Losers.com

This is a genuine message that my housemate has JUST recieved from match.com.  If this doesn’t make you laugh then I don’t know what would:

“hey, how are you? did you have a good christmas and new year? I think you did say you were not interested a while ago, but you have looked at me since, so thought i’d just drop an email
Hope all is well, and hopefully hear back from you!

‘Name withheld’ x”

Danyl Johnson drives me to drink*

So continues my pathetic effort to have at least one day without wine.  Until 8.45 pm I was well on course.  It has been a fairly indulgent weekend of wine, food and Christmas shopping in charming Norfolk villages so it didn’t seem like a hardship to forgo my usual Sunday night glass of wine.  Hell, there was even talk of me not drinking until I go out for dinner on Thursday night, but then something happened, and it happened in the most unusual way…

Now, unlike some people, I am not ashamed to admit that I have been following the X-Factor (though I guess I should be) and my housemate and neighbours are actually ‘fans’, so I have been roped in and forced to watch this godwaful tosh.  Who am I kidding?  I have grown to quite like critiquing Cheryl’s dresses, Danni’s eyebrows and everything about Louis, but tonight was different.  After the afore-mentioned long weekend, I came home an hour before X-Factor kick-off and just wanted a bath and bed.  It was then that I was informed by the fans of Chatham Place (as they will henceforth be known) that we were going to the Penta Hotel opposite to watch the results in the ‘Penta Lounge’ (see what they did there?)  I protested for a few seconds, then merrily hopped in the bath, summoning the energy to go out (with a well-meaning cherry-flavoured herbal tea) and vowing a night of abstinence.  Oh, I tell you, it was going so well.  There was even free coca cola – what more could a want-to-be teetotal require from a night out?!  Well, 45 mins into the show disaster struck.  Danyl Johnson was voted in.  Now, to some of you out there this might be disaster enough (it was to us), but there is more to come.  You see, Danny-boy is a Reading lad and, after an incredibly scary standing ovation (I’m not really sure why we were so surprised), the loving crowd (which mst have included many of his nearest and dearest) decided to show their support of the local chap by cracking open some free bubbly.  Now, I hope you’ll sympathise with me here, free fizz is surely too much for most people to pass on?  Well, I was going to do it, honsetly, but then I remembered my duties and realised that I has to accept a glass (of what turned out to be Prosecco) so I could pose for a photo for you to see.  Here it is, I hope you appreciate what I sacrificed for you:

*for Jedward’s sake please don’t sue me

Aussie rules

It is a day of mixed emotions, as I returned home tonight find that, finally, we have the internet.  Firstly, and primarily, I felt joy.  I could now finally do all those millions of things that I have been meaning to do ever since we moved in in August, but haven’t been able to do through a Blackberry or at work, like…um, check my LoveFilm list and, er, see who’s requested to follow me on Twitter…I even checked BBC weather, just because it doesn’t work so well on mobile devices.  This is when the secondary emotion started to kick in; I have just spent the last two hours in front of my mac doing absolutely bob-shag all.  Sure, I’ve checked ‘my wall’, looked for some new trainers (is red too much?) and had a read of my 28 emails (25 of which were junk newsletters), but despite being glued to the screen (and, as a result, missing a chunk of detail in tonight’s Masterchef final), I haven’t actually done anything worthwhile.  So, I am going to tell you a little story and then turn this damn machine off.  I’ve spent too many hours in front of a computer today already to be addicted to my Mac:

