tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31727482024-02-19T08:11:48.323+00:00One Man And His DogA man and his dog, trying to make sense of it. A man trying to cook, while avoiding the dogs Cato like attempts to brain him. A man trying very hard not to complain about his working day. A man of no faith, who worships Birmingham City. A man who loves the sort of music that gets him labelled with bad words. .A dog with little brain but great appetite. Welcome to our world.. a world full of wife, children, cats and vegetables. A good world.peter bowlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18273004269523440799noreply@blogger.comBlogger692125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3172748.post-85581409821874733112016-11-09T14:01:00.000+00:002016-11-09T14:01:08.044+00:00Well, how can I not comment?<br />
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When the Barmy Brexit Brigade won half the country went into a hysterical meltdown I remained pretty calm. I would have preferred the vote to go the other way, but wasn't too bothered. We will still be ruled by a self perpetuating elite, and we little people will still get the shitty end of the stick, the same as we always have. Meet the new boss, same as the old boss, that was my thinking. I was surprised, not to say gobsmacked, that the Barmy Boris Battalion had won though. Whatever the merits of the argument, I could not see any situation in which the great British public would vote for a sorry crew of Bash Street rejects like Boris, Farage, IDS and Gove. I was appalled.<br />
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Another consequence that did get me boiling with rage involved the Parliamentary Labour Party, which used the event to further their own sickening agenda and to once again, treat the activists and the public like idiots. All they saw was an opportunity to bash and remove Corbyn. Sod the party, sod the country, sod the fact that the Tories themselves were going into meltdown, none of it matters when there is an opportunity to rid themselves of Corbyn and regain their cosy control of the party, which they see as their natural right. I was fucking appalled.<br />
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Now I have woken in shock again. Going to bed last night a clever man on the radio was saying that turnout is huge which can only mean a victory for Clinton. I reassured the Mrs that she would wake up in a relatively sane world and drifted off into a peaceful slumber.<br />
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I woke to the news. THE news. First I was surprised, then I was appalled. I don't care for Clinton, I wish the Democrats had chosen Sanders, but still, she would have got my vote if had one. I'm still a little bit not bothered; once again, it will be the little people that get the shitty end of the stick and it will be a case of meet the new boss, same as the old boss. The 1% will still rule the world.<br />
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What surprises me, and shocks me, genuinely shocks me, is that people can vote in sufficient numbers for such a despicable man. It is not as though his character traits are a secret.<br />
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But I am filled with hope, oh, yes I am. Maybe I'm as barmy as the Boris Brigade.<br />
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Brexit, and now Trump have both served to deliver the apparatchiks and the nepotists and the cosy political elites and the commentariat a long overdue and well deserved kick right in the bollocks. The hoi polloi have refused to listen, have forgotten to tug the forelock, and said up yours maties, we're sick of the lot of you. The voting public in 2 great nations have said to the privileged few at the top, sorry, we don't like you, we don't trust you and we are not having it, anymore, no siree.<br />
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What the hoi polloi has done is said, we have no idea what Brexit will bring, we have no idea what Trump will bring, but we don't care, because you self serving bastards have taken us to the end of our tether, and up with it we shall no longer put. The little people have rebelled and said, if it means cocking a snook at you lot, we are prepared to take a chance on something different. We'll risk it.<br />
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All the left needs to do is be brave. Recognise that voters no longer listen to what the Bullingdon boys and the Oxbridge PPE philosophers, and the advertising arses and the 4th estate tells them and that they are prepared to make their own minds up.<br />
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The PLP needs to take note. The mandate that Corbyn has is a genuine mandate, and it can be built on. Voters can be persuaded. They no longer trust smooth talking PR wankers offering meaningless soundbites. They no longer trust big media. Dear Tom Watson, Angela Eagle and all the rest of you charlatans, please, get behind Corbyn, because he can win the next election, and if you really can't get behind him, keep yer trap shut, and if you can't manage that, kindly eff orf.<br />
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<br />peter bowlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18273004269523440799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3172748.post-69050371009260299462016-08-12T21:52:00.001+00:002016-08-12T21:59:47.804+00:00<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Y_4YYdsWDB4" width="560"></iframe> First things first. It's been a bit of a disappointing start to the season for Blues, however, we haven't conceded. We haven't scored, but we haven't conceded. When I say we haven't conceded, I mean in 90 minutes. We did concede in the 120th minute to Oxford, but that doesn't really count, coz we hadn't warmed up yet. We hadn't had time to find the real ball. We've now signed Greg Stewart, from Dundee, and Che Adams, from Sheffield Utd, both for peanuts,and we have high hopes for both. Which is a bit fucking ludicrous really, but hey, it's only rock'n'roll, and I like it, like it, yes I do.<br />
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It could be worse, we could support the Villa. 2 games, 2 defeats one to 4th division Luton. As a wise man more or less said, only the other week.....they aren't as clever as they think they are.<br />
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Talking of clever cunts, the Parliamentary Labour Party continues to make the politburo look like Quakers.<br />
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They are celebrating a win in court today, a win which has denied 130,000 new members a vote in the leadership election. I can't get too exercised about it, having accepted it when the NEC made the decision, not that I had any choice other than to accept it. The main thing was that despite the best efforts of the right of the party, Corbyn is on the ballot. That's victory enough. he may have been denied 13000 votes but he didn't need them the first time and he doesn't need them now. He'll piss it. Comrade.<br />
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As old Bob said in a song, "You Don't Need A Weatherman To See Which Way The Wind Blows" but young Owen and the dopes who have set him up wouldn't see which way the wind is blowing if they found themselves toe to toe with a hurricane. The anti elite movement doesn't only consist of disgruntled Labour lefties, it consists of millions, all across the world.<br />
