I hate weekends

God I hate weekends. Trust me, when you’ve retired, you’ll hate them too.  It is Sunday, and the house is full of people, mainly my daughter and a bunch or her friends, and the missus somewhere.

It’s 11.30am. I’ve had my muesli (yes, I am trying to be good, and not eat fried eggs EVERY day).

So I just check if there is anything worth watching.

I trawl through the channels. Jeremy Kyle. Cash in the Attic. Khazakstan’s Got Talent. The X Factor, The Y factor, the Y Do I Bother turning on the TV Factor. Frasier. Aha! OK, acceptable viewing rubbish. First I have to pay the price. Advert about how to straighten my hair, lengthen my hair, curl my hair. I don't actually have any hair, but on and on it goes. How to increase my hair volume (in my case you would need a shedload of fertilizer), how to turn my hair the colour of summer meadows. Advert showing juvenile imbeciles squirting huge handfuls of what looks like whipped cream at each other and combing it into their lustrous hair, laughing like hyenas on nitrous oxide. Advert on how to prevent the signs of aging (too late). Advert on how to fill in your wrinkles (don't have any - full of fat). Advert of a car that looks like any other car, saying how different, manly, and frankly, dangerous it is. Advert on how to rehydrate your skin before it's too late. I now realise how close to death I must be, and am about to open a vein, when Frasier finally arrives back. I perk up, and put my buttered crumpet to my lips (what? I’ve had the muesli, so that’s at least 300 negative calories isn’t it?) I sit back in anticipation of some comic banter I have heard ten times before.

As I am about to take a bite, the phone rings. I ignore it. It is never for me, especially not during the day, and I don't have any friends. I shout to my missus, who is somewhere in the house. I yell my daughter's name and wait. It keeps ringing. I howl out their names. We have about 200 extensions throughout the house, so I know they can hear it. In fact, they must be able to hear the damn ringing across the road. They can certainly hear my febrile bellows for someone to answer the phone, which is about three inches away from my left hand.

Still it rings, and I am now hoarse from shouting. I know if I answer it, it will either be for my daughter, or an overenthusiastic twat trying to sell me health insurance “for my loved ones”. At present, as they are all too lazy to pick up the damn phone, frankly they can fend for themselves when they fall into the threshing machine.

Goddam it, where is everybody? I mute Niles as he says something pompous, slam my crumpet down, and snap up the receiver. 'Hello!', I say with as much irritation as I can muster, which is considerable by now. A breathy yet bored girl's voice asks for my daughter. Even though I knew it was going to happen, this raises my fury to a new level, and I scream hysterically for her, but to no avail. I slump back, exhausted.

Like a Golem staggering towards me out of the gloom,



the hideous truth of the situation bears down on me. I am going to have to get off the sofa. I steel myself, get up, open the door, and bellow to my daughter like a crazed wildebeest being set upon by a pride of lionesses, “PHONE!!!!!!” My daughter finally answers, her voice full of annoyance, as if I have interrupted her whilst negotiating the latest round of Palestine/Israeli peace talks, 'I'm on my mobile; put the call through up here!!'

We have a marvellous phone system, which is a digital, cordless phone with three million extensions all over the house. In the good old days, with our perfectly adequate analogue phone, anyone could pick up an extension and talk. With this new system, to make life a whole lot easier of course, you have to dial the other extension to transfer the call, for crying out loud, a system that I have absolutely no hope of ever figuring out, so I have to tramp upstairs, and thrust the phone into my daughter's one free and impatient finger-clicking hand, for which I am rewarded with a scowl and a flounce.

I return to the sofa. Fortunately, all is not lost, as I am just in time to find out how to increase the length of my eyelashes by up to 40%

Roll on Monday

Hersensaus

Weekend away in Antwerp with the missus (she paid!!) and another couple

So we're sitting in Ciro's, a traditional Flemish restaurant. Very nice

Now, my Flemish is a tad rusty. That is to say, nonexistent. No matter I thought, everything will be in french, and my french is “ou est la toilette” standard, so I can figure out any menu. Not so. Turns out the Antwerpians seem to HATE the frogs and especially their language.

So here’s the starters. 