I have been wanting to try an authentic Chinese mooncake for a while now.  I have been warned by colleagues in Hong Kong that they are truly disgusting, but never the less, I wanted to taste one.  The full moon festival was approaching and I thought it would be  my perfect opportunity to finally taste one of these delicacies in a trip to London’s China Town.  Alas, I was away (in Berlin, it was nice – worth a trip, but very cold this time of year), so my chance passed me by.  However, yesterday a colleague at work gave me a pleasant surprise when she told me that, on a recent trip to Hong Kong, she had met with our marketing guy over there who, knowing of my gastronomic desire, had given her a mooncake to take back for me.  Now, this would have been perfect, except for one thing; they were going to Australia before returning to the UK.  The problem with this is that the customs lady took one look at the gift in question, wipped out her knife, cutting the cake apart, and then, seeing the pickled egg at in the centre, confiscated it.  So I was left with a (very pretty) tin and a note from the Aussie customs informing me of the contents’ fate.  I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.  But I think the former is probably the best option, so here is my letter from the Aussies (yes, I know the format is a bit messed up, click on the right one and it will be big – I’ve got better things to do with my time than mess about with html at 10.40pm…like watch the BNP on Question Time!):

Ps. the whole thing reminds me of my favourite episode of The Simpsons, where Bart introduces the bullfrog to Australia…No?…”knifey spooney”. .?  Anyone?

HEL of a good time

What a week, and it’s only Dienstag! Not only have I pretty much decided that I will probably, almost certainly, unless otherwise persuaded, climb Mt Kilimanjaro next year, but I have also taken my first steps towards swing-dancing goddess-dom and soft porn starlet, amongst a whole host of other adventures.

I knew it was going to be a good ‘un when Monday brought with it the delights of “persepolis”, an animated film about a girl growing up in Iran during the 70s and 80s.  Serious as this sounds (and was.  I cried, but no surprise there), it was one of the best things I have watched on my LoveFilm subscription.  It was also accompanied by a hearty chat to a long-lost friend, so things were looking pretty promising (I’ll ignore my dream about murderous Nigerian refugee soldiers for now).

Then today, despite waking up at what seemed like 4.30am, I have had a pretty productive day.  My housemate and I went to our first Lindy Hop / Swing dance class.  I admit that I was skeptical.  A room of old nostalgic couples reminiscing about their heydays didn’t seem like the ideal Tuesday evening activity (particularly when offered a night at Great Expectations, with cheap home made food and pool), but the love of the brass music spurred me on.  And what a good job too; it was great.  Yes there were a few oddities dotted around the room…the ages/genders of one or two were hard to make out at times, but we had fun and will certainly be continuing with our quest to become the rock n roll queens of Reading.  On returning home I was invited to the John Lewis Reading Bingo Night this Friday and got irrationally over-excited about it (I’ve never played bingo and there are some pretty cool prizes up for grabs).

So, as much as these activities raised my excitement levels, I needed to act my age and plan some fun of a different kind.  At this point my housemates decided we ought to write The Highway To HEL (very clever pun devised by me – Hannah, Emily and Lizzie…see what I did there?).  This is a list of all the things we want to do with our time in Reading, and consists of various activities from the fairly mundane (eating at the veggie Indian down the road) through the exciting (holding a Come Dine With Me week), to the downright stupid (Lizzie’s Reverse-a-day, where we basically get drunk at breakfast and then spend a day backwards until we end up reading the papers with coffee at 9pm).  Part of this list is our ‘HEL Yeah’ calendar.  Scoff ye not, this is going to be a best-seller.  Plans are underway for the three of us to create our very own 12 month calendar, complete with ‘tasteful’ nude shots of me in just my cycle helmet and Lizzie in her landlord’s toolbelt.  Watch this space.

So, as I retire to my attic room bed, I will sleep safe in the knowledge that, not only will this week bring much ’sensible’ excitment (did I mention that I am going to my first Grown Up Wedding?) but the coming months will be filled with camping weekends, ’90s nights and trips to the ultimately chavvy Riley’s Snooker Hall…bring on The Highway To HEL!

Heston’s services. But not on the M4.

On Thursday it was my birthday.  26 is how old I am.  I am very happy about this.  It was also the first year that I can remember where I didn’t take the day off and I wasn’t sure how I’d take it.  However, I had a grand old day, due mainly to our trip to The Little Chef in Popham; the one Heston Blumenthal took over in that TV series (which I didn’t actually watch).

