Thursday 28 October 2010

The Mudpuddler's guide to food, part the third, Thai broth and Mussels

Thought I'd treat you this week to an extremely low fat, and very fragrant dish that you can have for a light dinner or supper, or as a starter to a formal meal. It features mussels steamed open and served with a fragrant thai broth and is exceptionally easy to prepare.

For the broth

Set a small amount of water to boil and add in a thinly chopped shallot (or two), a finely sliced chilli and julienne ginger alongside a couple of minced garlic cloves. Add thinly sliced spring onions. Allow these to infuse for a bit before adding a handful of chopped kaffir lime leaves and some fish sauce (Nam Pla) along with a glass of dry sherry or rice wine vinegar.

Meanwhile

Prepare the Mussels by washing and 'debearding' them, discarding any which remain open after a sharp tap. The mussels should be added to the broth and allowed to steam open, any which do not open should be thrown out. The mussel liquor will add bulk and flavour to the broth.

And to finish

Chop a good handful of coriander which should be added at the end for garnish and flavour. Whilst this broth is an excellent slimming supper or starter, it can easily be bulked out to main portion size with the addition of vermicelli or rice noodles.

Saturday 23 October 2010

The Mudpuddler's guide to food, Sea Bass Supper

Thought I would share another of my favourite recipes with you, this one is perfect for a supper dish, or a light evening meal or luncheon, and is pan fried Sea Bass fillets with a chunky salsa side.

For the Salsa side (serves 2 good portions)

Put 2-3 tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil into a mixing bowl and dice a red onion and add. Dice a red pepper into the same size of dice and the same with a half cucumber (cut the cucmber lengthways and scrape out the watery seeds first leaving just the outer flesh). Add to this mixture a half teaspoon of dried chilli flakes and a chopped chilli of your preferred heat and the juice of half a lemon (or the whole lemon to taste) and mix well, seasoning with sea salt and black pepper until the flavour is balanced to your liking. Serve as a side with halved cherry or plum tomatos added.

For the Sea Bass Fillets (2 per portion)

Heat a non-stick pan on high and ensure that you oil the fish and NOT the pan, fry the fillets skin side down for 3 minutes until the skin is crispy (crispy skin is delicious, if you prefer not to eat the skin, 2 minutes here will suffice). Remove the pan from the heat and flip the fillets over, squeezing the juice of half a lime into the pan and allowing the flesh to cook off in the residual heat for 2 minutes (3 if thicker fillets and on the hob for the first minute).

Serve with the remaining half of lime as garnish/condiment.

For a more substantial early summer meal, delicious served with Jersey royal potatos and butter.

Friday 22 October 2010

Heard on Norfolk cricket pitches

A certain one-time acquaintance of mine, now exiled in Japan, one Oliver Kinghorn recently asked me if I was going to post a blog entry about cricket, which has, it must be said, played a large part in my life thus far. Not being one to let down such a fine fellow as the Kinghorn, I gave some thought as to what I could write about - certainly cricket is not a sport that appeals to all, there are even some daft types that consider it a bit snooty and aloof. They are types, naturally, that have never got roaringly drunk in Norfolk pubs after bad-mannered games of low to medium-division cricket, nor spent an entire weekend being larruped to all corners in a losing cause yet loving every moment of it.

Having thought long and hard, I decided the best approach would be to post some quotes heard on Norfolk Cricket pitches down the years, with a little explanation to each - hopefully, even the cricket uninitiated will appreciate the humour in some of these. I make no apology for being the butt of many of them by the way, as for them to be heard, I naturally had to be present!

I think we'll declare there and have a bowl at you - captain of Kirkley Sports in a hilarious freezing April mismatch with Costessey as they reached 312-3 in 29 overs (of a possible 40). Costessey were dismissed for 22 in front of jeering rugby players still in the bar from the morning match.

How much did you beat this lot by? - Thetford first teamers returning to their club bar where we had played a cup match against their 'A' team - we had won in unlikely fashion (taking advantage of some extreme swing conditions pre-thunderstorm). I have never witnessed such shame on the faces of relatively good cricketers. By now you should be realising that Costessey (pronounced Cossy) are not, always, that good.

That's it Carlos, give him a hernia reaching for it - Bob Ottaway to bowler Carl Ward, putting down his third wide in a row against an immovable opener.

What would your figures be like if you were any f*cking good?? Immortal words uttered to me by a drunken opponent in a Yarmouth bar after I had taken 5-13 in 12 overs.

On another day, we would have easily beaten you - Immortal words uttered by a drunken me to the captain of Ashmanhaugh after losing my first game as captain by 180 runs or so.

Treat yourself to a test match field, you'll never have a better chance - advice of the inestimable Mr Kinghorn to me as we played the Reindeer PH in a friendly. 4 Slips and a gully, sumptuous!

There it is!! - Costessey spinner as the batsman (on 100 plus) put one skywards.