Toast Schelvislever

€ 9,50

Toast Gerookte Paling

€ 16,00

Tomatensoep met Ballekens

€ 6,00

Bisque van Grijze Noordzeegarnalen

€ 10,00

Escargots met Lookboter

€ 9,50

Cocktail van Grijze Noordzeegarnalen

€ 14,75

Toast Champignons

€ 12,00

Lamstongetjes met Hersensaus

€ 9,50

Gebakken Kalfshersenen met Kappers

Toast. OK, got that, but I didn’t come to Antwerp for toast. Or tomatoensoap, even if you do get a heap of Ballekens on the side. Grey North Sea bisque sounds a bit iffy. I know what escargots are, and that is definitely french, so on the basis that the Flemish chef has therefore probably spat on them, I think I’ll pass . 

More Grey North Sea stuff. More bastard toast. That leaves lamstongetjes (I think I know what that is) and something unpronouncable with Kappers. Capers? Kippers? Or worse still, Kappers?

So on the basis that Lambs Tongues, even with a good dollop of Hersensaus, sounded like a good bet, I went for that. And it was indeed excellent. The Hersensaus was particularly fine. Superb steak for main course.

Having my coffee and I find a waiter who speaks english. “Could you tell me, what is Hersensaus?
 “Ah yes, very good. It is Calves Brains sauce. You like?”

Bloody savages

WARNING...WARNING...WARNING

Watch out for the beers.

DO NOT attempt to drink this:

 

Do not inhale. Do not go near the empty bottles. If you see someone with an open glass of this, cross the street.

Whether the combination of three of these, along with the calves brains sauce had anything to do with the 3.00am mercy dash to the toilet, I don't know, but it might explain why Trappist Monks are incapabe of speech


Stuck to Moules & Frites for lunch the next day. Excellent




Back home now, and went to see The Book of Mormon last night.

Bloody Brilliant

The line "I have maggots in my scrotum" brought the house down

Why?

I guess you had to be there

Retirement going well

Universe v Ironing

I have found something useful to do with my retirement! I have time to think about things. I am thinking about the Universe, which is much more satisfying than thinking about the ironing.

OK, this is where I am so far. Cosmologists: please feel free to correct me.

The Universe  is expanding. What this means is, that on a large scale, superclusters of galaxies are moving away from each other. However, the reason they are moving away from each other is not that they are moving through space, but that the space between superclusters is expanding, and taking the superclusters along with them.

The Universe is probably infinite, and always has been, even when it was a tiny dot. The key to getting your head round this is to refrain from asking the perfectly reasonable, though flawed question, well hold on a minute, if the Universe was once a tiny dot, then what did it expand into? The answer is to remember that the Universe has not expanded into anything, (ie into space), as space is an actual property of the Universe, and has always included all the space there is.

So as space expands, the matter in space is just taken along for the ride. The Universe is not expanding into space. All the space there is, is itself expanding. Also, everything is expanding away from everything else: there is no centre to the Universe, and there never was.

Even if the Universe turns out to be finite, there is no edge. Contrary to Douglas Adams, there is no End of The Universe, and certainly no Restaurant there. All that would happen if you travelled far enough across the Universe, is that you would end up back at Earth.

A great analogy which helps me, is to imagine that the Universe is the surface of a balloon. All the superclusters are marked by dots on the balloon. Now blow up the balloon more and what happens? The dots all get further apart. They have not moved across the surface of the balloon, but the balloon itself has expanded, forcing the dots apart and taking them along for the ride. Also, this analogy explains why there is no centre to the Universe: there is no centre to the dots on the balloon.

All fantastically difficult stuff to get your brain round. Still easier than pairing socks though.

Here's Eric Idle to explain everything.

"Makes you feel so small"

"Yeah. Can we 'ave your liver then?"

"Welll..allright."

Zoltan!!!

We’re having a new kitchen. I am of course on duty. Monday 6.30am Missus says “byeee!”

6.40am. Fitter rings. “Van’s broken down: I’ll be 4 hours late”

7.00am. “Delivery” First lot of huge boxes arrives

7.30am, 8.15am etc etc “delivery delivery delivery…”

By 10.00 am the kitchen looks like the warehouse scene at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, and my lovely beige hall carpet looks like a WWI battlefield, and the mice are digging trenches in the mud.

