... Friday! Friday! Friday!

... dinner partying...

... I want one :( http://ping.fm/ybSBR

... Today is 8-8-8 ... Hmm ... 888? The year that Charles the Fat died...?

... For me? Really? A dead bird? Why thanks, Enki, my ever-generous cat...

... is it Friday yet?

How much does a shot of soda water cost?

In the Waterwitch, Lancaster, it costs 50p!



Oh, I feel a rant coming on.



As the Grue said yesterday, muttering as he emerged from the pub,



'It's like pulling teeth, getting a pint in there.'

Healthy diet?

'So you have a healthy diet, it says here,' says the nurse, looking at my form.

'Yes, very healthy.' I tell her.

'So, lots of fruit, vegetables, meat, fish?'

'Well, no, I'm a vegetarian.'

Silence. 'I see. Do you take any supplements with that diet?'

Wtf? What supplements? I think.

'No,' I answer slowly, 'I cook.'

She looks at me for a moment and then moves on.

Do you think that the billion or so vegetarian Hindus are faced with the 'supplement question' when they visit a doctor?

I think not...

Potato wine, false cream

'Do you have any real cream?' I ask, as I put the tub of Elmlea on the counter.

The young girl looks as me with suspicion - this is obviously a trick question.

'Um, that is cream?' she tells me, which she manages to turn into a question right at the end.

'No,' I sigh, 'it's a mix of vegetable oil and various E numbers, not cream at all. Look,' I point to it, 'it doesn't say cream anywhere on it.'

'Oh, right.' She laughs a little bit. 'No, we've just got that.'

I don't know why I bought it. I never tried Elmlea faux cream before. Maybe it isn't too bad, I think to myself. Perhaps all those E numbers make it taste just like the real thing?

So, it's pretty awful. The wife whips it up. We taste it and pull faces. It tastes very false.

'I'll add honey and vanilla,' she says, 'maybe it will help?'

'Hmm.'

We eat it with Strawberries and crushed chocolate biscuits. It's like spooning foamy vegetable oil into your mouth. We finish, as we're distracted by TV as we eat it. Then we feel sick. Very sick. I have stomach cramps for godssake.

So, remind me why this stuff is made and / or sold again?

What else happened? Well, the Colonel came round and ate 11 of my pickled chillis, desite my warning that more than 10 could lead to complications.

Cue much later grasping of belly and moaning.

On Friday night we went to an after-party, the first that has happened in months, pretty much. Well, weeks anyway. I had been pretty restrained in the pub, apart from the unaskedfor whisky that the Colonel bought for me. So arrived pretty fresh. And probably a bit over-excited.

With a bottle of home-made potato wine.

Ah, 12 year old potato wine too. Yes, it *did* taste and look like Sherry, and normally, well, who would drink a load of Sherry at a party these days? You only get drunk on Sherry once in your life, usually when in your early teens, and usually it was from your parent's drinks cabinet. Once is enough. Really. Sherry drunk is not pretty. And it hurts, really hurts the next day.

So, I drank the Potato sherry. My father had been keeping it in his garage for the last decade or so. Very nice of him.

Due to uncontrollable forces, I was full of life until about 7am, when I was escorted home, oblivious, by two nice people. They probably stopped me from staggering into the canal, something that is not worth dwelling upon.

Next day was a noon-eye-opener. Blank periods swirled around the void that was my mind. The house was empty. I made a potato rosti before I even woke up and stuffed it, at burning temperature, inside me with the coffee. Numb all day, I did little...

DrC's B-Day

Rather surprised to find that people have actually been reading my blog. People I know. Yes, I know who you are. Well, a useful Lancaster resource at last...

Last night was DrC's birthday so a mob of people turned up and rearranged furniture outside the White Cross. I drank weak bitter, knowing full well that it would be a long night. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Then splintered and most of us headed for Mint to drink overpriced, under-powered cocktails. Still, compared to most cocktail bars (not that we have many to choose from here) it's pretty cheap.

I had a Long Island Iced tea, recklessly, but as it turned out it wasn't so foolish as it was rather tame. I mean, how can a drink with five spirits in it turn out weak? You put a mini-dash of each in, that's how. I complained and received a shrug and an offer to replace it. So I just drank it.

Outside, smoking fags, talking to strangers. Felt like being in Europe somewhere, somewhere nice, I mean.

Drank a mohito, which was better. Then wanted a daiquirí, which was only on the menu in banana format, which sounded horrific. The barmaid happily made us a strawberry one though, which the Colonel and I accepted.

