Carry On Drinking
Ah, there we go. Carry On Screaming is blaring out of the television set in the corner of the room, and Jim Dale creeping around the woods is a good distraction from the task in hand...to throw together some kind of summary of the last couple of weeks. I find the idea dispiriting; what is there to say? I am unable to write about the recent devastating tsunami because it would be pointless and vaguely insulting to think I have anything worth saying about something that left the world speechless.
So I am stuck with attempting to come up with some of my own recent history. Well...I enjoyed the festive period, but I doubt that it translates well to print. Unless we can finally discover how to spell the sound of a hangover; so far all I can come up with is "urraarrrghhhhiee." Hmm...needs more feeling of having your brain kicked out and less feeling of imminent hurlage. But we are getting bogged down already, so let us attempt to chuck a few memories at the page.
New Year's Eve was, for me, a house party ten minute's walk from home, and this was ideal on an evening where taxis are overpriced and scarce. The party took place for the most part in a basement containing a fully stocked bar and a pool table. Result: unspeakable drunkenness and a white ball flying through in the air every ten minutes like clockwork. As the early hours crawled past somebody produced a game of vodka roulette. And with a Russian girl in attendance the game was not going to produce many winners...
And there he is! Bernard Bresslaw in a suit giving Harold Steptoe the beady eye...but I must remain focused. It is still a good hour away from Kenneth Williams' infamous "frying tonight!" line, and I intend to have a cushion plumped up ready for that moment. In the meantime, let us continue.
Christmas was quiet and sadly I have long since run out of elderly relatives to see. Since I am a believer in traditions - they give a sense of continuity and a way of making a particular event unique and meaningful - I observed a couple of new ones that I began last year. They all start somewhere after all...and before I get carried away with such romantic notions I should point out that all my new traditions revolve around fatty food and alcohol. Exciting new annual traditions are not much good if my arteries and liver are going to explode like a staked vampire before Twelfth Night is done. But what the hell, eh? So it's fried bacon and eggs for Christmas morning, gin and tonics the night before, and plenty of bloody marys all week.
The strange thing about the bloody mary is that the tomato juice is there to take away the taste of the vodka, and the vodka is there to take away the taste of the tomato juice. (This is known as the Red Bull & Mixer Paradox) The key is to add just the right amount of spice...and a week of experimenting this year shows that you need six good drops of Worcestershire sauce, eight drops of Tabasco, the juice of a generous slice of lime and plenty of ice. A stick of celery with the leaves still attached makes the thing look almost drinkable, but will barely affect the taste. It's fucking celery, after all.
And perhaps a new tradition, courtesy of the inestimable Nigel Slater and my own lazy adaptation, should be the superior turkey sandwich for the day after Boxing Day. Lightly toasted white bread, thin slices of turkey breast, a big rasher of bacon, mayonnaise (not butter), thin batons of celery or carrot (for crunch) and a generous shaking of Tabasco. Nyum nyum.
Ah...a commercial break interrupts the film...and I observe more evidence of Channel 4's new branding. Their new pre-show idents last three times longer than previously, resulting in a protracted and embarrassing gap before every programme once the announcer has run out of things to say. How long before they drop them? Will they be ditched as fast as the circles from a few years ago? Far too much is made of these things. Branding is ubiquitous on all channels now, even to the extent that the BBC allocate each channel their own colours. Jesus, where will this all end? At the moment only Channel 5's branding is unobtrusive yet quietly assured...
What? "Quietly assured?" Ye gods, am I buying into this marketing gibberish now? Surely not. I can't watch a commercial channel without muting the adverts now. I refuse to be the hypocrite who happily sits there soaking up the adverts, only to throw rocks at the creators afterwards. I mean...people, you have a choice! If you publicly groan whenever a new reality show is announced and then watch the damn thing and read every word of the tabloid stories about them, why exactly are you complaining? And why hasn't some vengeful god appeared in a puff of smoke at the bottom of your bed and started jumping up and down on your groin and shouting "how's that for reality, you twat?"
No...I am not writing this to give reign to a bunch of lazy, swear-filled rants that even Charlie Brooker would admit were obvious. So what else can I say about the last couple of weeks? Is that really it? Maybe not, but I don't feel the need to dwell on my own protracted crapulence (except, natch, to be able to use the word "crapulence"). Really, it's the future I should be concerned about. I should find out how the new flat is progressing tomorrow, a situation that is becoming more protracted every day. Hopefully I will be able to write something positive about it by the end of the week.