There it goes! - At least 4 members of the team as the same ball disappeared for six over the pavillion.

You have to come back, he dropped it - out of breath Costessey batsman running after his partner, who had nobly walked for a thin edge to the keeper, not realising said keeper had pan-handed it straight to the floor.

You can't bowl that fast to me, I'm in my sixties! - Eaton number 11 trying any old trick to try and survive the inevitable.

Try and win for f.... sake! an exasperated Simon Ottaway at the Costessey tail, tamely surrendering a winning position.

He's such a rabbit I could see his ears dragging over the boundary as he arrived at the square - cruel and unecessary taunting of Carl Ward by an unscrupulous Costessey umpire (who looks a lot like me)

You have 22 yards to land the ball, bloody use them! - Oliver Kinghorn proving he had not lost his charm out at Cantley as a young oaf put down a full bunger.

Some of them were OK, but the rest were pure filth - Young master Kinghorn's eloquent appraisal of a group of girls that had turned up to watch a game.

That's my whole day f***** ruined, then - Jeremy Scarborough having gone for a duck at 2.03 (game commencing at 2pm) and facing 44 and a half overs of sitting about and 45 in the field.

Welcome back, Dave - Mark Rymarz umpiring this year as I played my first game in 3 years (for Rackheath) and launched the first ball bowled at me for four back past the bowler.

How gay is that? - standard Costessey appeal, begun by Chris Gardiner, I believe as a protest at the campness of our appealing.

Good slower ball, Dave - various members of the Ottaway, Rymarz and Scarborough families after I try and bend my back on a delivery - never fails to amuse.

We've got one guy who bats a bit, the rest of the rabbits make a good game pie between them - Optimistic appraisal of our chances at the toss many moons ago.

He's smoking! - Rob Lowe (not that one) with the understatement of the century to Simon Ottaway as Gressenhall's Raven tore us apart on a blistering August day.

Don't bother asking this guy, he gives nothing - Hardingham bowler suggesting to his wicket keeper that my umpiring was frugal and stingy (after rattling our players pads in front of middle)

You don't ask, you don't get - my sage like response

Alright, how was that then?????! - Bowler and keeper decide to appeal

Not Out! - *chuckle*

Away from quotes, a special mention here for some of the silent wonders of cricket-gone-by - from the hypnotic bouncing of the Rymarz twins going out to bat together to younger brother Andy Rymarz's 100 yard run up (including a full stop, vertical leap and delivery). Oliver Kinghorn's gardening at the crease to the extent you could quarry granite out of the wicket after he finished and not forgetting the memorable trips to youth cricket matches in my mashed up old Austin Maxi. Special mentions for Chris Gardiner's car (without which 8 people and the kit would never have made it to games) and the good burghers of Hales and Wrenningham for having amusingly small boundaries.

Happy, happy days.

Thursday 21 October 2010

And the flipside is unchecked mania

Thought it was time for another piece all about what is is to be me. The deconstruction of a legend, or something similar. I have written previously on my blog about the OCD I suffer from and the depression it has caused over the years. On the other side of depression though, and just as troublesome, is what I call mania.

Mania is the emotional opposite of depression, but they are definitely siblings. It is the state I find myself in when the emotion is pulsating and forcing its way out of me, everything needs urgent evacuation or it will fry me from the inside. There are times when I just have to react, dramatically, to events around me - whether that be to shout at the TV news or to laugh outwardly, loudly and embarassingly at a sub-par joke, as if the laughter were the vocalisation of anger at the paucity of the material.

It is not, however, just the big and outward gestures and signs of mania that are troublesome to me. Mania is the little man with the stick who pokes and pokes and won't let up at every opportunity. The force that makes me go that little bit too far, further than my comfort zone in what I say or do. I find myself telling lurid tales just that little bit too lurid for polite company, I am telling tales to shock and I know it. It makes me crave the reaction, sate myself with other's raised eyebrows or disapproving looks. Mania gets off on disapproval, mania is typing these words right now.

I want people to be shocked, I want them to recoil, I want the damn mania (and just who do you think made me type that? poke, bloody poke). It feeds the depression, it is fuel, it is a diaretic for the soul, the two of them are so in cahoots, it is surprising I have ever managed to present a sober and level headed front. At least, that is how it feels when I am manic. Of course it subsides and of course I then find my level.

Why write about it? Well, the mania has coloured parts of my life just as much as the OCD and the depressive episodes have. Every time I have fallen in love I have committed myself to it (at least to my internal satisfaction) completely, the buzz from it is narcotic and I feel it's withdrawal for a long time after the details of her face have faded from memory. In that sense it is helpful - when I get withdrawal pangs when someone goes away, I am normally already starting to fall. Mania is what made Friday and Saturday big nights out in the nineties - hang it all out there and let the weekend blow your mind. It felt like the only option - be out of control and let the emotions rip their moorings.