As we sipped our bright pink cocktails in our oversized, ornate glasses, a woman came over and said, 'I hope you don't me asking, but are you two gay?'

Hmm.

Another mojito. Oh dear, I'm definitely feeling reckless now.

As we're kicked out, the wife drags me to the bar where DrC is ordering a massive one-for-the-road line of shots. The wife encourages me to have one, so I do, foolishly.

I thought the barman was just incompetent, as he mixed a fruit and cream type of shot, which simply curdled (flashback to Japan, story for another time). So I spent the rest of the night saying this to anyone who would listen. Today though, the Colonel tells me that he must have done it on purpose, as he said, 'This'll make you vomit' as he poured them.

Classy.

The shot made my head whirl (yes, we all drank them anyway) and we headed to The Lounge, despite my protests. The lounge was dim but not too busy, downstairs anyway. I ordered Fosters, the weakest thing I could find, as I was a bit unsteady by this point.

I took pictures of a young couple (at their request, I hasten to add), chatted to whoever sat near me. Things started to get a bit hazy.

We left after an hour or two, who could say really? The Lounge only actually closes for 1 hour in every 24 to clean up. I shudder to think who stays in there that long.

Outside a man was being pinned down by a bouncer. His face was pressed against the road and his arms pulled wide and held. The man with his face in the road was saying, very well spoken,

'Look, I have no problem with you. Now, why don't you let me up.'

'No chance mate.'

We gawped for a minute, then walked home.

Very odd dream

So, Gilbert "Gil" Grissom of CSI fame was pottering about in his lounge.

(I was a mere fly-on-the-wall in this dream, watching the drama unfold)

He looked like he was getting ready for bed - turning off the TV, lamps etc when I noticed a large body bag on the floor.

Gil turned to the bag and said, 'Goodnight'. Upon which it started to move a little. Then a noise came from it - muffled, mumbling, throaty singing.

'..ho.. me ..eh.. way ..o go ...ome... I'm ...ired an.. I wan.. ..o go ...o bed...' Sang the bodybag.

'Bill?' Said Gil, opening the bodybag quickly. Inside was a dead, grey face, with a gag on it. He pulled the gag off and the dead face opened its eyes. It looked confused, tears welled up.

'Gil... help me...' It gasped.

Gil unzipped the badybag to the waist, showing that the corpse has been tied up too - arms, legs, with a thick rope. Gil didn't untie the body, but helped it sit up.

'Bill, I thought you were gone.'

But Bill wasn't listening. He had managed to get a hand free and now grasped for Gil with it, he became wild, tearing out his other hand, lunging, trying to bite Gil's leg.

Gil backed off as the zombie rose and grabbed a knife from the counter...

That's all I remember. What on earth am I doing dreaming about CSI stars? I haven't even seen the show for weeks...

Last weekend of June

Quiet weekend with the folks, did little except eat, drink a few beers, and visit the local Aldi. Car made it fine up and down the M6, which is very good. Now have a car stereo too, but it is too complex for me to fit (hmm, I don't seem to have a panel light wire, I wonder if that matters, etc...)

Trip to Majorca is being planned. Looking forward to some sun, sangria, sol, siesta, sea and um, stuff.

Shame

Just eaten something shameful...

Saturday Night Party

The proposed shindig at Clougha was rained off, so people went to the Brit instead to drink more alcohol than is sensible and listen to one-chip-tatty play. At 8pm. I mean, these days, who goes out at 8pm? *and* the had a late license for some reason... So that's 6 hours of drinking time. *sigh*. I started quite well, in the beer garden, as the pub was jam packed and I didn't feel for that much. I sipped bitter, avoided spirits, shied away from rounds. But in the end the time gets to us all. By 1am I was sloshing them back with everyone else, but things didn't get out of control. Not really. The police came, of course, but just to investigate a noise complaint from the usual irritating neighbours. When the police arrived there were three of us sitting outside, quietly smoking our cigarettes. The police looked nonplussed. The wife and I didn't want people back to ours, the sheer amount of people and the excessive alcohol made the prospect vaguely bad. So DrC and the Colonel pimped out their house for the evening. Off we go then, I get carried away and invite more people along on the way out. It takes the Grue and I some time to get to the party as Tintin is feeling belligerent, but we manage, in the end. Things start to get a bit more hazy at at the party. I talk at people quite a lot, then simply sit in a chair and interfere with the music for a while. Then it's 5am and time to go. All manner of interesting things occur after we leave, of course... Sunday was a write-off. A non-starter. I padded around the house all day, read books, took a bath, ate, little else.

