Lung hospital revisited - the patient's view

I refer my reader to an earlier entry where I berated all those inconsiderate selfish whining babies who insisted on attending a theatrical performace and inflicting their noisy, phlegmy wet hacking coughs on the rest of the audience in a doomed and pathetic attempt to garner sympathy for their various lung diseases, rather than doing the decent thing and stayng at home, where they could expire as loudly as they wished.

Another bloody Council Tax rise. That's it: I'm outta here

I now realise the folly of my ways, and have nothing but utter contempt for those miserable, unfeeling, selfish and stone-hearted sadists who refuse to offer even the most niggardly scrap of sympathy and understanding to such poor afflicted people.

Last Monday, Dec 22nd, the missus and I attended a performance of The Messiah at King's Place


What does that word say?
I think it's 'Hallelujah'


Unfortunately that afternoon I had developed, over the period of about an hour, shortness of breath, the shivers, a raging headache, blurred vision, nausea, aching joints, cold sweats, and a sore, tickly throat that required constant coughing and throat clearing (otherwise known as a cold).


I need something to unblock my nose. A shovel might do the trick

However, I am not one to complain, as my missus would readily attest to (in exchange for some time away from me when I'm ill). So I bravely turned up to view the performance, despite my near-death illness, pre-loaded with fistfulls of kleenex and strepsils.

OK, I admit there was a bit of sniffling and modest throat clearing now and then, with the occasional very discreet nose-blow. I do recall during one particularly quiet Aria I produced a muffled combined sneeze and cough, which I followed through with a most genteel nosewipe and reverse snuffle, but the look I got from the hatchet-faced old crone sitting in front of me when she turned to give me a double dose of gamma rays was as pitiless and cruel an act as I have had the misfortune to suffer.

I got my own back on the miserable old dyke though. I managed to stuff my used kleenex down the back of her jumper, although if I'd had a scorpion handy...

Kleenex not looking so bad now, is it?

Slapper

OK, maybe it was partly the drink. Maybe also partly the fact that I am a senile old geezer who can't hear properly, especially in a crowd of braying partygoers


SPEAK UP!!!

So on Saturday I went to a (not very good) early evening one-hour play at the Southwark Playhouse about Einstein


I wouldn't bother if I were you

Then things perked up with a few ales at The Gilbert Scott Bar

Here I am enjoying a couple of pints of Creme de Menthe, as befits the surroundings

And then on to a friend's drinks party. I've had two cocktails, and am well into the second half of a bottle of fizz, so I'm swaying about a bit. I get into conversation with a very nice woman. Very demure. Very conservatively dressed. We talk a bit about this and that...I'm really not sure what to be honest. We certainly mention religion. She is telling me all about her upbringing, her moral compass

Have you heard the good news?

I try to nod in all the right places, but I can't hear her properly, and I can't hear myself. I keep having to shout above the hubbub

Anyway, she then says, "I was brought up as a practising Protestant"

I misheard, so I shout in a rather startled voice, "YOU WERE BROUGHT UP AS A PRACTISING PROSTITUTE? BLIMEY THAT'S UNUSUAL. YOU MUST HAVE A FEW WAR STORIES..."


Have you heard the good news?

She looks at me with a mixture of horror and disbelief. I instantly realise my mistake, but too late. An expectant hush has descended around her, as partygoers are hoping to catch a few good war stories from this most unlikliest-of-looking old slapper.

I desparately try to diffuse the situation by yelling, "OH SORRY I THOUGHT YOU SAID PROSTITUTE..." but of course the repetition of the offending word just makes everyone pay more attention.

It's a lost cause and a complete disaster, so I smile and try to laugh it off, and I back away, making the excuse that I require the loo, but I do this by pointing to my groin, the possible implication being that perhaps she would like to accompany me to a more secluded spot where we could transact business.

Thank God at this juncture my missus, who is far more intelligent and far less drunk than I, sees I am in some sort of trouble with this poor female guest, and instantly surmises (based on many years of experience) that I have somehow caused some outrageous offence, and smoothly whisks me away.

I wonder if she was an old slapper though

My Masterchef inspired Christmas Lunch

I am a great devotee of Masterchef. I love the new techniques favoured by many of the professional young turks vying for the coveted title.

Marcus Wareing himself is also a huge fan; eschewing the older more hands-on techniques and traditions in favour of cutting edge technology and complex fusions of dishes, cuisines, nomenclature and machines.