Mania makes me write poems that illiterate - lest the words miss out on a welcoming world of wonder. Every word I write or say has a purpose when I am manic - it is crystal clarity to depression's haze. This whole piece, by the way, was conceived in a flash on the A47 - one moment's complete overreaction to undimmed headlights and I was writing the why all the way home in my head.

When I am depressed, I don't know how to know myself, when I am manic I HAVE to know myself - a different type of raw necessity - evacuate those emotions and ride the wake behind them waiting until it all subsides into the crushing lows in the immediate aftermath. There's truth, there's truth without reason and there's reason without truth, and I spend my life juggling all three.

I am Dave, and I am manic. And this is an evacuation in words.

Wednesday 20 October 2010

Dave's Friday night curry feast - a taste of Dave in your home!

Bet you didn't think you were coming here for cooking tips did you? Well, my fine band of Mudpuddlees, I am thinking of your culinary as well as your cerebral wellbeing.

Today's recipe is for the curry I usually treat myself to on a Thursday or Friday night, it packs a punch but is ideal for the hearty appetite and asbestos lined tums.

Start by sweating off a chopped white onion, a clove of garlic and a thumb of grated fresh ginger in a large, flat bottomed pan, adding in a chopped red chilli of your favourite heat.

Beforehand you will have prepared your curry paste/garam masala. Use a pestle and mortar (or a spice grinder) to grind together half a teaspoon of coriander seeds, cumin seeds and a few peppercorns and add a half teaspoon of turmeric and mild chilli powder. Finish with a sprinkle of sea salt, a quarter teaspoon of chilli flakes, a chopped chilli as above, the zest of a lemon, the juice of half a lemon, 2 cloves of crushed garlic and a teaspoon of coriander paste. Mix together well with a little stock to form a paste.

Add as much diced chicken breast as you desire and turn in the pan to ensure the outside is well sealed before adding whole small mushrooms or quatered large mushrooms to the pan. Once these have mingled together with the base ingredients, add the paste/garam masala and mix well together adding a splash of stock to keep the dish moist.

Allow the ingredients to mingle and marry for about 10 minutes before adding a handful of cherry tomatos and then a dash of double cream to blend into a creamy curry sauce. Once mixed in, the dish is ready, but can be left to simmer until you are ready.

Add a handful of chopped fresh coriander to the finished dish and serve with your choice of rice, or a warm Naan. Hot, spicy and very Mudpuddle.

Next week - Thai broth and mussels

Tuesday 19 October 2010

The Ultimate 80s Mixtape

Now thats what I call a Mudpuddlin mixtape!
Yes, friends, it is time for the first in yet another series of one, some or many threads. This time I am looking at the ultimate mix tape - what tape would I play to keep myself happy, were I to be denied access to the 80s forever? We have already seen in an earlier thread that the 80s rule, bar none, so whar are the biggest hits of that decade, and just why do they make it into my list? Read on, and soak up the cloying nostalgia!

1) Footloose, Kenny Loggins - Not only a rip-snorter of an 80s movie, but also has the fantastic Lori Singer in it - puppy love revisited!

2) Life In A Northern Town, Dream Academy - fantastic recurring riff and thoughtful lyrics, sums up the mood of the decade perfectly.

3) Personal Jesus, Depeche Mode - serious outbreak of cool going on iin the video to this, the lover as saviour. Reach Out And Touch Faith! Depeche Mode undoubtedly my band of the decade.

4) Killing Moon, Echo and the Bunnymen - One of the first songs I can remember giving me a real sense of alternative music. Sits beautifully outside the usual genres of the decade.

5) Prince Charming, Adam and the Ants - Has to be included if only for the brilliant video. Especially as it was one of the last appearances of Diana Dors on our screens. That's before we accept that its a severely catchy number. Ridicule? Nothing to be scared of!

6) Life's What You Make It, Talk Talk - another of the hits that first got me interested in the Indie/alternative music of the 80s, great for drumming along to!

7) Ride On Time, Black Box - fantastic beat and rhythm and one of the most dancable tunes of the later 80s - the sort of song you were guaranteed to dance to at the Saturday Night Hall of Residence disco.

8) Vienna, Ultravox - noone should be comdemned to be forever the number 2 behind Joe Dolce and 'shuddupya face'. To be fair, Midge Ure would make it with If I Was as well, but this one has mood and atmosphere to carry it into the compilation easily!

9) She Bangs the Drums, Stone Roses - you weren't anyone at uni back then if you didn't get into a little Stone Roses, and this one is the pick of their 1989 album. Seriously cool.

10) Red Red Wine, UB40 - it's not often a Birmingham Reggae band can add to a Neil Diamond classic, but Ali Campbell and co definitely achieve it with this one. Completely brilliant version.

11) Purple Rain, Prince - Has to be the guitar players choice - wonderful guitar accompaniament to this one, as well as a fabulous bassline.