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Here, in the UK, we have had the rise, (insignificant but a rise) of UKIP whose rhetoric is anti establishment, anti elite . We have had brexit, which was a rather large rejection of Our Masters Voice. We have had the complete destruction of the traditional elite parties in Scotland. And in all cases Big Media has mocked and ridiculed the eventual victors. They didn't realise then, and they refuse to accept now, that people are thirsty for change, any change. They are sick of the elite. Sick of apologists for the 1%. Sick of charlatans. Sick of chancers. Sick of liars.<br />
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And we, in Britain are mere followers. There was Venezuela, and Brazil, and Bolivia, then there was Greece and Spain. There is a movement, a huge, popular movement, all across the world, where ordinary folk are saying NO FUCKING MORE, THANK YOU VERY MUCH.<br />
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Corbyn and Momentum manifest that worldwide desire for change. It's unstoppable, and the more the petit bourgeoisie try to stop it, the less likely they are to succeed, as any cunt who has read any history will tell you. So the labour apparatchiks can go to the capitalist court and beg the lords and the ladies to save 'em, but, when all is said, and all is done, they are all Marie Antoinette now.<br />
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And they better fucking hope that the rest of us aren't Robespierre.peter bowlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18273004269523440799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3172748.post-38258739238591444162016-08-02T17:07:00.002+00:002016-08-02T18:57:00.580+00:00Ain't that the truth, Ruth<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/GKpVGKOa2xs" width="560"></iframe><br />
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When I was a lad, a very long time ago, I read about and subsequently admired The Ranters.....a 17th century sect much given to drunkenness, casual sex and pamphleteering. It was something to do with the invention of the printing press making it easier to share ideas, even dangerous ideas, and the power of the written word being taken away from the church. Summat like that, anyway. I had hoped that the internet would bring in a new era of citizen journalists and ranters but soon realised that the internet was invented for the dissemination of cat pictures.<br />
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Jeremy Corbyn may have changed all that. Big media has been so transparent in trying to sabotage his leadership that everyone has seen through it. It has become very obvious that big media is not interested in reporting the news, never mind the truth. Whether owned by Murdoch or some other billionaire or a board of trustees, the 4th estate cannot be trusted. It used to be that only media studies types and conspiracy theorists knew that, but now everyone knows it, and keyboards up and down the land are being worn out by furious fingers.<br />
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The big beasts of the commentariat are incandescent with rage that the great unwashed public are ignoring their words, are checking facts and tweeting and facebooking and blogging about what they see with their own eyes and hear with their own ears. The tweeters of the world are gleefully pointing out logical inconsistencies and contradictions by the elite.<br />
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The football season starts at the weekend and it looks like it could be a cracking season, with loads of imponderables to ponder, nevertheless. Blues will finish 10th again, we may flirt provocatively with the play offs, but we don't have enough quality to maintain a sustained challenge and looking at the players we are being linked with, they are just more of the same. It's a bit boring, not good enough to go up, probably bad enough to go down, but we have a manager who knows how to organise 'em well enough to keep picking up points.<br />
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The interest lies elsewhere. Villa, obviously are of interest and I expect them to be mediocre. They will have problems with ego and by the time they realise that they aren't as good as they think they are all the spirit will be gone. Let's face it, there's not a lot of spirit there to start with. Newcastle could be similar, despite the experts assuring us all that they will piss it. They have made lots of signings, there seems to be a feel good factor there, and so long as things are going well, they have the support to drive them on. If they get a good start they could be unstoppable, a bad run though and it could all go tits up quite quickly.<br />
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The interest, for me, isn't so much about how well teams will do: apart from Blues I don't care how well any team does, but there are some personalities worth keeping an eye on, and an ear out for.<br />
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I have no idea how good a manager Alan Stubbs will be at Rotherham, but he's a top class wind up merchant, and the same goes for Nigel Pearson at Derby. Gary Monk was being hyped as a bright young thing before it all went tits up at Swansea, and seeing how long he lasts at Leeds will be fun.<br />
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Hasselbaink is in his first full season at QPR and could surprise us all......his Burton team played with vim and verve. Jap Staam is in at Reading and we'll see how much he has learned from the big beasts he has played under.<br />
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Wolves have become a basket case, and it will be fun watching their inflated hopes and dreams fizzle and die. The biggest basket case of the lot is Cardiff, and we have them first. I confidently predict that we shall Moida Da Bums.<br />
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A <a href="http://www.thecanary.co/2016/08/01/pro-corbyn-campaign-public-sent-mainstream-media-hissy-fit/">very good article</a> on big meeja.<br />
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More on <a href="http://www.newstatesman.com/politics/staggers/2016/08/bbc-biased-against-jeremy-corbyn-look-evidence">BBC bias</a>peter bowlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18273004269523440799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3172748.post-33322155991798522902016-07-22T23:29:00.002+00:002016-07-22T23:31:17.457+00:00There was enough said at our Edie's wedding<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/P1revzfBAWI" width="560"></iframe><br />
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I just about recall the first referendum on what was then known as the common market. I was still at school, aged about 13 or 14 I think, and considered myself to be a man of the left, and as the left was opposed to it, so was I. In the most recent one, the other week, the left, or what is called the left, were in the remain camp. So was I, but not with any conviction.. Look at the leaders of the outers, Farage, Johnson, IDS, Gove: charlatans, buffoons, racists. You wouldn't want to be in any gang that had that sorry looking bunch as leaders, would you? Not that you could be, because, having won, they all shit themselves, said a big boy did it, and ran away.<br />