It was brilliant!  The car parking spaces had little chefs on them (left. This may not be a new thing; it’s been a while since I visited an actual Little Chef, but it made me do a little jig none-the-less), and the ceiling inside was painted like the sky with seagulls!  Brilliant.  The food was nice too.  I had braised Ox cheeks (is that bum or face?) and a glass of Shiraz Viognier (you can only imagine how excited I was to learn that they were licensed!) and although the wine was a bit old-tasting, I wasn’t about to complain, despite encouragement from my wine industry colleagues.  It was definitely a good value, fun meal.  I don’t think anything cost more that £10 and everyone seemed pretty happy with their fodder – the Olympic breakfast didn’t get the best reviews, but at little over £6 (or thereabouts), how good is a motorway fry-up going to be?

The staff were very nice, the toilets were interesting – different soundtracks in each cubicle and food facts on the walls – plus they give you free jelly beans at the end (and they gave my boss a free copy of OK’s Peter and Jordan issue).  I was satisfied.  My only silly little criticism is that you can’t move the stools towards the table because they are attached to the floors – something that might nark shorter people in particular, but I was pleased to see that they offered thick-cut chips and fries as separate options – good work, they are totally different dishes!

If you go expecting a cut-price Fat Duck experience, you’ll obviously be disappointed, but compared to any other roadside dining experience I have had in England, it comes out tops (not as good as the Road Kill cafe in NZ though, where we ate Possum burgers), but high five Heston (this Spanish girl obviously agreed – right).

PS.  I also just want to thank the lovely taxi driver who directed me on to the North Circular today.  He wound down his window to check I was OK when he saw me studying an out-of-date AA road map at a red light in Royal Oak earlier on this afternoon and let me follow him until I was almost there; a true tale of innercity compassion.  Must get a Tom Tom (or a new map).

We’re all going to die

Or so the government would like us to think, if the swine flu leaflets are to be believed. I have been looking forward to getting my advice slip in the post, purely out of sick fascination.  Foolishly, I expected them to be down-playing the virus, surely that would have been wise; England is a nation of natural hypochondriacs, after all.  So imagine my surprise when this landed on my doorstep:

Seriously?!?  The cover alone makes even me panic.  Infected spittle flies everywhere while this virile, healthy-looking man dies in front of our very eyes!  Hell, if he’s at risk, I’d better take me some drugs!  What do I need to know? Tell me, oh government officials!

Firstly they say that no one will have immunity to it and that everyone is at risk.  OK, what else?  Everyday items like TV remotes are probably infected.  But it’s alright, they have been planning for a flu epidemic for a number of years (bastards) and apparently some drugs can reduce your illness by – wait for it – one whole day.  Whoop de doo.

I could rant for a while about this, but I will leave you with this final piece of advice: don’t forget to get a network of ‘Flu Friends’; handy paranoid acquaintances, who will help form a deathly Neighbourhood Watch group to buy you supplies so you don’t have to leave the house and infect others – because don’t forget that even face masks don’t protect people from becoming infected.

It’s good to talk

Today I got chatting to some marathon runners whilst on the tube on my way home.  Now, I do appreciate that it is not common practice to strike up casual chit-chat with people on the underground – heavens, some might even think it one of the most serious of social taboos – but they were from Ireland, so I thought it would be OK.  They first came on the carriage a couple of stops after me and I realised, by their kit-bags and ‘Dublin Marathon 2009′ T-shirts, that they must have run the London Marathon today.  For some reason this fascinated me.  Here was a group of middle aged men who had all just done the most incredible athletic feat, yet were now just chatting amongst themselves and casually leafing though the Sunday papers – it made me think about all the people I see every day on the tube, who just pass by, but may well have the most fantastic and unusual stories to relate, if only I was able to talk to them.