12) Drive, The Cars - Is my favourite 80s hit. Great song to listen to at the end of the night, but also because of the video. Paulina Porizkova absolutely nails mental illness in the video and even now when I watch it I get a chill down my spine. Awesome song to end the compilation with!

Monday 18 October 2010

Desert Island Mudpuddler

Good afternoon, Mudpuddlees. Today, all those things you wanted to know about me but were afraid to ask can finally be answered! What exactly makes a Mudpuddler tick? What escapism does he use? What are his musical must haves? Yes, it is time to abandon me on the Desert Island, and find out what I would take into exile with me!

What book would you take to a desert island with you? - There is only one choice. Lord Of The Rings by JRR Tolkein. not only is it long enough to keep me occupied for several weeks, it is deep enough to keep you fantasising about the untold stories for long afterwards. The ultimate Desert Island read.

What music would you take with you? - I would take 3 albums with me. Firstly Automatic For the People by REM and secondly OK Computer by Radiohead - both of which I can comfortably listen to right through without any tracks grating on me. My third album would be a compilation of alternative 80s classics - Personal Jesus, Life's what you make it, Love will tear us apart again, that sort of thing.

What single gadget would you find indespensible? - I'd have to take my swiss army knife with me - covers just about every urgent eventuality, although my laptop would be a useful addition as well!

You can take one complete TV series with you - Not the Nine O'Clock News! Simply the funniest thing to have been on TV in 30 years, could happily watch it over again and again.

Finally, you can take any one feature film with you - This is a close run thing, I am tempted by Dogma for it's humour, but I will plump for Once Upon A Time In The West - brilliant score, dramatic, gritty and eminently watchable!

Sunday 17 October 2010

The shame of Mudpuddlin Dave

I thought it best to update the blog tonight as who knows what carnage will be visited upon it with Wednesday's Comprehensive Buggaring About With Us Review? I might find there are 33% cutbacks in my lucidity and humour, and that simply won't do. Come the revolution, Mudpuddlin will be a 24/7 exercise, the Pravda of the East (of England) However, I digress. I thought tonight I would give some thought to those times in my life I have been ashamed of my actions, and yes, there have been many, and look to set the record straight, or at least give you a good chuckle at some of my recurring and all-too-frequent misadventures.

First, I must address the issue of intellectual copyright theft. The business of my 14 hear old self, one DMTronics, was a cheap rip off of my good friend Simon's Simclair and indeed, the only programme it created, Ronnie Rat, was Simclair's Sam's Scrapyard with a slightly altered UDG for the main character. This is not news to the boards of either DMTronics (me) or Simclair (Simon) however it seems an appropriate time to publically fess up.

To the good burghars of South Stoneham House in Southampton I can say only this - you managed to have me with you for the three years of my life which I chose to indluge in rampant alcohol abuse. I remain grateful for the sumptuous breakfasts prepared solely to bring me out of another hangover and to my beloved bar, sadly long since bankrupted, for putting up with night after night of buffoonery. As to my shame, let's settle upon being found asleep outside my room on the floor by the cleaner having been unable to complete the tricky key/lock interface in my stupour. Shame, but not a little dose of legend.

I'd also like to mention here that not all shame is through appalling behaviour. For example, my first employers had a dumbwaiter style delivery system for post over the different floors. Now the room containing it on my floor had a loose cover and underneath were some fierce looking metal components. A long running debate in the office was whether this was safe, or indeed we risked electrocution whilst awaiting the repair (which arrived several months later). Now, I am not one to let a debate rage on unanswered, so I found out via the 'touch with your finger' route. Yes, we risked electrocution.

There is so much more I could go into, but even I have limits to my candour. Pretending not to know where the condoms are to get out of hangover sex, being rescued on Millenium Eve by a giant mohican bearing punk having slid down Castle Mound on my backside. Pants down dancing on the table in the St Andrews Tavern, knocking myself out in Norwich Arts Centre by leaping into a beam. How about that, I guess there are no limits to my candour after all!

I am legend, it shames me.

Friday 15 October 2010

Introduction to a new novel

Pete drew the floor length curtains across the lounge window and shut out the late autumn night. He paced about the room impatiently and sighed as he looked over at the phone, still steadfastly refusing to ring. He was waiting to hear from Lizzie, to hear whether she wanted him to visit the next weekend. He realised he spent an inordinate amount of time waiting to hear from Lizzie, nonetheless he turned on the laptop and logged in to his mail account. You have (0) new messages. Pete rested his head on one propped arm and hit refresh lazily, just to be sure.

He lived in a small village in North Norfolk, far enough away from civilisation to be peaceful but near enough to the sea he felt he could escape if he needed. The practicality of this was a side issue and not the point as Pete was a dreamer, so the concept of it was enough. In autumn and winter it could be perishingly cold in this exposed part of the country and Northerly winds would whip the North Sea into a frenzy bringing a surprising amount of snow this far south. It all added to the starkness of these seasons against the mellow warmth and pleasant bounty of spring and summer. However, this was late autumn and Pete had lit a fire which was crackling and trying to be heard above the occasional whistle of wind down the chimney.