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I wasn't all that exercised prior to the vote. I still consider the EU to be a capitalist brotherhood, but 30 years of neo liberalism had taught me to be thankful for it, as it acted as a brake on the worst excesses of the the Thatcherites and then the Austerity Psychopaths. While I voted to remain, to come out was/is fine by me. In the end it doesn't really matter, the same as it doesn't really matter if we have a Labour, Tory or coalition government. We will still be ruled by and on behalf of the 1%.<br />
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What does matter is that now that we don't, or at some distant point won't, have the EU to protect us, we have a government that tries to protect us, which means that the Labour Party has to protect us.<br />
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Fat chance. Hilary Benn? Owen Smith? Stephen Kinnock? Smug yam yam Tom Winker Watson? Do me a fucking favour. Careerists every single one of them. Their ideology is to be in power, whatever it takes. They have no principles. They are part of the elite, with the same sense of entitlement as the Bullingdon boys.<br />
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Even so, the plotters and connivers have taken me by surprise. They really hate Corbyn with a passion and they will do anything to get rid of him. They aren't even pretending to be nice, and are waging a very dirty war. They hate democracy too, not that I'm a great fan of it. They didn't like Corbyn winning the leadership contest and have, from day one, set about undermining him, but it hasn't worked. They have manipulated the rules, they have excluded people, they have suspended party democracy, and still they can't win. And still they cannot accept that they are wrong, that there has been a shift, that the tide is turning, that there has been a groundswell of popular support for Corbyn.<br />
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The people responsible for losing 2 elections against a despised bunch of privileged oafs, think they are qualified to give advice on winning elections; telling us that a man who just keeps winning and who has been responsible for a mass mobilisation into the party, rather than the mass exodus the Benn's of this world caused, is a liability. They lie, they make stuff up, and a compliant big media runs their stories, their lies, their made up shit, every hour of every day.<br />
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We don't have our big European brother to protect us anymore. The new Tory leader is just as big a bastard as the previous one. What is left of workers rights will go down the shitter, human rights will go down the shitter. Life for the those at the bottom will get a lot worse. All the little things that improve our quality of life, cycle paths, woodland walks, parkland, will fall into disrepair and decay. This is why, on the left, we cannot let the right win, and I don't mean the motherfucking Tories, I mean the placemen, the bureaucrats, the PR merchants, the apparatchiks and the nepotists that make up the current PLP.<br />
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<br />peter bowlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18273004269523440799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3172748.post-7409009522946008562016-07-19T18:05:00.001+00:002016-07-22T22:33:26.148+00:00I Can't Keep It In<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/0W_SGoBFJxs" width="420"></iframe><br />
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There was a time, many years ago, that I started writing a blog. It wasn't about anything, it was mostly random links of stuff I'd come across on the internet; first chapters of books, articles reinforcing my world view, music, assorted quirky shit. The internet was young then, even if I wasn't, and I had an urge to share all this stuff. Then it started to get a bit more personal, which was a huge mistake, and I left Blogger for Typepad and it became quite popular. Then I went back to Blogger and everything I had done on Typepad disappeared, as did most of my readers.<br />
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The world didn't then and certainly doesn't now need me or anyway one else to point it in the direction of cool shit. You don't have to look for it, it's there, for anyone to see. The world didn't then and certainly doesn't now need to read my complaints about my job. Which doesn't leave much to blog about, so it sort of died. Every now and then I'd make a lame attempt at a resurrection, but the truth is, if I'm not having a rant, I cant think of a single thing to say.<br />
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So, here we are again, trying to be nice. Looking at the positive. letting the world be what it wants to be without interference or rancour from me.<br />
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But. Come on. Fuck me. Have you seen what's going on? How can a man keep it all in? A man can't keep it in, so I'm going to let it out.<br />
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I'm going to have my say on Leicester City, on Iceland, on Gary Rowett. I'm going to have my say on Brexit, on Cameron, on Osborne, on May, on IDS et al. I'm going to have my say on Mcdonnell, on Corbyn, on Benn, on Eagle, on Watson et al. I'm going to have my say on the BBC, and the Guardian.<br />
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I'm going to listen to music and read books and watch telly and listen to the radio and I'm going to champion the good stuff.<br />
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I don't now if it will be any good, I don't know if it will be worth reading, but I'm going to have a bit of fun writing it and I hope it will be a bit of fun for anyone who happens along to read it.peter bowlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18273004269523440799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3172748.post-49744918470681176052015-11-25T19:54:00.001+00:002015-11-25T20:01:06.795+00:00Macaroni never again cheese<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span lang="EN">I have purchased some bright, shiny new vegan cookbooks. I wouldn't recommend them. One of them, written by a doctor, has a very good first section, explaining why avoiding stuff that comes from animals benefits you and the planet, but the recipes are a bit uninspiring. The other, written by some Irish celebrity is bloody awful. Her writing style is bright and breezy and the pictures are nice, so you are tempted to try her stuff, but everything I've done so far has been a disaster. I made something called a macaroni no cheese, which incorporates a roast butternut blended with coconut milk, mustard and something else. It was fucking vile.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">I won't name the writers, they are clearly energised by what do and mean nothing but good, Problem is they seem to want to convince us that what they are eating isn't vegan, as a lot of vegan authors do. I can only think that the butternut concoction exists because it looks a bit like a cheese sauce, as it is a gaudy bright yellow, like a Dairy Lee slice. And about as appetising.