Friday night in

A night in, oddly, for a Friday. Chilled out with the Colonel, played some Go, drank some beers. Cooked a Thai curry with mock chicken and sticky rice. Pudding was made, but didn't set due to arrowroot amount issues. Tried to watch a DVD but it died 20 mins from the end, very frustrating.

Now it rains. All night, all day.

Full Thursday

We managed to cram quite a lot into that Thursday - first I went to Morecambe and back to drop off the Nissan Micra for Bay View Cars to check out, then drove home the long way in a large, shabby Purgeot (which was full of left-over food, the windows don't work, had no petrol). Then we went to eat Tapas at the local bar (great, happy hour meant £20 meal for 2 inc a bottle of Mateus(!) rose - the Orzo was fantastic). Then off to watch Persepolis at the Dukes (pretty good, worth seeing for sure) whilst sipping a rum and coke (good old Dukes). And finally to the Brit where a birthday gathering was happening, where a few pints of Bomber were drunk. A good day...

Vist to the vets

Yearly cat vaccinations seem to be quite contentious these days. We decided to go for the 1-year booster and then wait for a couple of years before the next one. We took the car, one of the last uses we'll get from it before it is scrapped, so, sombre on the way there. The vet, however, was a very jolly, big man - his huge hands pulling the jaws of our little cats open is oddly disturbing. They get weighed, peered at, injected, wormed and then the wonder flea-dirt test which I have serious doubts about - they pull a very fine comb through the cat's fur, then peer at it on some tissue paper. 'Ah yes, there's some flea-dirt there.' Which means, your cat has fleas, you should buy our de-flea lotion at only £27 for 10 week course... Ah... We have some flea lotion that costs £24 for 3 months (this is for 3 cats), and the vet said 'Sounds too good to be true, speaking as a vet.' *sigh* I always feel like the vets are trying to extract vast sums of cash from us, no matter how pleasant they are. They try to sell us worming tables, and usually some extremely expensive food (after telling us that cheap food will give your cat all manner of illnesses). Anyway, £120 lighter, we bring the groggy cats back, who then sleep furiously for several hours. Just like me.

Medium Sunday

Cleared out the back yard, loaded the little car up with smelly and / or heavy bags of rubble, garden waste and more and drove them to the ever-busy dump. The wife then drove about for a while, practising roundabouts. Home to a magnum in the yard, looking at Loot to try and replace the little car. The little car's days are numbered - it failed its MOT and will cost too much to get put right, so is being scrapped on Saturday. Quite infuriating, as we only bought it 6 weeks ago. Very angry with being ripped off, but trying to remain calm. No cars caught our eyes. Evening meal was momo-fillings inside steamed won ton dumplings with soy and chilli sauce. Great. Blade popped round a a Guinness for a couple of hours, then it was suddenly late, though still light...

Tibetan night

A 4am finish, or so, from a Tibetan evening round with DrC and the Colonel. We had thenthuck (my meal), momos (the wife) and 'greens' (the Colonel). DrC kept us supplied otherwise whilst we cooked. Great, simply great food, we stuffed ourselves, but not to the extent of the Thai evening last week. 18 bottles of beer, two bottles of wine, the end of some Port and a bit of vodka later (plus whatever else we could find to consume) we called it night. But not before the start-at-midnight pudding which involved boiling carrots in milk and sugar to make fudge. Simply fantastic, at 3am, when in a terrible state...

Dogonastring

A night at the Dogonastring, as we used to call it all those years ago. The usual suspects drifted into and out of the beer garden, the heating light was pressed by numerous fingers, drinks were poured over knees, into shoes, too much alcohol was drank too quickly - the usual sort of affair. I was talked into a Jagermeister by Dnt , who said it tasted like dentist mouthwash. 'Not like Listerine, but you know, kind of antiseptic.' I relented. It is served in a test tube, and the colour is not one found in nature. Why a test tube, we wondered? So you have to drink it right away and can't put it down perhaps. I drank most of it. It tastes a bit like the absinthe I made. It's not all bad. Half an hour later, I feel drunker than I was, a kind of head-crack drunk which makes everything thick, like wading through water all the time. I blame the Jagermeister. I talk to a man who seems to take a perverse pleasure out of the fact that he's barred from most of the pubs in town, I never work out quite why, he seems so mild-mannered. There's then the usual outside-the-pub dither as people hope for an after-party, but no-one was in the mood to have a gang of drunken strangers trashing their house until 5am tonight, it seems, so we splinter and many head to the Lounge, which often refuses me entry for some reason. So I wander home instead.