With this in mind, I unplugged my ears from the sounds of Stevie Wonder and decided to ask them if they really had just run the race (they loved it, but everyone else on the tube obviously thought I should have been certified then and there).  Anyway, it turns out that the man next to me had done it in a weelchair and had been racing since the age of 21 (a long time in his case). Then they all chipped in for a bit of the action and started offering me excersise tips and advice, as well as filling me in on the history of their nicknames etc (to be honest, they had such strong accents and were on such a high, a lot of my contribution was mere guess-work and nodding).  I left them a few stops later, bidding them farewell and good luck, as they were all of to race the Dublin Marathon tomorrow.  Madmen.  But I do wish it was more acceptable to talk to strangers.

On an aside note, I saw ‘State of Play’ today and, although it was a very long film, it really was excellent – I even thought Ben Affleck was good, and that’s saying summat.

More toilet talk

There is some serious sh*t going down in my street.  Literally.  Following on from my rant about the dog that deposits the hairiest poos ever, today I saw them yet again…but they were white.  Now, from TV programmes and student ranger experience, I know that white plops are caused by the calcium in the bones of an animal’s diet.  This scares me.  Have I inadvertently uncovered a covert murder operation – a la Sweeny Tod but in dog-food style?  I’m actually wondering whether or not I should even post this, for fear that I will get found out and assiasinated in the night…

Fatima

Not only has this Easter weekend been fabulous; various wonderful visitors, parties, wine and a truly excellent Easter egg hunt, I have also finally found a soulmate for my goldfish, Santiago.  Her name is Fatima and today I saw them courting in the pond.  You may or may not remember the story of Santiago, a goldfish rescued from a fair, presumed dead, who then proved his mettle by surviving the cold Winter and frozen waters of 2007/8 emerging as a massive, sheening, golden beauty.  Anyway, we decided that it was now time for this goldfish to become a man.  Metaphorically.

So, Saturday saw us head to Notcutts garden centre to pick out his betrothed, rather like an arranged marriage, if you will.  This is not actually her, but it looks just like her (apart from the freckle above her right fin):

My work here is done and there’s now a lorra, lorra love going on in our pond.  Just call me Cilla.

Mark Alder and the Baudelaires

I’ve been a bit lame recently when it’s come to writing on this wee blog.  The truth is that I haven’t felt the bolt of inspiration strike, like it has so often before.  Looking back on my last month though, I have actually done some pretty cool things - I’ve been to The Harrow at Little Bedwyn (a Michelin starred restaurant), I’ve sipped at Weissbier in a pub in Borough Market next to Oz Clarke and I’ve drunk 1949 Sauternes (not to mention having my first experience of Sing-Star) – all very blog-worthy activities, but they just couldn’t quite get me to where I am now; sat in front of the old laptop, tip-tapping away at the shiny white keys.  

However, the feeling did strike me in a rather unexpected place on Friday (no jokes please); at my friend’s gig.  Now, I am not one to harp about friends’ talents and, if I’m honest, watching people I know perform in bands usually makes me cringe somewhere deep inside but this was different.  Not that I expected anything else.  Mark has been my friend for a good few years now and I have always enjoyed watching him play solo when he’s been able to make it up to Reading, but on Friday I finally made it to see him with his band ( Mark Alder and The Baudelaires), and it was something else.  I’m not really sure what to write here, unlike talking about a film, or writing about a meal / bottle of wine, writing about bands is not something I really do a lot.  Basically it was ace.  It was so good that I would even go to see these guys play if I didn’t know them from Adam.  I’m not even going to compare them to anyone else music-wise, I’m sure they’d have their own comparisons to make, but I can assure you that if you go to check them out, you will not be disappointed.  Toe-tappingly, hip-bobbingly, ‘let’s-just blinkin-dance-the-night-away’ good.

In fact, a newly-made friend pinned it down precisely when she said “its just so nice to have a friend who’s in a band that I actually want to go and see…one that I don’t have to pretend to like more than I do”…or words to that effect.