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">The many and varied blogs do better at providing recipes, or ideas for recipes, but you don't really need to be trawling vegan websites or the bookshops for inspiration, you can always just cook what you've always cooked, but omit the bits that once belonged to a mom or a dad or a cute furry baby. Mushrooms, aubergines, and tofu, yes, tofu, can be great friends if you really must pretend there is something akin to meat on your plate.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">As the young un's grew up, with a great aversion to anything resembling a vegetable, I'd sneak the buggers into their meals, a bolognese sauce being the classic. I'd only use a small packet of mince and stretch it out by chopping up onions, mushrooms, carrots and celery really small. Somehow, they'd manage to pick their way around all the veg, and there they would remain, forlorn and defeated on the plate, as the nippers left the table.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">The solution was simple, I'd just whizz all the veg up in a processor. You can make mushrooms look like mince in about 3 seconds flat and there is no way they can be picked around, same with carrots, or courgette, or aubergine; they don't look like mince but they become impossible to avoid. All you do then is cook it up as you would any other bolognese or chilli, or moussaka, or cottage pie. This even won plaudits several times from the daughters ex boyfriend, who claimed to be allergic to 'shrooms. Well, it gets simpler, just omit the meat all together, increase the quantity of veg, and you have a vegan dinner.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Let's face it, you don't really have meat for the flavour, not even bacon, the flavour of which comes from the curing process. You stud your leg of lamb with garlic, rosemary and anchovies, you do an apple sauce and a sage and onion stuffing to make pork taste nice, you smother yer chicken in butter and oregano before sticking a lemon up its arse, and you fancy up yer beef with with mustard and horseradish, not to mention the gravy. Oh, man. The gravy. Then there are all the curries and chillies and oyster sauces and what not. Getting flavour into vegetables is no harder, and is probably easier.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">There's a million things you can do with aubergines to add some meaty variety to yer plate, the simplest of which is to slice 'em lengthwise to look like thick steaks, marinade 'em in something nice, like harrisa, or a chilli bean sauce, or some Italian or Frenchified thing, and bake for 20 minutes. Same with tofu, take it out of the packet, put it on plate, put another plate on top and some tins of beans to force out excess water, then slice, marinade, preferably in something spicy and bake. Coat the buggers in polenta, if you want, for a crispy finish . It's all a piece of piss, really.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">One of my daughters favourite meals, which I would cook even before she went vegetarian is simple, quick, cheap and delicious and I had never considered it to be vegetarian or vegan, it was just a nice meal. Here it is<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN">Pasta with Broccoli and Tomato<u></u><u></u></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN">A load of wholemeal pasta, any kind you like<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">A packet of purple sprouting or other broccoli with a long stem,<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">A packet of nice tomatoes, not shit tomatoes<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">2 cloves garlic<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">1 red chilli or a big sprinkle of chilli flakes<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Nutritional yeast flakes</span><br />
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<span lang="EN">Salt and Pepper</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Put the pasta on and while that's doing slice garlic, really thin, warm it up in a good glug of olive oil, then add the tomatoes, leave 'em to to collapse a bit. Chop all the broccoli up and throw that in too. As pasta is done throw a big spoon of cooking water in, drain the pasta and throw that in too. That's it, done, serve with a big handful or three of nutritional yeast flakes chucked on top, maybe some garlic bread and a few leaves. </span></div>
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peter bowlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18273004269523440799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3172748.post-75291275175144396802015-11-23T19:13:00.000+00:002015-11-23T19:13:28.659+00:00The Pie Without a Shepherd<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 16.8667px; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN">I've mentioned that a baked spud can be alright without oil or butter if you you use hummus and some other nice flavours instead, but there's probably oil in the hummus. I've used the chickpea cooking water rather than oil to make hummus, and it's OK, but you don't get that lovely smooth texture, and, day by day it seems to become grainier. Still, it's clear that you can significantly reduce yer oil consumption without too much hardship.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">If I use a spread at all, it's a thing called Pure. It's not nice, it's not horrible, it just is, and does the job for my current snack of choice, an onion bagel topped with that stuff and Marmite.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">When it comes to sweating or frying veg, Esselstyn, and others, recommend steam frying. This, frankly, is a pain in the arse, and requires the same attention you'd give a risotto. Essentially, you put yer onions and whatnot in the pan and add tiny amounts of water to stop it all sticking and burning, then keep adding as it evaporates. I do it on the weekend, but in the week? Fuck that.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">A couple of potato topped pies have turned alright. No meat, dairy or oil, was involved. I can't quite remember exactly what I did to the spuds but there was definitely no milk, butter or cheese. As far as I can remember it was a mix of potato, sweet potato and parsnip, all I used to mash 'em with was a bit of almond milk. I then added in a load of kale and spinach that I had steam fried down and a load of nutritional yeast flakes before topping the lentil/veg mix and finishing in the oven. It sounds like a faff, and it is a faff, but a faff you don't mind, coz it winds up lovely. Even the bloody cat likes it. The little ginger bastard.<u></u></span></div>
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<span lang="EN"><b><u>Shepherdless Pie</u></b></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">An onion, diced</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">A stick of celery, diced</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">2 carrots, diced</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">4 cloves garlic, chopped fine,</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">A handful of shitakes, chopped really fucking small,</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">A tin of lentis</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">A tin of flageolets</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">A big squirt of tomato puree</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">A load of frozen peas</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">A decent sized spoon of herbs de provence</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">A shake of soy sauce</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">A couple of veg stock cubes</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Enough water to cover that lot</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Summat like that, anyway</span></div>