Ah, a cheeky reference to Steptoe And Son on the film...and why not? But never mind that. Bring on Kenneth Williams and his vat of bubbling oil! Frying tonight! (and so on)
So I am stuck with attempting to come up with some of my own recent history. Well...I enjoyed the festive period, but I doubt that it translates well to print. Unless we can finally discover how to spell the sound of a hangover; so far all I can come up with is "urraarrrghhhhiee." Hmm...needs more feeling of having your brain kicked out and less feeling of imminent hurlage. But we are getting bogged down already, so let us attempt to chuck a few memories at the page.
New Year's Eve was, for me, a house party ten minute's walk from home, and this was ideal on an evening where taxis are overpriced and scarce. The party took place for the most part in a basement containing a fully stocked bar and a pool table. Result: unspeakable drunkenness and a white ball flying through in the air every ten minutes like clockwork. As the early hours crawled past somebody produced a game of vodka roulette. And with a Russian girl in attendance the game was not going to produce many winners...
And there he is! Bernard Bresslaw in a suit giving Harold Steptoe the beady eye...but I must remain focused. It is still a good hour away from Kenneth Williams' infamous "frying tonight!" line, and I intend to have a cushion plumped up ready for that moment. In the meantime, let us continue.
Christmas was quiet and sadly I have long since run out of elderly relatives to see. Since I am a believer in traditions - they give a sense of continuity and a way of making a particular event unique and meaningful - I observed a couple of new ones that I began last year. They all start somewhere after all...and before I get carried away with such romantic notions I should point out that all my new traditions revolve around fatty food and alcohol. Exciting new annual traditions are not much good if my arteries and liver are going to explode like a staked vampire before Twelfth Night is done. But what the hell, eh? So it's fried bacon and eggs for Christmas morning, gin and tonics the night before, and plenty of bloody marys all week.
The strange thing about the bloody mary is that the tomato juice is there to take away the taste of the vodka, and the vodka is there to take away the taste of the tomato juice. (This is known as the Red Bull & Mixer Paradox) The key is to add just the right amount of spice...and a week of experimenting this year shows that you need six good drops of Worcestershire sauce, eight drops of Tabasco, the juice of a generous slice of lime and plenty of ice. A stick of celery with the leaves still attached makes the thing look almost drinkable, but will barely affect the taste. It's fucking celery, after all.
And perhaps a new tradition, courtesy of the inestimable Nigel Slater and my own lazy adaptation, should be the superior turkey sandwich for the day after Boxing Day. Lightly toasted white bread, thin slices of turkey breast, a big rasher of bacon, mayonnaise (not butter), thin batons of celery or carrot (for crunch) and a generous shaking of Tabasco. Nyum nyum.
Ah...a commercial break interrupts the film...and I observe more evidence of Channel 4's new branding. Their new pre-show idents last three times longer than previously, resulting in a protracted and embarrassing gap before every programme once the announcer has run out of things to say. How long before they drop them? Will they be ditched as fast as the circles from a few years ago? Far too much is made of these things. Branding is ubiquitous on all channels now, even to the extent that the BBC allocate each channel their own colours. Jesus, where will this all end? At the moment only Channel 5's branding is unobtrusive yet quietly assured...
What? "Quietly assured?" Ye gods, am I buying into this marketing gibberish now? Surely not. I can't watch a commercial channel without muting the adverts now. I refuse to be the hypocrite who happily sits there soaking up the adverts, only to throw rocks at the creators afterwards. I mean...people, you have a choice! If you publicly groan whenever a new reality show is announced and then watch the damn thing and read every word of the tabloid stories about them, why exactly are you complaining? And why hasn't some vengeful god appeared in a puff of smoke at the bottom of your bed and started jumping up and down on your groin and shouting "how's that for reality, you twat?"
No...I am not writing this to give reign to a bunch of lazy, swear-filled rants that even Charlie Brooker would admit were obvious. So what else can I say about the last couple of weeks? Is that really it? Maybe not, but I don't feel the need to dwell on my own protracted crapulence (except, natch, to be able to use the word "crapulence"). Really, it's the future I should be concerned about. I should find out how the new flat is progressing tomorrow, a situation that is becoming more protracted every day. Hopefully I will be able to write something positive about it by the end of the week.
Ah, a cheeky reference to Steptoe And Son on the film...and why not? But never mind that. Bring on Kenneth Williams and his vat of bubbling oil! Frying tonight! (and so on)
posted by Jamie at 8:33 PM
2 Comments:
I would heartily endorse the Uborka-Pockless Bloody Mary, which eschews Worcestershire Sauce and Tabasco in favour of horseradish. Trust me.
Karen.
Hmm. There was a recipe in the Guardian the other day for a bloody mary that involved such a thing. Perhaps I'll dig it out.
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