Pete was in his thirties, tall and evidently slim in his youth. Age had filled him out somewhat however and his hair was flecked with stray grey hairs he was now too used to to become frantic over. He had a rather far away look and to anyone meeting him for the first time he often seemed to gaze beyond them whilst looking at them, as if he was always straining into the distance. Lizzie would chide him for dreaming again when he did this, but he didn't mind, being chided by Lizzie was akin to punishment from a favoured childhood Teddy Bear.

She was of the same vintage as Pete, although she lived a fair distance away. They had first met on the internet, in that haphazard and random way people have become used to. He tried to describe her to a friend shortly after they had first met, remarking about her natural and unfussy hairstyle, how she was a brilliant height (he had no idea what he meant by that), that she was perfectly at ease with herself, smiling more than not and most of all that her eyes were bluer and deeper than any he had ever seen, hiding a multitude of past tragedies and triumphs, eyes in which he would quite willingly drown himself in seeking to understand her. He hated that he could describe her this way to a friend but was only ever able to tell her she had 'great eyes'.

The phone was still not ringing, but Lizzie had no idea how impatient Pete was for a call. In fact, there were many things Lizzie was unaware of. She was oblivious to how Pete described her eyes to anyone who would listen and she was completely unaware that he was head over heels in love with her. He had, in fact, been in love with her since before they first met. He had begun to fall madly and desperately in love with her as they got to know each other online. Everything she said interested him, the way she saw the world was exciting and vibrant and infectiously engaging. She was naughty without malice and funny without pretention. He would never say she was everything he ever wanted (to himself, of course) as she was more to him than anything he had ever imagined prior to their meeting. However, Pete was Pete and he felt no words he said to her could explain his feelings or do justice to them, or to her and so he stayed silent, hopelessly in love and frantic for every moment with her.

Lizzie knew none of this as she phoned him, tears rolling down her face, no clue of the feelings burning so deeply at the other end of the phone. She had no knowledge of his love as her life imploded around her and as the phone finally rang in Norfolk, neither of them could begin to guess what was about to happen and where it would lead them, against all odds. This was the very last moment the world was normal, as Pete noted Lizzie's number and grabbed the phone to his ear. Then everything changed.

Thursday 14 October 2010

Monochrome World

One thing you might notice if you stop by my blog regularly is that I try not to take life too seriously. I've always used humour and I'll be very honest here, it is a useful shield. That is what makes the contrast with my illness and depression so stark and painful.

Humour is levity and light and I can find little wrong with the world when I am laughing with it, or at it. However, when a bout of depression strikes, it is like a shadow descends over everything and emotion is drawn out of the world as if it were a poison. It is worse than sadness, it is the absence of sadness or happiness, an empty yearning for some sort of emotional response, but the emotion will not come. I have sat and stared blankly at the TV screen when a comedy I would always enjoy is showing, but even classic gags that would have me rolling on normal days wash over me without registering. My face will contort into a phantasm of a grin, a cruel mockery of real enjoyment. Or I will catch something sad on the news, or a moving film and watch dispassionately. At times I have felt a tear run down my face but inside I have no feeling of it - it is merely condensation.

People seem unfamiliar and drab as I desperately scramble to build a cocoon to hide in, they have no impact and are empty shells, vessels drained of all content. A collection of words and movements I long to hide from. Open the window and everything is coming at me through a muffler, the clarity of individual sounds rolled into a constant dull hum, even noise cannot escape the bleakness, it is being strangled. My surroundings are the same, but the colour and vibrancy have fled, leached out by the depression, a pencil sketch of what was a magnificent watercolour.

That is how it is, day after day, living a film noir, forcing myself to do a bad impression of emotional investment into conversations and all the time feeling hollowed out, ruinous. The irony is, I can't even get angry about it as emotions are stuck on the event horizon, inaccessible. In the world but not of it, distant and utterly alone. Then it passes, and I wake one morning as if the previous days hadn't happened and the colour, sound and laughter flood back with the tears.

So, that's really why I use humour - self-diagnosis. If I can laugh, then I'm OK for today at least. That's something I guess.

Tuesday 12 October 2010

Management Bullhooey Bingo part 2

Thought I might update today with a second helpful helping of translations of those tricksy phrases management love to grace the office with. Taking a keen interest as I do in phooey, I anticipate more helpful information coming from me in future. Look out for the guide to polite commentary and the Mudppuddlers introduction to the stuff what the other half says and the stuff what they mean, innit? I digress, thus will proceed without delay to today's translations.

See your line manager in the first instance - don't come sniffing round me with your problems, I am far too grand and important, bother someone lower down the food chain.

Let me come back to you on that - you've just made me look like an idiot in front of my underlings. I won't forget.

A significant uptick in business - Help, oh my God help me, I laid off too many staff and we can't cope.