So with this in mind, and the excitement of the Masterchef final tomorrow night, here is my Christmas Lunch that I shall lay before ten astounded diners.

Starter

Beetroot cured slivers of line-caught smoked salmon, smoked over beechwood woodchips from a smouldering Ikea wardrobe, and garnished with a moss tuile foraged from behind the bins

This is where I usually love to forage

Main

 Deconstructed roast turkey and all the trimmings

I shall completely skin and bone the turkey, and make an enormous boudin with the turkey meat, 

Here is the turkey boudin. It is twelve feet long

which I shall cook sous vide  in the bath at 58 degrees for two long days, and serve it on a layer of bone & crispy skin soil.

Here I am carefully spooning the soil into place beneath the boudin

I shall also be serving sprouts three ways: a sprout lollipop

My sprout lollipops

 a sprout gel,

Oh but this sprout gel is simply DIVINE

and a sprout foam 

I think this might need a little more work

Also we will be having blanquettes du cochons:  I shall confit chipolatas 

and serve them enrobed in bacon

Yes that's not QUITE what I had in mind

Finally, I shall eschew the outdated roast potato in favour of a refreshing, crunchy, lightly pickled potato.

I say Rupert, could you pass the pickled potatoes please?

To finish

A trio of desserts: deconstructed mince pie

Daisy, come and tread on these if you will, Milord wants them deconstructed

a quenelle of Christmas Pudding sorbet with a twist: I shall be finishing the sorbet sous vide and serving it in a saucer.


WTF??? What happened to my fucking sorbet mother?
Oh dear, I seemed to have shat on it

These desserts will be carefully enrobed in a foam constructed with Stilton foraged from Lidl.

...and now just a soupcon of Fairy Liquid for that foamy look

Washing

There are observer-independent fundamental and immutable laws of physics, called invariants, that apply everywhere in the Universe, such as momentum, energy, lepton number, baryon number, isospin, strangeness. There are probably others, but I've had a few ales this evening and cannot think of them.


Wa...aaatabout angular momentum?

I would like to add some more, based on my scientific observations of washing, on which I have become something of a virtuoso over the past few months.

In no particular order

The sock number S(n)
S(out) = S(in) - 1.  The number of socks you take out of the washing machine is always one less than the number you put in

The sock colour parameter S(c)
Irrespective of the number of times you check, S(c) always contains at least one black sock if all others are white, or one white sock if all others are black.

The Kleenex constant K
K is the number of used kleenex left in the pockets of items about to be washed. It is always greater than zero, It is independent of N(l), which it the number of times you check the pockets.


Look at my cardi - it's RUINED!!

The Sterling Paradox
You only ever find that tenner you lost AFTER it's been through the washer, never before

Paella

Never made one before. Had it at Cigala last week and it was great. Cigala is a lovely Spanish Restaurant in Lambs Conduit Street, with a wonderful view of A France & Son Funeral Parlour

This is the restaurant not the funeral parlour


Here's the funeral parlour not the restaurant. They do a wonderful nativity scene in December, which the Missus likes to view whilst chowing down on a seafood paella. 

Anyway, thought I'd give it a try. As is my wont, I looked up various recipes and then decided not to do any of them, but had the gist by then.

First stop: get a paella dish. I am sure you can use a frying pan, but don't have a very large one. So off I go to Muswell Hill and find myself in a lovely authentic little shop called "The Isawucoming Cookshop and Scullery for Idiots who go Shopping in Muswell Hill".

Oh joy: they have Paella pans. They show me one. I couldn't believe it. I mean, you could use it for the four man bobsleigh in the next Winter Olympics.

AAAAGhhhh!! A lobster's just grabbed my balls!!!

Anyway, after much discussion and haggling and lectures about Artisan Paella dishes (I want to cook with it not fecking paint with it) I settle on a small, uninteresting two handled non-stick very un-artisanal looking thing like a flat-bottomed wok. £20. Sold.


Seriously, I'm really dull

I go to Walter Purkis for the seafood.


Sorry mate. Monkfish went by 7.00 this morning, It IS Muswell Hill after all.

I settle on squid, good sized tiger prawns, mussels.

I also ask for some bones and they give me a huge bag of flatfish carcasses.

I make stock from the bones with a little white wine, leeks, fennel, carrot, peppercorns, celery. Cooked the mussels quickly in the stock. I blacken red peppers, peel and cut into strips.

