I am with cold and have been deaf in my right sodding ear now since Sunday when washing the luxurious hair on my sweet little head I blasted a jet of water right into the side of my brains. Pardon? What? It’s really bastard annoying.
The weekend was unremarkable but quite lovely. I’m fully resigned to all this winter nonsense. At some point on Friday men, big men, from the council arrived and removed all the dead branches and leaves from the trees down the street, including the fellow outside my flat. Obviously I responded to this with casseroles and stews, wines and newspapers. Actually, apart from a spot of shopping (for food and a scarf, I left mine in the pub last week and what with this cold and all…Pardon?) Myfwt and I spent virtually all of it in the flat watching Scrapheap Challenge, Come Dine with Me and Top Gear (s) to accompany the gastric delights. Quick recipe for you, this was so good I nearly grated my helmet, venison and wine sausages (in season at Sainzburry at the mo) browned and chopped up, par boiled sliced potatoes (use Maris Piper, mmm? What? Yes MARIS PIPER…) and flash fry roughly chopped onion, garlic, leeks and peas. Season the lot, bung in some herbs and all that shit, then layer the ingredients in a oven proof dish: potato, veg, sausage, potato, veg sausage etc., slosh half a pint of chicken stock and red wine over the lot and shove in the oven for an hour and half. I reckon it’s one of the best things I’ve had all year.
Yesterday morning I was up at 6.30am. It was dark and weird. I dressed, jumped on the bitch of blackness and rode over to my folks in the rush hour as the dawn broke. It was an oddly serene experience, despite all the suits in their fucking cars arsing about. I dropped the bike orf and dad and I headed up to Birmingham for the 2007 International Bike show at the NEC. We’ve been going to this show since I was a wee nipper, it used to be held at Earl’s Court but was moved to the Midlands to make it more accessible to the Northern types, and I still retain the same mawkish delight sitting on an array of beautifully crafted metal for the purposes of satisfying my groundless urge to ride motorcycles. I sat on the updated version of the black bitch, keeerrrchhing! I will have one next year, but the most gorgeous bike I sat on was the new Ducati 1098, an unfeasibly beautiful machine but not practical for everyday use sadly. If I had the cash and a garage I’d bite off my mum arms to have one in my possession. Dad and I stuffed our eyes for a few hours, pausing only for lunch, a Subway sandwich which was fucking fantastic, despite the chilli causing the old man some concern in advance of the following days ablutions, and returned to the bikes for some more giggling.
The journey back home was choc-full-o nattering, I was a little rushed for time as I had to get back home, meet Myfwt, and get into town in time for the Ballet at the Royal Albert Hall, St Petersburg Ballet were performing fucking Swan Lake, and my client had given us the best box in the house.
I’ve decided to review the episode in Watch With Mothers, link to the right. Check back later. In the meantime, no music but this. It’s utterly hilarious but not for those of a nervous disposition, don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Eh? WARN YOU.