Random mutterings, sighing and gasping, finger jabbing, brow dabbing and general bleatings about everyday bollocks. Brought to you by Angie Annetts, author of the highly-acclaimed short story collection, 'Tales From Around The Bend'. http://www.talesfrom.co.uk/

Friday, 22 July 2011

Carcass Of The Day, Rigour Mortis and The Dukes of Hazzard

I don’t want to sound overly dramatic, but I think carverys are the work of the Devil: they cause greed, stress, fear and worse than any of that, roast potato envy. And ain’t dat the truth. Whenever I go, I begin to get anxious the minute I step through the door and catch glimpse of the actual carvery area, as I always spot the nice outsidy bit of the turkey that I particularly like, being lowered on to some other (ungrateful) fucker’s plate. And then I join the queue and begin to panic. Will there be anymore nice outsidy bits left by the time I’ve shuffled along this god forsaken queue. And why aren’t they going faster? And why doesn’t that biddy in front of me get her lacquered bouffant out of the way so I can see what’s occurring on the turkey front. But what will I have if there are no nice outsidy bits left? I don’t really eat red meat and the turkey breast is all dry and bollocks. And I really don’t want to be paying £8.95 just for a plate of cauliflower fucking cheese and the last skanky roast potatoes. And why isn’t ‘anyone’ coming out to check on the veg? And how come that fucker that’s got my nice outsidy bits of turkey has got all the best roast potatoes. And if the old man had just got out of the fucking car when we parked up, rather than checking his Blackberry for the twenty millionenth time today then I could have been where that fucker was in the queue and got the nice outsidy bits instead of the pile of congealing cack I’m about to shovel on my plate. Why is no one coming out to check on the veg? IS ANYONE IN CHARGE HERE???

Fearing she may pass out through the scale of disappointment at finding the beef overcooked,
this bird firmly grips the counter in a futile attempt to support her buckling legs.
Sadly, seconds after this photo was taken, she crashed to the canvas...

You get my drift. And I haven’t even touched on condimentgate.

So a couple of weeks ago, when the old man got cravings for a carcass of the day, we entered the arena that is ‘the carvery’ and I began to twitch and hyperventilate and generally flap about a bit. So I thought ‘bollocks to all this’ and ordered something from the menu instead (a moussaka, that wasn’t a moussaka – it was merely a lasagne that was attempting to disguise itself as a moussaka. A lasagne in drag, as it were. Feather boa and all that…).  

Anyhoo, having relieved myself of any turkey dramas or gravy related stress, I thought I was safe. But hell, no. As we sat at our table (within viewing distance of the carvery), the old man suddenly began to fret and dab at his brow (Louis Armstrong style); we’d got in the restaurant early doors, and as yet, no one had had any beef yet – and he didn’t want the outsidy bits, he wanted the redder insidy bits (give me strength..).

To cut to the chase, for him to return triumphant to our table with the correct pantone colour of beef, involved joining the queue, only to ‘abort’ when the beef wasn’t quite getting to the level of redness required. He joined and left and did this a few times. And even made a song and dance about scoring a couple of soft drinks from the bar when he felt suspicions were being aroused over his continual aborting of the queue. But then, he began to worry that he’d gone too far, and maybe when he got to the beef, all the red bits would be gone and he’d be back to where he started, with the yucky brown outsidy bits.

I’ve told him I’m not going again. Or if I do, I need to engage the services of a counsellor for an unspecified length of time before dragging my sorry ass over the carvery’s threshold.

 This old dear was twenty eight when she first attempted to join the queue at the optimum point.
However, in a cruel twist of fate, having finally secured her meat 'just how she likes it', rigour mortis sets in...

Other culinary delights recently experienced: this is what you get when you order a locally made jumbo sausage in the Warren Pub in Dartmoor (3rd highest pub in Britain, don’t ya know).

They're taking the piss. I have never had a meal before that involved casual observers snorting and guffawing
as it was carried through the pub to my table. I ate it with the heavy certainty that a viable Doris Day
impersonation was not going to be on the cards. 

Elsewhere, our trip to an M&S ‘Simply Food’ outlet at some services close to Exeter wasn’t for the faint-hearted. Being a dozy bint, I missed this lot on the way in.

One can only imagine the delight the head ponchos at M&S must be feeling...

So when I did spot them, post shop, I got the old man to bring the wagon to a halt so I could take some pics. As I was trying to zoom in on some particularly unsavoury sorts (upper body out the car window and generally fuffing about with my phone), someone shrill-voiced bird began hollering for someone called ‘Frank’. She also made mention of ‘sorting them out’. At this juncture I did not hang around. Instructions to the old man to ‘make it snappy’ resulted in us exiting the services in a style reminiscent of The Dukes Of Hazzard.

I'll be the fucking judge of that...

Meanwhile, back in these paaarrrts, we’re all steadying ourselves for the culinary event of the year. It’s been advertised for quite a few weeks now, so one does expect a good turn out.

By failing to elaborate with full details of 'a drink', I fear this promotion may be 'misconstrued',
resulting in piss-taking and an unprofitable evening.

If I’d tried to promote an event like this when I was in the pub trade, I’d have been marched up that head office and pistol-whipped to within one inch of my life. Dear oh dear....

Friday, 15 July 2011

Lesbian Sandals, Scary Toilets and The Blair Witch Project

If I want to go out for a walk (which I often do), it’s easy; lob on the trainers or lesbian sandals (weather determined), shovel a bit of cash into a pocket, along with my pratfone, grab a bottle of water and fuck off out of it. And that’s what I did yesterday, I boldly walked to the coast, 3 miles or so, in the blazing heat (yet still managing to look like one of those sauce buckets from the Harmony Hairspray ads), no dramas, no nuffin – just me going for a walk.