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<span lang="EN"><b><u>The topping</u></b></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">4-5 spuds</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">A big sweet spud</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">A parsnip</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">An onion</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">A couple of big handfuls of kale or spinach or cabbage or all 3.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">About 3 big handfuls of nutritional yeast flakes</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Put yer onion celery garlic and carrot and a big frying pan and steam fry till all getting a bit soft, chuck in the puree and cook that down for a bit, then just chuck the rest of it in and cook down until it looks the right consistency to make a spud topped pie, probably 30-40 minutes, then stick it all in a big baking dish</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">For the topping, if yer using an onion, steam fry or fry it, on a low heat, for about an hour, about 45 mins in, chuck the greens in, turn the heat up a bit, let it all get a bit crispy. Boil the roots up for about 20 minutes, then mash with some non dairy milk, the onion and greens and the nutritional yeast flakes, dollop all that onto the lentil and bean mixture, chuck it into a hot oven about 200c for 20 minutes or so and yer dinner is done. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 16.8667px;">Jamie Oliver is to blame for all the sweet potato use. I can't actually stand the bloody things, but Jamie insists that they are some kind of a miracle food, and only a fool would ignore Jamie. Problem is, they are crap and their texture is nasty, hence, although I'm using them a lot, they are always combined with something else.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/59090.Prevent_and_Reverse_Heart_Disease" target="_blank">The Esselstyn book</a></span></div>
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peter bowlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18273004269523440799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3172748.post-18673516325201770552015-11-20T19:46:00.001+00:002015-11-20T20:17:14.526+00:00Mercy, Mercy, Me<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">The 30 day challenges came to a merciful end and then it all became effortless. I thought about eating meat but the notion just wasn't appealing. I thought about having a nice, hot, bubbling slice of cheese on toast, but it didn't float the boat, and, then, I realised that for 10 days or so I had not had any dairy at all, not even in tea.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Before deciding that I just wasn't going to eat it I had thought that cheese would be the thing that would keep me from being dairy free. I love cheese. I'll pay more for a tiny slab of cheese than I will for a bottle of wine or olive oil. but it hasn't been much of an issue.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">I think one of the benefits of being meat and dairy free is that you eat nutritious food. Nearly everything I eat is pretty healthy and I don't really get hungry, ever. I do get greedy, but I don't get hungry. It requires a bit of effort, but not that much and I tend to cook a fair bit on the weekend, and there's plenty leftover to take to work through the week.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">I have some staples, such as a sweet spud and lentil soup, pea and spinach soup, black bean soup, leek and spud soup, chestnut and mushroom soup, and pretty much every day I have one of those, or another soup, with a wrap for dinner, having started the day with my world famous porridge.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">I make a big pot of humous twice a week, using dried chickpeas, which only cost about 3 quid for a fucking huge bag: 8 oz of dried chickpeas when soaked and cooked, yield plenty, about 3 tins worth, probably, and they are much nicer. I spread a load of it on a wholemeal wrap, add a load of chopped spinach, lettuce and me pickled peppers and carrots, and there you go, dinner, more or less, done. I do vary it a bit, but, essentially, that's it. That, and few bits of fuit, keep me really full all day. I could probably do without tea, but I'm an old fashioned chap and when it's teatime, I have tea, regardless of whether or not I'm hungry.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">I am practically existing on pulses. Bizarrely, having given up meat and dairy, I was assailed by bloody gout. I thought it was the pulses causing that, which pissed me off, but, apparently, the purines in beans don't cause gout. I also thought it was slightly odd to be scoffing so many beans and lentils every day, but I rationalised that I had thought nothing of scoffing meat and dairy every single day for fifty six and a half years and that hadn't done me any harm, apart from being a fat bastard with a fucked up heart, needing 5 different tablets every single day.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Tea, quite often, is a baked spud. Until a few weeks ago I would not have dreamed of having a baked spud that wasn't drenched in butter and cheese and topped with bacon and its delicious fat. Not even in my worst nightmares. Those days are over, for now. I get that big pot of humous and I fill the damn spud up with that, and top it with a load of caramelised onions, sometimes I add a bit of harissa to the humous, just to vary the bastard a bit. Alternativley, I use a bit of oil and top it with onions and wilted spinach and a big handful of nutritional yeast flakes. Often, a tin of beans is involved .<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">It's all very well as long as things go to plan. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">I just had a disastrous weekend. Everything I coooked turned to shit. I did a bean soup which was like a pebble soup even though I'd soaked the beans for about 12 hours and cooked 'em for 2. I whizzed up the lentil and sweet spud soup with a cinammon stick and star anise still in it, rendering it inedible. I cut the spuds for a moussaka too thick, and, by the time they'd cooked through, the aubergines had as good as melted away. There was too much salt in the goddam polenta.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">This is where it's problematic.....when everything you have cooked is inedible, ruined or revolting. In the old days it would be simple; have cheese on toast or a bacon roll, or a ham sarnie, or all 3, with chips, and maybe an egg and, possibly, ham sandwich. All of these are still an option, but I'm choosing not to eat those things, and I have yet to come up with something really quick, really simple, and really fucking nice to eat that I can knock up in a couple of minutes when I can't be arsed cooking.