XXVIII

Oh, crap!

I forgot to post a racket.
Having been suitably slapped, here's a quickie that's pretty apt for the crappy way I was feeling before hitting London with the wonderful Katie.

"Sometimes I Wish That I Was Dead."

Hee hee hee.

Screw That

Well … Anyone who hates me can blame Katie for my return; she's kept me smiling and laughing for two days and she made the sun come out and the skies turn blue.

The rest of you get a huge hug, grateful thanks and an abject apology for the way I pouted and threw my toys out of my pram.

With neighbours like you guys, Blogville is a pretty good place to live.

Especial thanks to someone who didn't comment but whose emails helped so much.

And GG: I'm all yours (as well you know). Let me know when you're coming and we'll trash London in spectacular style.

Screw This

I've had enough.
It's not just today; I've been feeling a little disheartened for a while now (about four hours sleep over the past ten days hasn't helped); the low self-esteem monster has been crawling out from under the bed to tell me maybe I really am just a worthless piece of shit.

I'm going to go see Katie in London tomorrow and hopefully I'll come back refreshed and cheerful.
Then I'll sit down and decide whether writing this crap every day is worth all the effort or not.

Either there'll be a bunch of happy photos of Katie in London or I'll get the fuck out of Blogville.
I really don't know.
Right now I'm just heartily sick of it all.

What's Cooking With Dive - Nothing

Here's a quickie for those folk who are scared shitless by their cookers.

This was inspired by visiting the home of a relative of a friend of a friend and finding nothing in the kitchen except a cooker that had never been used, a filth-encrusted microwave, a fridge full of cheap lager and crap and mountains of rotting take-out cartons.
These people would run screaming from a fresh vegetable.
I need not add (but I will anyway) that their living room consisted of a large sofa, a recliner, a fucking great TV and nothing else. Not a single book in the entire house.
And yes, they were fat; yes, they were ignorant and yes, they were belligerently right-wing, racist and disgusting.

Don't worry … I kept "Dive" on a leash and was polite for my hugely embarrassed friend's sake; we were only in there for a few minutes to pick up the friend of a friend and I certainly won't be going back.
But that got me thinking (as well as showering as soon as I got home) about something that people like that might be able to eat that would not try to kill them; indeed it may even encourage the growth of a brain cell.

So …
Today's post:

People who don't bother to prepare and cook fresh food from scratch every day are fucking weird (and don't give me the "no time" argument; I work full time and commute seven hours a day and I can still do it; so can they).
I just don't understand 'em.
Total losers.
They are mindless, lazy and lethargic; they're usually grossly overweight; they have health problems when they're older; their kids are hyperactive and allergic to life and it's all their own stupid fault.
People who eat pre-prepared supermarket crap or (God forbid) put junk food into their mouths should be denied medical treatment by law.
If they feed that crap to their children they should be prosecuted for child abuse.
They are true morons.

But sadly they do exist.

So today we'll be avoiding the hob and the oven and using one piece of the kitchen that those people are all too familiar with: the fridge.
I refuse to be PC about them; obesity is - in the vast majority of cases - a self-inflicted injury caused by greed and ignorance, sheer laziness and the denial of reality.

When we're in Norwich for breakfast on Saturdays we see a lot of fat fuckers waddling around with their globular progeny in orbit around them (at least they can keep an eye on their kids … it's impossible for the little buggers to escape their parents' gravitational pull).
Phil invariably gets the prognosis spot on: "They've got a problem with their feet … They can't keep 'em away from the fucking fridge."

Being the generous and charitable person that I am, today's post is my small gift to the lardy and lazy; something quick and healthy that doesn't involve any effort other than hauling their fat arses off the sofa and into the kitchen for a few minutes and finding a different use for their fridge.

Right …
Let's start with some tuna.
Triple-A grade tuna from my old schoolfriend David the fishmonger.
I'd actually intended making sashimi but he didn't have any sashimi-grade fatty tuna belly last week so I got this instead. Yummier and far more tender than the usual tuna steak you'd use on the grill and fabulously flavourful.
Just ask your fishmonger a few days in advance and they'll get it in for you.

So …
This is all there is to it:
Mix up a mess consisting of pulses of some sort … I chose cannellini beans but you can use whatever's to hand; chickpeas, any other pulse or maybe bulghur wheat.
Whatever …
Rip up some basil and coriander leaves (that's cilantro for the Colonials) and toss it in there with some REALLY good quality olive oil (not the crap you get in supermarkets … why, oh why? etc. …), the juice from half a lemon and a few black peppercorns you've pounded the crap out of with a pestle and mortar.

Some people might add some balsamic vinegar or some toasted pine nuts or chunked cucumber but I'm keeping it simple as it's to help simple people.

Some people might add salt, but they're twats. If you crave that crap, add it to your own plate at the table.