I put an enormous lump of butter with a little oil in the pan, let it just begin to brown, then add finely sliced garlic for 20 seconds, then finely sliced leek and let it fry for about 10 minutes till nice and sweet. Then a handful of frozen petit pois, the pepper strips, the squid (gutted and cut into thick rings, plus of course the best bit - the tentacles), some smoked paprika, soaked saffron strands, a handful of little prawns from the freezer, and plenty of black pepper.

Cooked it all for a few minutes, then added 400g of paella rice, gave it a good toss, then 1 litre of the fish stock plus a couple of teaspoons of Marigold veg stock powder for seasoning. I don't generally measure stuff, but important here to get the rice/stock ratio just right as once the stock goes in, you really should not touch it again.

Cooked it for 6 minutes, then added the mussels, and arranged the whole tiger prawns in a nice circle all pointing the same way and pressed them into the briskly bubbly stock.

Turned the heat down a bit and did NOTHING to it for 14 minutes, then turned it off and left it covered for a further 5 minutes.

I must admit that I did try it just before the cooking finished and the rice did not seem quite cooked, but after the crucial 5 minute leaving, it was spot on.

Garnished with a few more red pepper strips and a sprinkling of parsley for colour.

Looked magnificent, and tasted fantastic. Dead artisanal


There were a few leftovers

A nice bit of Salt Beef

Last year for Christmas I did a nice baked ham. This year I thought I’d go all Jewish and do a cured brisket, ie salt beef. Next year, if it works, I am determined to try Mrs Wolowitz’ infamous Turbriskefil.

Anyway, back to reality. Rang the butcher and ordered a brisket. Conversation went:

“'Ow big?”

“About 2 Kilos max”

“Faaakin' ell, Who do you fink I am, a faaarkin' surgeon? Smallest will be abaat 3 kilos. Thirty quid.”

Now just close your eyes, this won't hurt a bit

“Sold.”

Now to the marinade/cure. Looked up a few different recipes and this is what I am going to do.

Make a cure by mixing/dissolving in about 6 pints of water the following:

400g salt

150g sugar

30g Saltpetre

bay leaves, garlic cloves, coriander seeds, mace, dried chillis, cloves, allspice, maybe cinnamon sticks, peppercorns.

Bring to the boil, cool, and pack brisket and cure into heavy duty freezer bags. Depending on the size of the beast, I’ll be cutting it into 2 – 4 pieces., so 2 – 4 bags.

Put in the fridge for approx 10 days, turning each day.

Picture of me turning the briskets. I think I've come across a foreign body

Then put in a heavy duty pan, cover with water, carrots, onions, celery, bay leaves etc and simmer for about 4 hours until meltingly tender.

Mmmmmeltingly tender brisket

I’ll get some sauerkraut, Dijon mustard and rye bread in for hot salt beef sandwiches


but mainly have it for cold.

BUT BUT BUT BUT BUT

Spent the weekend trying to get the saltpetre. I tried poncey cooking shops, poncey butchers. I then tried the butcher I’m getting the brisket from. Conversation went like this.

“Faaaarkin’ ‘ell, not any more. Used to get it in 3 kilo tubs no problem, but nah, they fink your a faarkin’ terrorist, wiv a faaarkin’ bomb factory in the basement. No chance”

OK that's the saltpetre. Now the tricky bit: peppercorns...

As I was sitting disconsolately at my computer this morning, I did what everyone does in the end. I tried Amazon, really just as a joke, but there it was! Saltpetre!  100g, 300g, 1 kilo, you name it. No problem.

Now ordered.
Looking forward to the delivery

OH, yes, good morning sir. We have your order here

Carfree!

As mentioned previously, getting rid of our car.

Guy coming to take it away for scrap scheduled for this morning, so last night we took all the stuff out of the boot: windbreak, wellies, canvas chairs, old maps, thermos dating back to the Black Death.

Also cleared out the cassettes from the glove compartment.


...and that's just from the dashboard

Still looked pretty grim in there this morning, so I tidied up as best I could, wiped the mould off the steering wheel (haven't driven it for about 6 weeks), swept the water out, and attempted to scrape off the moss from the back seat. I know it's going for scrap, but thought I'd make the journey for the scrap chap as comfy as possible.

Anyway, the chap turns up and of course he's not going to drive it: he's got a fecking great big flatbed truck, with one car already on it. I couldn't work out how he was going to fit my car on as well, until he opens both windows of my car, swings over a great big grabber thing, grabs the car, swings it onto his truck, and CRUNNNCCH wedges it down next to the other car, squashing them both and he's off.