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">The forecasters tell us that winter will be upon us this weekend, so I'll share me sweet spud and lentil recipe, because it's a right cockle warmer. If you are not the forgetful type, and you have the patience to steam fry the onions stick a star anise and cinammon stick in at the beginning, makes it nicer, but it's nice enough without, and I won't be bothering again.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">1 big sweet potato<u></u><u></u></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">1 big onion<u></u><u></u></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">1 stick of celery<u></u><u></u></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">4 cloves garlic<u></u><u></u></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Big knob of ginger (not Prince Harry)<u></u><u></u></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">6 ounce red lentils<u></u><u></u></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">A couple of veg stock cubes or some boullion powder<u></u><u></u></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">A shitload of good quality curry powder<u></u><u></u></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">A tin of coconut milk<u></u><u></u></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">About 2 pints water, depending on how thick you like it<u></u><u></u></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Either soften the onion celery and garlic in oil, or, steam fry 'em until they get soft, then bung everything else in, let it bubble away for 20-30 minutes then whizz up<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><b>OR</b><u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Omit the first bit, just chuck it all in and let it cook for 20-30 minutes and whizz up. It really doesn't make much difference</span><u></u><u></u></div>
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peter bowlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18273004269523440799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3172748.post-25092487216920514262015-11-14T10:05:00.000+00:002015-11-14T10:05:00.035+00:00Perfect Skin<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; line-height: 16.8667px; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 27.6px;">I stuck with the vegan challenges to the bitter end, even though they pissed me off.</span><span style="line-height: 27.6px;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 27.6px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It’s funny how the mind works. It was annoying me that the vegan bods were recommending shit recipes, when the reality is I’m perfectly capable of serving up a plate of decent nosh that doesn’t have meat or dairy in it and have done so regularly, for years. Apart from the bacon sarnies, we only ever really had meat on a <span class="aBn" data-term="goog_1780656270" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-bottom-width: 1px; position: relative; top: -2px; z-index: 0;" tabindex="0"><span class="aQJ" style="position: relative; top: 2px; z-index: -1;">Sunday</span></span>, although we were cheese fiends. Wanna make something taste nice? Chuck a load of cheeses on it, any kind will do.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 27.6px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So there was no need for all my angst. If you have tomatoes, garlic and chilli, yer laughing.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 27.6px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Having said that, I still sought assistance, mostly from the web. I’ve read loads of vegan blogs, and lots of ‘em are really good, apart from the ones by well brought up middle class gals with perfect skin. I admit that this might have more to do with my innate class warrior than it does with the content of their blogs.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 27.6px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When I was a much younger man and studied a bit of English political history, I came across The Ranters, who remain my favourite dissenters. Essentially, they would get pissed, lark about and rail against the property owning classes. They were quite a force, which is why they are so well known now.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 27.6px;">One of their aims was to disseminate information to the majority of the peasantry who couldn’t read or write, and who were kept in line by the priests and the gentry who controlled the flow of information, summat like that, anyway. I think there had been some breakthrough in printing at the time and the world was full of pissed pamphleteers.</span><span style="line-height: 27.6px;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 27.6px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">At the dawn of the internet age, and the arrival of the phenomenon of blogging I had hopes that we would all become Ranters reborn. That the voiceless would have a voice. The elites and the hegemonic media could lie all they wanted, but the truth was out there and it would be told. We were all Lord Fucking Rothermere now!<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 27.6px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It doesn’t seem to have happened. We don’t rant (well, we do, but ya know what I mean), we shop, we gossip, we selfie, we spotify and the elites continue to take the piss. The daughters of the elites are all bloody vegans, and they are all blogging about it. Which is OK, actually, because I’ve picked up some nice recipes.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 27.6px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I’ve got loads of the buggers bookmarked, and I’ll share them, bit by bit. My favourite vegan blog by far though is Thug Kitchen, which most definitely isn’t written by a Chelsea Girl. I adapted a spud and cabbage bake thing from it, and it was ace, quite incredible really. It was the sort of thing that would usually be baked in a cheesy béchamel sauce, but instead was baked in a mix made from garlic, chickpeas, some other bits and pieces and almond milk. I repeat; infuckingcredibe!<u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 27.6px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">All the blogs are great actually, as they give you ideas to do with things you might already have in your cupboard and have wondered why the hell you bought ‘em, like nutritional yeast flakes. I have now given up all dairy as well as meat, and I am addicted to nutritional yeast flakes. They sound right tasty, don't they?<u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 27.6px;">One of the posh gal blogs had a recipe for pickled carrot and peppers, which I now have, every day. There are a lot of things that I now have every day, by the way. They are simple to prepare and are ace. They bring a fantastic tang and crunch which really refreshes yer head. A taste explosion in the brainbox. They improve any sandwich or wrap. Typically, I can’t find the bloody recipe now, but my own approximation of it is alright.