Multi-skilling - Think doing more, more often, for less. Now double it.

Seamless transition - months of chaos with things going missing, deliveries going awry, complaints sky rocketing and at least four versions of the compoany name in use.

A difficult transition - Yeah, we got that one wrong, we're going back to how it was before.

Customer facing role - You talk to them, I can't stand our customers. Is it lunch already?

Each and every one of you has contributed to our success - except me, and I get the bonus, isn't life wonderful?!

This is just the sort of thing that looks great when it comes to reviewing your year - I should know, I've already taken credit for it in my review.

Your name instantly sprang to mind for this project - Here, this is a total mess, do something with it.

Your name is known in high places - Just wait till you see what I have lined up for you, teacher's pet!

Sunday 10 October 2010

Four items on my Birthday and Christmas Lists

Listen up, Mudpuddlees, this is important. I have come to a shocking realisation over the weekend. I have realised that I have not fulfilled my destiny, my ultimate dream. I am not, yet, an Olympic gold medallist. Now, bear with me, I have good reasons for feeling this is my dream and destiny, I am just too shy to share them with you at this stage.

This begs the quesion, in which disciplines will I concentrate my efforts in order to secure Gold at the London Olympics in a mere 2 years from now? The obvious choice would have been cricket, the one sporting activity at which I have a degree of skill. Two problems exist with this choice however. I do not have quite enough skill (one would think) and cricket is not an Olympic sport. Hmmmmm, this is already proving a tiring quest.

With even my most optimistic hat on, I fancy I would struggle at running events, given that the last time I tried to race someone over 200 metres, I had to stop after about 40 with a pounding heart and dizzy spells. This does not sound like the sort of physique or condition that will pull off a shock over Usain Bolt or one of the other champions. For similar reasons of lack of conditioning I am ruling out endurance equipment events like rowing or cycling and their many derivatives.

I could look at swimming or diving as an option. Certainly it's a good excuse to go for that kinky silky smooth look, match the body to the head and all. Actually, my baldness might be the trick that gets me over the line - look at Duncan Goodhew. There is a minor problem with both of these though, I can't really swim well and I am afraid of going out of my depth in water. Diving in 5 foot of water is (I am led to believe) foolish in the extreme and I have checked and the Olympics committees will not allow water wings or a float in competition. Blast.

The same lack of buoyancy rules out the sailing events, not worth drowing in the Channel for a Gold after all. I am a wide-eyed dreamer, I never said I was brave. Horses? Can't really have two enormous beasts between my legs ;)! We are starting to run short of options here - I think we have to rule out anything involving water, physical exertion and the like as I will be 40 come the games and therefore not in the most prime condition of an admittedly fairly laid back (literally) history of non-exercise. We can therefore also discount badminton and tennis.

What I really require is a discipline that the older gentleman can compete in on equal terms which does not require excessive fitness. I believe, therefore, that it is my destiny to become Olympic gold medallist in Archery, or possible a gun shooting discipline - clay pigeon looks a whizzo laugh but the pistol is lighter and probably less tiring. Two of the items on this year's lists therefore are pne of those competition bows and a sporting pistol to allow me to start practising. I have even compensated for the only weakness I can think of which is my appallngly bad eyesight. Also on the list for this year is laser eye surgery!

So, there we have it - planning for my Olympic glory by asking for the right presents. What's that? The fourth item? Ah, yes, just in case there is a lucky contestant who damns me with a Silver, a set of bowls. They don't have those in the Olympics, but they do in the Commonwealth and they are way easier to strike gold in. Plus I can play that until I am extremely dessicated. Thanks in advance as ever for your generosity....

Saturday 9 October 2010

A Night Of A Thousand Daves

Dangerous as it is, I have spent a lot of my two weeks leave in contemplation. In other words, I have come down with a bad dose of the introspection infection. Fortunately, writing about it would appear to be the right antedote (as well as the right anecdote), so I guess that worked out fairly well. In particular, I have been giving some thought to which of the many Daves you might know. Yes, I realise the irony of someone who suffers from a mental illness writing about multiple personalities, but I mean which part of me it is that you know, or even better, which parts.

You may know quick-witted Dave. I admit to having a relatively sharp and quick mind, and the cheek to use it as a weapon of mass mirth. I like to make people laugh, laughter is comfortable, an audible acceptance of your presence, a confirmation of your value to the gathering. You may or may not know of course, that it is also a very effective shield, an outer shell, protection.

Perhaps you know windmill Dave, the lanky opening bowler with the strange action who week in and out would bowl 12 overs straight through and puff his way through 20 fags (not touched them for 4 years now!), half the time frustrated the batsman can't find the edge, and the rest of the time pretending the long hop that took the wicket was 'all part of the plan'. I'd hesitate to suggest you know his accomplice, slogger Dave. Sadly he usually spent too little time at the crease to make his mark, or indeed take guard.