Carfree/insurance free/tax free/service free/petrol free/trafficjam free/roadrage free/ pointsonthelicense free at last!

    
Picture of me drying off having gone for a farewell drive in the car

Pants

Is it the light? I hope, I pray it's just the light. I hold up a pair of the missus' knickers to the light. Is there a green hue to them? I take another pair out of the drier. Same as the first pair. I am reminded of those ridiculous paint colours: "a hint of pink", a suggestion of plum", "the merest whiff of Umbrian Ochre".

I think what we've got here is "a smear of vomit green". They're all the same. Finally, skulking at the bottom of the drier, I find a green scarf. I don't know what the hell it's made of, or how it got in there. It certainly wasn't in there when I put the undies in. Some bastard leprichaun chucked it in when I wasn't looking.


Sure an' will you be wanting all the missus' pants to be turning green? Oi can help wi' dat to be sure to be sure.

Pants

Good Samaritan my Arse

So I'm striding along, making my way to Finsbury Park from Islington and I've got up a head of steam

It's windy. There are a lot of leaves piling up on the pavement

Up ahead I see a LOL (little old lady) pushing her shopping cart along the pavement and as I approach she's trying to get it through a huge drift of leaves.


Anyone seen Prince?

Chance to be a good samaritan I think, so as I pass her, I heft up the wheelie shopping cart and pull it over the drift of leaves. It seems extremely heavy, and as I look back I see she's still attached, holding on for grim death, knuckles white amongst the liver spots.

"I need that to steady myself - let go at once!" she barks out.



You wanna give me my shopping trolley back any time soon?

I instantly put her back on the pavement, and wander off mumbling an apology.

Little Old Ladies? I'd rather face the Nazi hordes.

Supercar

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,  it is with great pleasure to me, the missus, but mostly to our long suffering friends that I would like to announce the eminent demise of our car.

It is one of these:


The world's dullest car

Vintage 1994 I think. Unfortunately, it is not waterproof, Over the years, efforts to locate and repair leaks in the chassis have proved less than successful, so that recently the interior resembles this.


Where to Guv?

OK slight exaggeration, but only slight.

The sunroof won't open because it has a luxuriant growth of moss all round the edge.

The upholstery is a lovely shade of moss green. That's not the colour; that's moss again.

The seat itself has to be covered in black bags to protect any passengers from developing damp patches.

After a rain shower, there is usually about 4 inches of water on the floor, and we have to bail out with a large mug now permanently kept in the car.


Think we'll need the black bags today

Any passenger travelling in the back is liable to suffer from Trench Foot.

I swear I spotted a Macaw sitting amongst the undergrowth the other day.

So it's going at the end of the year, to be replaced with these



and these


but mostly these


although I am hoping to avoid the worst of the dogshit

Funniest picture I have EVER seen

CHRIST!! This fucking dog's just shat on my cardi

What a sucker - again!!

I am that sucker. I am that North London wishywashy liberal left leaning member of the Muswell Hillbillies who bought that 5 litre can of olive oil


Scene: Hell

It is the monthly technical development and new product meeting, between the Devil and Archie Dudcock, the Director of The Association for Juice carton, Milk carton, and Olive Oil (metal tins) Pourer, Nozzle, and Spout Manufacturers , who sold his soul to the devil many many years ago.

Beelzebub: OK, show me what you've got.

Archie: well, since our last meeting, we've come up with this new tag for the semi-skimmed…

Beelzebub: is this the type where you have to undo the plastic strip around the top, or where you have to get the foil seal off the top once you've got the lid off?

Archie: (smirks) Both! We got two refinements. First, the plastic strip. Here, try and open this

Beelzebub: Okayyy…Hmm! The little tab fell off.

Archie: Tadaahhh!!! OK, so you've now got no way to get in, without the use of a knife. Tests have shown this to cause both milk AND blood loss. Now try the other one

Beelzebub: Here we go…OK, the top unscrews fine. Archie, am I going to be disappointed? You know how I get when I'm disappointed…

Archie (quickly): No, no Your Beastliness, go on, try and pull off the foil top…

Beelzebub: Well where's the little metal bit to pull it off with?

Archie: Tiny isn't it? Go on, give it a pull. Tab falls straight off, eh? Now stick your finger through the foil. No? Can't get through? That's because we've reinforced the foil with bomb-proof high tensile strength plastic AND you've got razor -like sharpened filthy fingernails, so what chance do mere mortals have eh?

Beelzebub: Blood and milk?