</span><span style="line-height: 27.6px;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 27.6px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Here it is:</span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 27.6px;"><b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Put this lot in a little saucepan and warm through to dissolve the salt and sugar</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 27.6px;"><b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">About 8 fluid oz of water</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 27.6px;"><b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">About 4 fluid oz organic cider vinegar</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 27.6px;"><b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">About 2 teaspoons each sugar and salt</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 27.6px;"><b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">About a tablespoon of coriander seeds</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 27.6px;"><b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A few strips of lemon peel</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 27.6px;"><b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">MEANWHILE</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 27.6px;"><b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Cut a couple of carrots into matchsticks/ batons/ thin little sticks</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 27.6px;"><b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Slice a red pepper, about same size as the carrots</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 27.6px;"><b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Slice a red onion nice and thin</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 27.6px;"><b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Put 'em all into a sealable jar. Pour the liquid in, leave for about 12 hours. Roberta is yer auntie.</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 27.6px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Lord knows how long it lasts, not long in this house.</span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 27.6px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.thugkitchen.com/recipes" target="_blank">Thug Kitchen</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://plutopress.wordpress.com/2014/06/24/the-ranters-and-the-dissapearence-of-sin/" target="_blank">Ranters</a></span></div>
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peter bowlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18273004269523440799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3172748.post-50810987198731212892015-11-12T21:35:00.000+00:002015-11-13T21:02:41.495+00:00Milk and Alcohol<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 16.8667px; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
I started my new regime discreetly.<br />
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<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 16.8667px;">Knowing my history of failure, I thought it best to keep it to myself. Of course this discretion lasted until the first </span><span class="aBn" data-term="goog_1758474731" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-bottom-width: 1px; position: relative; top: -2px; z-index: 0;" tabindex="0"><span class="aQJ" style="position: relative; top: 2px; z-index: -1;">Sunday</span></span><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 16.8667px;">, when I served myself a completely different meal to the others. The Mrs then said she would eat what I eat, so the two of us are at it. I didn’t mention that I had also significantly reduced, if not given up all dairy, which meant I was still getting a morning cuppa. </span><br />
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I had signed up for 3 (three) 30 day vegan challenges. They were all shit. I’m sure they mean well, but their advice is enough to put you off before you start. They assume that as well as meat and dairy, you are also giving up all sense of taste and discernment. They send you an encouraging message as well as a recipe every day, 2 recipes in fact, one for a cook and one for a lazy bastard.<u></u><u></u></div>
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They all recommended lots of processed ready meals and stuff like vegan bacon and burgers and other shit that I wouldn’t touch with a barge pole. What I wanted was inspiration to make easy, tasty food, from proper ingredients, not pretend meat. I’ve never really been a scoffer of ready meals or meat burgers, although it was my utter devotion to bacon that probably did for me in the first place. Prior to starting this new adventure I had grown partial to the occasional Linda Mcartney mozzarella burger, which I would top with a nice slice of grilled streaky bacon. Proper bacon, from a proper pig, not from some food chemist’s overactive imagination.<u></u><u></u></div>
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It wasn’t long before I just ignored my daily vegan challenge emails, as they just irritated the shit out of me, although they were useful as a countdown to 30 days. It was a strange time in my head; I hadn’t <i>really</i> decided to adopt a vegan diet, just to be more mindful about what I eat, and to endeavour to cut meat out of the diet. I still thought I’d eat fish and I did not think that there was any realistic chance of giving up dairy, and wasn’t even going to try……..but I’d signed up for a challenge, and, by fuck, I was going to complete it.<u></u><u></u></div>
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Round about the time I started, Jamie Oliver had a new series on the box….Jamie cooks superfoods, summat like that. Well, Jamie is no ones idea of a vegan, but I got more inspiration and better ideas from him than I did, the various vegan organisations. I could cook stuff for the others, and just omit the meat for me….. his new recipes are very heavy on the veg. I can’t remember what I did now, but it was all nice.<u></u><u></u></div>
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Apart from the milk in the tea, the accidenal cheese in the topping for the fishless pie, the chocolates, the crisps and the alcohol, I was doing alright, I think.<u></u><u></u></div>
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peter bowlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18273004269523440799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3172748.post-72575021142562975602015-11-11T22:37:00.002+00:002015-11-11T22:37:25.782+00:00Who Ate All The Pies?<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 16.8667px; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Here we go: another attempt at changing the diet for the better. This time it’s motivated as much by a desire to save the planet as it is to save my own lardy arse. I happened upon a film called Cowpolis, or Cowtrocity, or some such appalling mash up of the English language, and it had me convinced.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">“Let’s go vegan” I said, and the Mrs said “yes, let’s” “Let’s dig up the garden”, I said, and the Mrs said, “yes, dig the motherfucker up!” “Let’s sign up for a load of 30 day vegan challenge”, I screamed. ”Fuck that” the Mrs murmured. I think it’s fair to say that we found the arguments put forward in the film convincing.