11.00am Fitter arrives. “I’ll put down the carpet protector first…”

-----Intermission------

-------Intermission--------

Friday morning. Some of kitchen sort of in. Oven missing. Fridge missing. Cooker Hood missing. Some cupboards missing. Dishwasher front missing. I’m in a filthy mood, and now have to wait (waiting is my new speciality) for the man to come to connect the gas hob and do a Gas Inspection, so at least I can make scrambled eggs. Have been living on muesli all bastard week.

Have been told he’ll come late afternoon. 5.45 I open the door to Jack Palance.

“I do gas!” he says. “I Zoltan!!”

Yes of course you are. I can’t believe this guy.

“Err…yes, do come in”

“Cooker where, where? In kitchen?”

No, it’s in the bathroom.

Anyway, he gets out his tools and tinkers away. Connects  the gas to the hob

It’s now 6.30, and I have to go out at 6.45 to meet the missus and friends for supper. “Umm.. will this take much longer? I have to go out soon.”

“No, very quick”

“Great, well I’ll just leave you to get on with…”

“The beetch!!”

“What?”

“Anja, the beech!  I bloody save her many money, crytwwxychskii….British Gas bastards..ywchyswychies…£8000 I save she never call for certificate…”

“Ummm…”

“Oh, you have gas leak. Hmm. Let me get spray…hmmmm see here…hmmm”

He’s now got his head under the boiler.

“Bloody bastards..British Gas…see, see here this spray…look, look”

He shows me some bottle of spray

“Ah, yes, very nice…so you’ll be finished soon…?”

“£15 it cost me…is best…not the bloody xwschiewchykw…cheap sheet bloody British Gas use the bastards. Look here, see? here Anya phone number, see?”

He thrusts his mobile phone at me

“See? See her number here the beetch. September 2012 I do work. She never calls…Catford..all thee way…British Gas bastards the beetch…”

“Gosh, that’s terrible…so is everything OK?”

One of his detectors starts screeching

“Ah beeg gas leak here…see…the electronic…very bad. Hmmm let me see. Wait. I open meter…”

He goes to the gas meter and starts poking about. “See…I use best equipment…not like bloody British Gas the bloody bastards…£6000….she in Catford the beetch. £80 POUND PARKING FINE!!  See here…swychkiewsychwerk….oooh very bad leak…I have to shut all down here.”

It’s now 7.30. I’m an hour late. Zoltan’s threatening to condemn my gas supply as far as I can make out. I’m getting hysterical. “Look, I can’t smell gas…can’t we just…er…”

“Very bad very bad. She no get certificate. Then BOOM! The beech…bloody save her much. Not like British Gas bloody bastard bastards. Many money…see? I save her…crysweiskych…cheep sheet…bastards…6000!!!”

I’m getting ready to cave in the back of his head with a shovel and bury him in the garden



 when he suddenly says, “Ah, good. 100% see? See? Is OK now. Is feexed. Look, here, she phone number, see. Anja the..”

“Fantastic! Great! Phew…ha ha what a relief..”

All smiles now

“Yes!! Is good! Come, I put boiler back on and show you gas in keetchen…see? All working fine. Now I just put drawers back…”

He puts the drawer back under the hob. Doesn’t fit. He’s welded the gas pipe to the back of the drawer.

“Oh bloody sheet. I have to re position pipe…I come back. I come back tomorrow.

Just as I heft the shovel over his head a jumbo jet lands in the boiler room.

“BRRROOOOWWWWAAAAAANNNGGGGGGGGG”

Wtf? We take a look. “Hmmm…is fan..hmmmm…how long you have boiler?

“IT WAS FINE 10 MINUTES AGO!!...”

“Hmmm I take a look. You have bastard British Gas here?”

“What? NO! no British Gas..”

“Hmm..” (tinker tinker)

Mercifully, the jumbo jet taxies quietly away up the runway.

“Ah good, I think just air in pipes see?”

So here I am, Saturday morning, awaiting the Return of Zoltan.

I have shovel ready. Bloody Bastard.

An evening with Tcha and a bunch of House Detectives

OK enough of this domestic stuff already.

Last night, March 28^th, to the Four Sisters in Islington

with another couple for cocktails. I get there at 5.50pm to nab a table and some seats, but all seating seems to be reserved. See a table saying "Reserved for Desiree from 7.00pm". We’ll be gone by then so we make ourselves at home. Whisky sour for me. Excellent: maraschino cherry, egg white, the works. Second round, and then it’s 6.50. Every time the door opens we look expectantly for Desiree and her party, but to no avail. 7.00 and we become concerned. Has she met with an unfortunate accident? Is she (and party) locked in a toilet?