You could be one of the fairer sex and have some intimate knowledge of Romeo Dave. If so, lucky you! In love, I am changed, aren't we all? Being part of a unique sort of team, a duo, it is a remarkable state to be in, and it is a place I have visited on occasion. It has always been to my benefit, although just afterwards it is sometimes too raw to realise that, but even I (everyDave) notice the difference in myself. If you know Romeo Dave, you have a rare advantage over other Dave collectors, and somewhere I carry a warmth that is the memory of those times when we were aflame.

Then there is irresponsible Dave. Why have one pint when you can have ten? Why go to lectures when you can lay in bed watching countdown on your black and white telly? Why listen to reason when it is far more fun to push the limits? I have a daft streak as long as you like and I find it very hard to resist the most ridiculous, unlikely, risky or silly option. I'm willing to bet a number of you know this part of me, but far fewer the sullen and regretful me, wishing he had just once taken the safe option.

There are so many others that I would not have a hope of naming them all here - from poet Dave who takes comfort in the beauty of language to political Dave with his set in stone views (none of which are as set in stone as he would have you believe). There is dreamer Dave, mind wandering into fantasies he'll never realise to the me that is always there and will always listen. My point is, if you are reading this, the likelihood is that you know one, some or many Daves, and the more of them you know, the less surprising each new addition you come across. I just hope you are happy with the collection you have, because I know them all and as EveryDave it really does matter to me that you are. You might even know a Dave that I had almost forgotten about, it's always nice to remember the Daves that were.

Thursday 7 October 2010

I want a word with the chef

The other day I was busily preparing some supper for myself and I have to say I was having a whale of a time. It led me to think about when it was that cooking went from being a chore to something I truly love doing, a hobby as well as an essential part of life.

It was not always something I enjoyed, or indeed had the remotest skill in. During childhood I never really got into it as a fun thing to do, although I do recall 'helping' on occasion (generally only on times when some spoon and bowl-licking would be involved). Indeed, I think I was into my teens before I learned how to boil a kettle and make hot drinks (note to self - learned? or was given permission to use said dangerous item?), not as easy as it sounds as the kettle was a stove topper from memory. At university I survived on a diet of kit kats and ready salted crisps with occasional visits to the canteen between liquid intakes, so even here I did not really utilise much cuisinery. For anyone who knew me in those halcyon days, I dimly recall drunken misadventures with omelettes, Smash mashed potato and cubes of steak the Dog would have turned its nose up at. In my defence, I was and remain, a legend.

After University and twixt periods of pampering at the parental home, I rented/shared. Now, as any of my sharers will tell you (this means you, Tacon) I was not threatening to break into the world of TV cheffery then either - I had learned Cooking 101: basic vegetable boiling, and could do pasket pasta 'n sauce like a pro. Indeed, one such packet pasta and some washed and prepped Sainsbury salad alongside some leftover chicken from a Mum roast got me into the exes good books. Not exactly Delia-esque though. I did, however, become the 'go to' guy for a fry up the morning after the night before. This, I think, was where the love of cooking actually began. Around the same time I also picked up the interesting habit of sleeping in the communal kitchen of a friend I would visit still at Reading Uni (that's you, S Bear, if you read this :D) - bizarre, but seems tenuously relevant.

Fast forward to the purchase of the chateau and life chez moi is all about the cooking. From perfecting Moules recipes to cooking myself into curry heaven, baking soda bread, cakes, casseroles, roasting game, I want to do it all. It's not just the cooking, it's how I use what I have in the eternal quest to fill one belly and one belly alone that gets me excited. I am just not sure when it became such a wonderful way to spend my time. I think it may have been when I gave up on following recipes slavishly. Once you know how to 'do' things, you can work it all out for yourself. It's my supper, I should put what I want in it, after all! Living on my own probably helps too, if something doesn't work, I am the only one that suffers for it. I do cook for others, too, of course.

So, that's where I am, in love with cooking from nowhere, entirely self-taught and, I should add, a cuisine maverick. I really wish I had discovered it as a passion sooner, and done something with it, but, to be fair, I'll settle for a belly full of the good stuff when I want it.

Tuesday 5 October 2010

Familiarity

The past year has been a fair emotional roller-coaster for me and I found I have had periods of reflection on a rather lengthier and perhaps deeper basis than some of those helter-skelter, no-time-to-breathe years that have gone before it.

In particular, I think a lot about those people that have come into my life from outside, that is to say without the bonds of family, but have become inportant to me as friends, comrades or even as lovers. Why is it that from some people you crave more? More time, more meetings, more love, more moments - some people you simply have not had enough of in one chance meeting, whereas others will come and go, pleasant, but not memorable enough to you to imprint themselves onto you.

I have come to the conclusion that everyone who remains in your life does so because they have a hook which happens to latch on to you very readily and easily. There is at least one thing (and often many) about them that you instantly associate with them on thinking of them which you identify with them alone and as a comfort to want 'more'. Now this is hardly earth-shattering insight into the nature of human relationships, but that is not the point. The point is, I have had time to think about the people in my life and understand a little better why they are there.