 This is an untruth. This is not my sandal. My sandal is infinitely more lezza than this.
My sandal involves velcro. It does not, however, involve a moose hair sock.

And when I got to said coast, I had a littly sit down and watched the world go by. Not five minutes passed before I was given a harsh reminder of one of my all time pet hates – and one so severe, it’s right up there with the dreaded caravan (if you’ve not read my ‘Road Rage, Scrotes and Rich Tea Biscuits’ blog, March 2011, I urge you to limp over for a nosey…).
            So my other pet hate (that ranks so highly) are those dreary old fuckers that refuse to go for the briefest of walks without carrying a backpack the size of Scotland (or some crude form of suitcase strapped to them), wearing the ‘Look everybody! I’m going for a walk!” clumpy (and even more butch) bootee things, and sporting the world’s thickest socks. The worse offenders even carry some sort of stick thing to labour the ‘I’m walking’ point. And if the casual observer is still left in any doubt as to what’s unfolding before them, some of these twats have baseball caps (or if they’re closing to snuffing it, one of those floppy efforts) with their Rambling Posse/Crew/Association emblazoned upon it. Or worse yet, some jocular tag line like, “Ramblers Do It For Hours”. (God give me strength).
            But that's the issue I have; when they don’t do it for hours. And they’re just having a stroll along Seaton seafront. And they still have all the kit and caboodle on. Including the heavy boots and the industrial socks. And they look so fucking smug about it all. I mean, come on, exactly how many eventualities do you need to cover to warrant lugging a jumbo backpack around in the heat? Surely, you can only get through so many Trebor Mints in one piffy stroll along Seaton seafront. It’s less than a mile long. And flat. And it’s got loos and kiosks. And a couple of fairly undesirable pubs. And a High Street, but minutes away…so WHAT’S IN THE FUCKING BAGS!!!

 Feast your eyes on this volatile terrain. You'd be a fool to attempt a brisk
walk along here without your full quota of Trebor mints stashed in your backpack.

I mean, really? Look at this bunch of herberts. They're only popping out for 
10 minutes to secure some Jacobs Cream Crackers from the convenience store.  
....and check out the prick sticks....dear, oh dear...

            Now, I do concede, that when embarking upon a ten mile hoof or so, around the moors or similar, you may need to shove a few more things in a bag. More Trebor Mints, more water, a sausage roll, and the caravaners favourite, the dreaded tea flask. So, I’m guessing these pricks are just stuffing these bags with all sorts, willy nilly and terrified of missing out that one item that could ‘save the day’ (back-up undercrackers, every form of Pac-A-Mac in existence, a couple of hefty flares, a selection of old back copies of the Radio Times and a trusty whistle).  But the rest of the time? Ooh, I could chin the lot of them....

Not looking so smug now...this lot have forgotten why they set off...

To add to my woes, I’ve begun to get scared of public toilets. It all began in Newton Abbot a couple of weeks, when I got caught short. We asked a fairly unreliable-looking traffic warden for directions to the nearest lav and he, in turn, steered us towards some crumbling, graffiti covered wreck that looked like it was on day release from the hardest area in the Bronx. Being a grounded person, I immediately feared that a whole Bourneville Selection of muggers, murderers and rapists were lurking behind the peeling entrance door, just waiting for me to rock up for a piss (and not even armed with my ‘I’m going for a walk!’ stick…).
            I took the only course of action I could. I sent the old man in for a reccy.

That's right, love. You check it out.
 I'll wait here.

I don’t have a picture to show of these toilets. And I ain’t going back for one neither. I came out intact, but those lavvies had a heavy sense of foreboding which gave me the heebeejeebies long after I got my sorry arse out of there.

And since then, I've been a bit howsyerfather about public toilets. 

I went to Dartmouth to celebrate my birthday last weekend. They had public toilets.

  I rest my case.
This foul stench-filled shit house lives next to the castle.
Enter at your own perile - you have been warned.

And what about this? Based on this location, you'd think you're about to step down into
some sort of luxury crapper, complete with top of the range tampons, perfumes and
attendant (in attendance)

Nope. It's another festering hell hole.

But it does have a nice view (once you escape).

To get over my toilet trauma, I was forced to go out on the lash. Not because it was my birthday. But because it would take away my 'toilet fear'. So I drank lots of vodka. And I drank lots of vodka in lots of pubs. Very nice. And after a while, it got to being a bit of a blur. But I do remember this chap.

Let me introduce Ollie (not to be confused with Wally Dog).
He must have a similar distrust of public toilets to me,
as here he is, pissing where he stands. Note his guilty expression.
In his defence, I did see him neck some cider earlier from that (now) crushed plastic cup....

And then I drank some more. So I took some pictures of this.


Then I drank some more and took these. And by now I was feeling a bit queer.

If memory serves, I may have been pointing out to the old man that
he was my bestest friend in the whole wide world, at this stage...

And here I am, steadying myself to give a rousing rendition
of 'Pearl's A Singer'

So after all that excitement, it was time for peepy bo-bos. The next day, I felt fluffy and fragile and couldn't do anything to make myself feel better. But the old man came up with a cunning plan. He drove me all the way to Kingsbridge and showed me these.

They were so lovely and clean, that I wanted to move in straight away. But the old man
said I couldn't. We had to go home. Oh dear, I sighed. But never mind, I said to him, atleast I am no longer scared
of public toilets. Hurrah!

So off we went. Back to these parrrts. I was feeling so much happier now all that scary toilet business was behind me. But when we got home we found this in the downstairs loo.

We have booked the priest for next Tuesday.
Please pray for us.

Until then, I'm buggering off for a lengthy walk.....