Archie: Blood and milk

Beelzebub: Cool. OK, gimme the juice news

Archie: Right, this is the very latest useless fad drink that all the schmucks are drinking. Pomegranate Juice

Beelzebub: Get outta here…

Archie: As God is my witness

Beelzebub: Seriously? God? Shall I text him for confirmation? OK, OK calm down. Just get on with it. Right, what have we here…Ooooh… I like it. Looks complicated…

Archie: It is complicated, Your Hideousness. For absolutely no good reason at all, it's hinged in the middle, causing instant confusion, impatience, and loss of motor coordination. Go on, open it

Beelzebub: Hmm, well I guess if I push here…Nothing. So I have to press a little harder…Goddamit!! All over my horns! Son of a…

Archie: Right, now try to pour it out

Beelzebub: Nothing happens!! Just a dribble!! Ooooh Archie, Archie…who's the Man?

Archie : Wait, there's more

Beelzebub: More? What, it's my birthday?

Archie: Please Oh Horned One, let me indulge you.

Beelzebub: So indulge, indulge…What's this? Archie, you've gone too far. Who's gonna buy this? It's too big.

Archie: Trust me: they're all the rage in the shops.

Beelzebub: Seriously?

Archie: Seriously. Believe me, Mr & Mrs Muswell Hill can't get enough of it. Waitrose, Sainsburys, Lidl of course, even Tesco for crying out loud. 250ml? Forget it. 500ml? Please. 1 Litre? Nah. Let me tell you, oh Cloven-Hooved One, no architecturally-designed, Tuscany-inspired, one-upmanship-driven six burner fitted kitchen is complete without a 5 litre tin of Italian Extra Virgin First Cold Pressing Olive Oil (with rosemary infused notes and a peppery aftertaste), sitting proudly next to the La Gaggia.

Beelzebub (whispering in anticipation): Shall I open it?

Archie: (smirking) Well you can try. First, you have to prise off the little metal cover, then try to hook your finger through the tiny plastic loop and pull up the spout, which will break, but not before almost severing the tip of your little finger, then you have to dig out the plastic bung with a knife. Then…

Beelzebub. What is this - Tomb Raider?

Archie: …then hook the knife, or fork, or spoon handle, or fondue fork into the hole and try to lever up the spout, and then…

Beelzebub: Blood and oil?

Archie: Give that Unholy One a crusty roll.

Beelzebub (sitting back and stretching). Well, I gotta hand it to you Archie, another winner

Archie: So…you'll let me off the lava pit and pitchforks for another month?

Beelzebub: Wellll…(his diabolical face breaks into a grin) get out of here you big lug!

Exit Archie mopping his brow

There is a knock on the portal

Beelzebub: Enter

Goblin: Your cocoa Oh Putrid One.

Beelzebub: Put it on the table. On a mat! On a mat! This isn't some X-factor waiting room you know. By the way is Simon Cowell due soon?

Goblin: Very soon, Sire. Oh, there is a delegation of new suicide bombers to see you sir.

Beelzebub: (wearily) Just put them on furnace duty like the other ones. And tell them the usual.

Goblin The usual?

Beelzebub  No refunds.

Things are not always what they seem

To Islington this morning to help out with the books at my old firm for a few hours.


Picture of me giving the new boss some sage advice about the Bought Ledger 

Having worked is Islington since 1347, I have seen the roads transformed by the People's Republic of Islington, from smooth(ish) hazard-free highways


Picture of me as a lad on top of the number 91 omnibus travelling down Upper Street to Ye Olde Nandos

to speedbump-strewn assault courses designed to do everything in their power to out-manoeuvre and outwit any hapless motorist foolish enough to besmirch the Junta's personal property, ie the public highways with their presence.

And so you can forgive my bemusement as I was walking along the pavement of an especially bump-infested street, even for Islington, when I heard and then saw a cyclist coming towards me in a state of high excitement that seemed to be directly associated with the bumps.

"WEEEEEE!!!" he went as he sailed over the first bump. "OOooohhh!! Here we go agian!!" as he sailed over the next. "EEEEK!! Look out!! Here comes another one!! WEEEE!!!". "Here we go, here we go. HERE WE GO. WEEEEEEE!! Ha ha ha ha ha!!!"


One of the relatively bump-free roads in Islington

And as he came closer and closer to me, I could only think that either he had never been on a bike before, and certainly never in Islington, or he'd drunk three quarts of Southern Comfort, or he was just stark staring bonkers.

And it was only as he passed me that I realised he had, strapped into a little seat behind him, a small child.