Anyway, we have to go, so off to the Union Chapel (30 yards away)

To see these guys

The dude in the hat is Tcha Limberger, and the other guys look like six house detectives from the Grand Budapest Hotel, but are in fact the Budapest Gypsy Orchestra.

Now, I knew nothing about the band, but they were sensational, despite the fact that they seemed to play the same piece over and over again for about 2 hours. They would start out achingly slowly, build to a melodramatic crescendo, and in the final frantic 20 seconds, sound like they had all fallen down the stairs en masse, with their instruments. Anyway, great fun. Word of advice guys: ease up on the dumplings.

Then to The Canonbury Kitchen

For a late supper. I had pasta with venison ragout, which was excellent, and they very kindly accommodated my morbid and irrational fear of wide pasta (anything wider than 8mm I refuse to countenance) by making it with linguine.

That, to me, is the perfect evening out. You can keep your manure encrusted country pubs thank you very much.

On the way back to the tube station, we pass The Four Sisters again, and I sneak a peek through the window to see if Desiree ever turned up. There are five morose looking beardies at her table, so she either never showed, or they're sitting on her.

iPod /Pad /Touch thingy

I am not a technophobe, but I do dislike technology that is there for technology’s sake, whose sole purpose is to make something simple, more complex. Like mobile phones for example.  I do have a mobile phone, but I never switch it on in case someone tries to ring me.

Anyway, thought I'd get myself a music thingy: an iPod so I could take pleasant strolls around town, watching all the poor slobs going to work / coming home from work / working, and I could sit drinking my mocaccino and listening to erudite recordings of Gustav Mahler's Das Knaben Wunderhorn and the like.

So I’ve got the iPod working (with the remote help of my son, but that’s another story). I’ve got my music on it. I’ve made my playlist, and I’m nearly ready for my first outing into town. I can’t get those stupid bud things to stay in my ears, so I am going to buy some nice smart, neat little headphones, but in the meantime, I dig out my 70’s era massive BASF headphones which look like two cement mixers covered in squidgy grey plastic, welded together with a steel girder: you know the type. They are wrapped around the head of that 90 year old geezer on the front cover of “Your 100 most relaxing Easy Listening Tunes” LP, wearing his onezy and tartan slippers, relaxing in his rocking chair as the labrador slobbers over his knee-rug.



So there I am, on the 8.40 into Kings Cross, train reasonably packed. I put my cement mixers on and discreetly get my iPod out, trying not to bring attention to myself.

So it’s playing, and it’s a bit loud. Now the last thing I want is to be like those inconsiderate oiks who play Dub Funk Garage music so loud you can hear the tzzt tzzz tzzz from three carriages away, so I try to turn it down. Of course, it’s all touch screen stuff. No handy volume button for crying out loud. I am trying to drag the volume button down a bit and nothing is happening. I wiggle my finger around and suddenly it’s max volume and I am deafened. I rip the cement mixers off and the carriage is treated to “One Love” by Blue. I desparately try to turn down the volume but now the screen has gone blank, as it does annoyingly after about 2 nanoseconds

In a flash of inspiration, I pull out the headphone jack, but of course, now the bastard device merely plays through it’s own tinny speaker

“…ONE LUUURVE FOR THE CITY STREET…”

There are looks. There are a few “tch’s”. Lots of paper rustling and frowns

“…ONE….LUUURVE FOR THE HIP HOP BEAT…”

I am a 58 year old portly bald, grey looking geezer. Teenage girly hiphop type stuff does not sit naturally with me, judging from the smirks coming from my commuting audience.

I frantically press the screen. It comes back on, but on a completely different page. All the instructions that my son painstakingly went through have vacated my brain. I eventually get the right page back, but press skip instead of pause

OH HERE WE ARE AND HERE WE ARE AND HERE WE GO……



I consider stomping on the thing.

…HERE WE GO…OH ROCKIN’ ALL OVER THE WORLD…

Volume..volume..volume.. where's the bastard volume control..off switch...

…AND I LIKE IT I LIKE IT I LIKE IT I LIKE IT…

The train pulls into a station.

“Mind the gap”

Mind the sodding gap? I try to hurl myself into the gap so I can mercifully fall under the wheels thus putting an end to my agony.