Now slice up your yummy raw tuna into whatever sized pieces you feel you will enjoy putting into your mouth and add it to the mess in the bowl.
Give the whole lot a good mix with your fingers, then cling-film it and chuck it in the fridge.

The next day, bright and early, take a nice walk into the village and exchange the usual pleasantries with your baker.
If you don't live in a quaint little village with a great local bakery then perhaps it's time you considered moving house.
Buy some still-warm fresh rolls from him.

When you get home, fetch the bowl out of the fridge and let it sit for a while so it's not too chilled for the flavour of the tuna to come through.

Then simply empty the bowl onto a plate, add a couple of rolls, pour out some soy as a dippy-thang for the tuna and eat something satisfyingly filling yet mildly healthy for a change.

This has been a public service announcement on behalf of fat lazy fuckers.

Woof

Having giggled at Rich's wonderful dog cartoon the other day, this morning my Daily Comics widget gave me this one.

Particularly apt for a Sunday.

Short Nothing Filler Post (yet again)

At last my back is sufficiently healed that I can limp about without my stupid stick.
Mind you, I still lurch like Quasimodo's uglier brother.

On the way back from breakfast and shopping in the city this morning the news bulletin reported the return of Mandy to government and the OJ trial verdict.

Er … What the fuck?

I thought I'd gone through a time warp into a past only slightly less hideous than today's fucked-up world.
Then I realised what must have happened: at long last they've run out of news.
We've finally reached the point in time where we've done every crappy thing that it's possible to do so we've now got to go back and suffer it all again in the form of fucking repeats.

Somebody on the News Quiz this week mentioned that the world today seems like the eighties in reverse: America invades Afghanistan while Russia is the oil rich crapitalist haven for billionaires.
It's like they're taking turns.
That is so fucking annoying.

At least John Mc.Cain will be happy; in a few years he can go back and invade Vietnam again.
I don't understand how the man can possibly stand there with a straight face and say "Vote for me! I'm proud to remind you that I took part in an illegal war where America got it's ass kicked by people in pyjamas! And they kicked MY ass, too! That makes me an ideal candidate for President."
I've been keeping out of the US for a bit as what I've got to say would only upset people. This, however, is an entertaining read from today's Guardian Book Reviews.

Is it just me or are we just re-hashing past fuck-ups?
Whatever … if the eighties comes back, no WAY am I getting a poodle perm!
Shit … a fat, balding bloke in spandex. That's too grim to even think about.

Don't mind me … I'm just sitting here in the dark, listening to old Rickie Lee Jones albums and feeling crappy.

At Last! Phil's Goodwood Video!

Woohoo!

Right. Strap yourselves in and play this little video FUCKING LOUD! Preferably through a decent set of headphones.

You may or may not remember that this summer at the Goodwood Festival of Speed, little brother Phil got to tear up the hill in a gloriously wonderful Lotus 2-Eleven racing car.

For the full story, click on this link before waching the video.

This is the very car.
You can buy one of these yourself if you fancy trying this at home.

And here it is just afterwards, back in the paddock, with Phil looking justifiably chuffed.
If you look on the rollbar you'll see the tiny little video camera that was used to film this.

Here are Phil and Nick returning to the paddock after their run.

And here is the run itself.
Watching the video you don't get much of an impression of the fantastic speed they're travelling at, nor of the sheer, pants-wetting terror of "The Wall" as it flashes by on the left about half-way up the course, but it's still as cool as fuck. A slightly bigger but compressed version is available here on YouTube if you fancy.

Enjoy!

Let's Make A Racket - XXVII

It's Thursday so it must be time once again to endure a Racket.
It's been over six months since I started this crap and looking back over the past twenty-six weekly cacophonies it is with tremendous pride that I notice the standard has been steadily declining since day one.

This week we hit a new and fœtid layer in the splattery brown depths of The Death Of Music with a lurching, shambolic and magnificently awful version of Tom Waits' "Heartattack And Vine".

I'm not sure if Steve even knows the words to this one.
It is one of those tracks from the more copiously lubricated end of a Blues Club session where he would simply launch into a song without any consideration as to whether any of us actually know it (including - specifically in this case - himself).

At least it's got a couple of guitar solos spattered across it that I kinda like … Nothing flashy, just lazy fingerpicking with a few examples of that nice finger-vibrato that ze weemen seem to think is my best feature (I can't think why).

Laurie plays some nice tasteful sax, too. As for the rest of it: I think it's best listened to after drinking a lot (the same way it was played).

Grumble

I put my stupid back out last Thursday and it doesn't seem to want to get better; I'm still hicking around with a stick today.
Normally, this happens around once or twice a year; I'll do something utterly trivial, like lean slightly forward and BANG … Flat on my back for several days and then another week of hicking around with a bloody stick.
I'm sick of it.
Moan, moan, moan, bloody grumble and moan.
Having said that, I have at least had lots of good swearing practice.
Every cloud has a silver lining? Bollocks.
Every cloud is just another fucking cloud.

Happy days …