For example, I recently met up with some friends from University whom I haven't seen in a decade and a half. It was a very pleasant evening, and I particularly thought to myself how there was no real awkwardness or 'estrangement' there. Of course, our respective lives have gone off in very different directions and with different goals and priorities, but at the heart of it all, all those little indicators that kept these people as friends all that time ago were still there - from the bizarre like the way a pool cue is held to the way words and phrases are spoken. I like the way these guys do those things, it feels comfortable and familiar and brings to mind misadventures of long ago. Enjoyable misadventures.

People who do not remain leave no imprint. There is nothing about the way they do things that gels with you. It is neither their, nor your fault, they just can't latch on to you, and so you will never be close to them. When I have fallen in love, it was never about the way someone looks - that just means you want to sweet talk them in the first place. No, the things that make you fall in love are a whole suite of familiarities and comforts. I like the way you breathe when you sleep, I like how you brush toast crumbs from your chin. I like how you flash with anger.

Why am I posting about this today? Because I am feeling reflective, because I love my friends very much and I don't tell them that enough and because I feel the need to tell people more often WHY I love them. So if you know me, and I happen to mention how I like the way you bob your head when you are talking, take it as it is meant, as a confirmation of why I love you.

Saturday 2 October 2010

Let down and hanging around

I have lived for nearly 39 years and, much as it may shock, not everything I have encountered in that time has impressed me. Indeed, truth be told, some things have left me downright cold. I don't know what possesses me to speak of failure this evening, perhaps the lacklustre European performace thus far in the Ryder Cup, or the pitiful remnants in my vegetable garden slowly rotting away into winter. Maybe I am just a grumpy wumpy (with thanks to Lulu Bear from Bananas in Pyjamas). It is of no matter, the decision is made and tonight I will showcase things which are not all that, the suckiest of the succubuses, the dross of the ages. A place in HTML eternity wherein the damned can find a home. The trashcan.... you get the idea.

The sound system of the Sinclair ZX Spectrum 48K - Now, to be fair, a command in BASIC called 'Beep' was never likely to set the world alight, but the Beep command was not even particularly basic, or user friendly. You had to specify two numbers, separated by a comma, one indicating pitch and the other duration. There was no standard muscial notation to number guide. On one occasion I spent half a day programming 'In The Bleak Midwinter' via trial and error only to be greeted by what amounted to a single cat with it's delicates caught in a Bulldog's teeth. If Sir Clive Sinclair's music be the food of love, play off!

The Ghost Train - As a child I was terrified of the whole concept of the ghost train and refused to be taken on to such a fearful thing. I was convinced that real ghosts and demons were hidden in that netherworld behind the doors - the frightening face painted on indicated that it was so. When I was finally convinced that I would be quite safe and that my father would accompany me so nothing bad could poissibly happen, I plucked up the courage to ride into Hell itself. Within two minutes, an easily frightened, slightly deluded young boy found the whole concept of fear risible. Thanks a lot Ghost Train, you numbed me to fear of the exquisite horrors of this world.

Reality TV - Every single bit of it is drivel. There are no exceptions to this rule. If reality is a series of faded celebrities slightly out of their comfort zone, members of the public who can sing in tune or juggle a bit and the lining on Simon Cowell's pockets as he dehumanises us all further and creates a vacuum where once went talent then I look forward to the remainder of my days in boggle-eyed escapism locked in the prism of my own mind. Reality TV, get a grip people, get a damn grip!

Costa Del Sol - There are simply no words to describe the awfulness of the Costa Del Sol. There is no expression grim enough to capture the hollow banality of holidaying in this accursed place. It is hot and crowded and you can get egg and chips there, or all day fried breakfasts. It is a motorway service station with sunshine and an excess of violent drunks, syphillic lotharios and shaggamuffins. If we bring back Transportation, I would have criminals sent there. Well, the ones that didn't flee there in the 70s anyway. Ugh, just ugh.

Telling people your degree is in Philosophy - No, this does not mean I can tell you 'what's life all about then hey?'. I am also aware, painfully, of the limitations it has for employment purposes. I do not need you to observe that it's not much use in the real world. I do not point out that your partner would be of no use in a beauty contest or that your children are a quite a bit thicker than other children their age, I expect the same respect for my life. I worked hard for that degree. OK, that is not strictly true, I did very little work and got drunk using the taxpayer funded student grant available at the time rather a lot. This isn't about that, though, it's about YOU and your shoddy attitude to my degree. So there!

Hangovers - Possibly the most convincing evidence not only of God, but of one who loves to rip the piss. I mean, OK, drinking leads you into mischief a lot of the time, but does the punishment really meet the crime? And what's the deal with them getting worse the older I get and on much less alcohol?! I am much more reserved and sensible these days and yet I suffer on what appears to be an exponential curve of hangoverage. It is most unfair.