Yet another series of MasterChef is starting again tonight. If I come across a cookery programme while in front of the telly then I will usually give it a bit of a watch, but I get annoyed with the way the medicine ball headed one on MasterChief tastes the food. He takes his fork to the plate, scoops up the food and then ever so slowly moves the fork to his mouth. When the fork is almost there he leans his big head slowly towards the fork then puts the fork in his mouth and holds it there for two or three seconds. This dramatised way of tasting food just grinds at me.
Also I usually find the food a bit too poncy. Poncy food in poncy restaurants doesn’t appeal to me. I’ve been to a couple and sure the food was good but about on par as the restaurant I went to a couple of weeks before where the main course cost as much as the fifteen percent tip that I left at the poncy restaurant.
When I was at this restaurant I ordered the second cheapest bottle of white wine. I would’ve ordered the cheapest but the girl I was with suggested the second cheapest and I didn’t want to look cheep. There was a bottle on the wine list for a grand. I found this obscene. The only reason someone would order that bottle is to show off that they can afford to blow money on a bottle of wine that costs as much as an round the world plane ticket. Is the taste in the twenty pound bottle and the thousand pound bottle really worth that greater margin in price range?
In my experience with wine there’s the dirt cheep wine from the off-licence that’s so foul you need a mixer with it. Then the second cheapest wine which is usually fine, and then the rest which all tastes a little better than the second cheapest. My experience with whiskey is the same. But to me the most over rated drink is champagne. It’s glorified cheep fizzy wine. Rather have a beer anytime.
Monday 27 September 2010
Monday 20 September 2010
Popemania
So the Pope has ended his tour of the UK 2010 by playing Hyde Park and is now back in the confines of The Vatican City.
His visit was building up in the news for weeks, and when he finally came it was all so overblown. I doubt if all that pomp and ceremony would endear anyone to become a catholic. And all that riding around in the popemobile waving like the queen.
The truth is that he’s not some holy divine god like supreme being. No, he’s just some old German man who wears a dress and a stupid hat who bangs on about the dangers of an increasingly secular society and how condoms will not help prevent the spread of aids.
Will his visit have a lasting impression and put more bums on pews on a Sunday morning? I doubt it.
Phoney popemania has bitten the dust.
His visit was building up in the news for weeks, and when he finally came it was all so overblown. I doubt if all that pomp and ceremony would endear anyone to become a catholic. And all that riding around in the popemobile waving like the queen.
The truth is that he’s not some holy divine god like supreme being. No, he’s just some old German man who wears a dress and a stupid hat who bangs on about the dangers of an increasingly secular society and how condoms will not help prevent the spread of aids.
Will his visit have a lasting impression and put more bums on pews on a Sunday morning? I doubt it.
Phoney popemania has bitten the dust.
Saturday 11 September 2010
Birthday Grime
I’m rapidly approaching my 34th birthday. Since being in my thirties I don’t think too much about upcoming birthdays. I used to. When I was in high school I never cared for the month of September. Back to school, the nights drawing in and my birthday just around the corner. Which meant a year closer to being an adult. Being an adult meant acting responsible, and acting responsible didn’t seem too much fun at all.
As a kid I can’t recall ever having any type of party for my birthday. On my 18th I remember going to a grimmy pub in Leytonstone with three mates where the barman made any drink that they told him to give me. I think that the tipping point was a pint of Guinness mixed with Gold Label.
Gold label makes Super Tennants seem like a nice cold Red Stripe on a hot summer evening at the end of the working week.
I have no recollection of any other birthdays. Even last years.
But I’ve never been one to celebrate it. Usually I have to be dragged out for a few beers. Only this year it falls on a Saturday. Which means I have to go out anyway as its kind of the Saturday night law. And I guess that people will ask me what I want to do. Well I don’t want to go to the west end or on a pub crawl around Shoreditch or Camden. No I want to go to my local grimmy pub. The pub that gets filled out when a big football match is on but is then almost empty as soon as the final whistle goes because most people don’t want to stay there any longer than need be. But I genuinely like it there. If you want to pull then its no place to go as its not the sort of place that any right minded girl would drink. If you want to eat then its not the place to go. Apparently they do food, I’ve seen a menu on the wall. But the only food I’ve ever seen anyone eat there is bar snacks. If you want a good beer selection then its not the place to be. There’s no strawberry flavoured shit on tap. The toilet floor is never dry and it stinks awful. But it’s a cheep local working class pub with no pretensions and every suburb and town needs a place like that.
34, officially mid thirties, oh well at least if I make it to the beginning of next month then I outlived Jesus.
As a kid I can’t recall ever having any type of party for my birthday. On my 18th I remember going to a grimmy pub in Leytonstone with three mates where the barman made any drink that they told him to give me. I think that the tipping point was a pint of Guinness mixed with Gold Label.
Gold label makes Super Tennants seem like a nice cold Red Stripe on a hot summer evening at the end of the working week.I have no recollection of any other birthdays. Even last years.
But I’ve never been one to celebrate it. Usually I have to be dragged out for a few beers. Only this year it falls on a Saturday. Which means I have to go out anyway as its kind of the Saturday night law. And I guess that people will ask me what I want to do. Well I don’t want to go to the west end or on a pub crawl around Shoreditch or Camden. No I want to go to my local grimmy pub. The pub that gets filled out when a big football match is on but is then almost empty as soon as the final whistle goes because most people don’t want to stay there any longer than need be. But I genuinely like it there. If you want to pull then its no place to go as its not the sort of place that any right minded girl would drink. If you want to eat then its not the place to go. Apparently they do food, I’ve seen a menu on the wall. But the only food I’ve ever seen anyone eat there is bar snacks. If you want a good beer selection then its not the place to be. There’s no strawberry flavoured shit on tap. The toilet floor is never dry and it stinks awful. But it’s a cheep local working class pub with no pretensions and every suburb and town needs a place like that.
34, officially mid thirties, oh well at least if I make it to the beginning of next month then I outlived Jesus.
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