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Not everyone is convinced. Having watched the film, I sought out reviews, plenty of which were absolutely certain that the film misrepresented the truth and the facts it presents are not facts, but made up stories. The fact is though, all the hipsters on the film who had got with the programme positively glowed with health, so if I can’t save the planet, I’ll have a go at saving myself, and if my little effort does a bit for our poor, beleaguered planet, well, hooray.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">A couple of years ago, following a dramatic cardiac event, I resolved to change my ways: eat better, exercise more. Well, I weigh more now than I did, and I was a fat bastard then. I’ll have the same trouble now. Put a bar of chocolate, a bowl of ice cream or a packet of crisps in front of me, and that’s it. Game over. Let’s not even talk about beer. Also, I don’t like vegetables. We may be in for a bumpy ride.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">So far, so so so. I’ve been at it for about 3 weeks, and if we overlook the chocolate, the crisps and the ice cream, I’ve done well. If we don’t overlook those things, my progress has been, er, erratic. I’m not mentioning the beer.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">When it comes to meals, I’ve surprised myself. I think I’ve had one bacon and egg sarnie, on a hungover <span class="aBn" data-term="goog_1804880056" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-bottom-width: 1px; position: relative; top: -2px; z-index: 0;" tabindex="0"><span class="aQJ" style="position: relative; top: 2px; z-index: -1;">Saturday</span></span> morning, and that’s all the meat I’ve had. I’ve become something of a chai wallah at work and drink only organic tea not requiring milk, or some bloody herbal infusion or other. I still have my morning cuppa on rising though. There have been two other fairly major changes. I go to bed early, no later than 11 and more usually around ten. That helps me with the other big change and a major challenge……getting up early and having a 20 to 30 minute meditate every day. It’s not as straightforward as you might think.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">A further challenge is porridge. Give me a saucepan and a hob and I’m a genius, give me a bowl and a microwave and I’m an idiot. Every day at work there is a porridge related drama, either far too sloppy, or far too stodgy, or exploded all over the damn machine. I’ve tried it at home and two and a half minutes does it, at work though, who knows? I’ve decided to err on the sloppy side, as cleaning the damn microwave every day was as embarrassing as it was laborious. Once it has had 3 minutes. I take it out, whatever state it’s in…….if it’s a thin gruel, I add a load of chia seeds which I keep in a little pot, and within a couple of minutes, it has thickened. Those little bastards soak up liquid like I do on a <span class="aBn" data-term="goog_1804880057" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-bottom-width: 1px; position: relative; top: -2px; z-index: 0;" tabindex="0"><span class="aQJ" style="position: relative; top: 2px; z-index: -1;">Friday</span></span> night<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Regardless of the drama, I have hit upon the perfect recipe, and here it is.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">4 tablespoons porridge<u></u><u></u></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Little handful dried coconut<u></u><u></u></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Little handful sultanas<u></u><u></u></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Tiny squirt of maple syrup<u></u><u></u></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Decent sprinkle of cinammon<u></u><u></u></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">300mls non dairy milk ( I use KOKO or Almond, whatever is on offer)<u></u><u></u></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Chia seeds, depending on how it turns out.<u></u><u></u></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Into the microwave 2-3 minutes, Bob’s yer uncle.<u></u><u></u></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">I eat that shit, every single day, and it’s really, really nice.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">The world will be delighted and beside itself to know that I’ll be posting recipes regularly, but only nice, easy to do ones. I might even stick a photo up every now and then, mind you; most things just look like a big pile of stodge.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18.4px;"><a href="http://thelondoneconomic.com/news/politics/cowspiracy-review/13/11" target="_blank">A review of the fillum</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.dresselstyn.com/Esselstyn_Three-case-reports_Exp-Clin-Cardiol-July-2014.pdf" target="_blank">Some maverick research</a></span></div>
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peter bowlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18273004269523440799noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3172748.post-15625988074763794562015-09-15T11:06:00.001+00:002015-09-15T11:23:35.150+00:00EOTR '15<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><b><u>Thursday.</u></b></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">As usual, EOTR clashed with the first week of the school term, so decisions had to be made about what was more important, education, or hedonism. Hedonism won, no contest. Then the daughter decided she couldn’t miss the first day of her new life as a 6</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><sup>th</sup></span><span style="font-size: small;"> former, which, bizarrely, began on a Friday, so hedonism was no longer the winner, however the younger 14 year child had no such qualms about missing school, so let’s call it a score draw. Me and son travelled Thursday, daughter and mother followed on Friday, straight from school.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The first indication that the weekend was going to be a good ‘un arrived as we sailed around a huge roundabout outside Bath, every light on green, which I have never known before. We cheered.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The benefit of arriving on Thursday became apparent as we were able to park very close to Mr Trolley, and thus pretty close to the entrance, saving ourselves a knackering slog. I had expected huge queues at the wristband exchange, but there was hardly anyone there and we strolled through. We had opted to take the cowards way out and had booked a pre erected tent, so no more than half an hour after parking up, we were in the tent, unpacked and one of us was getting stuck into the John Smiths, while the other sussed out the charging points, water points, bogs and showers.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I always view any entertainment that they put on Thursday night as a free bonus…..being installed, rested and ready for the main event is the reason for getting there a day early. I’d be quite happy to grab a bit of scoff, a drink and retire early with a good book, however, the young ‘un was with me, so that wasn’t really an option. I braved the crowds of excitable teens in the Tipi to see Menace Beach, who were good, and Palma Violets who were incredible. The best bit was seeing the 2 security guys playing a human version of whackamole trying to keep all the stage invaders at bay.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ist night kip</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was a bloody awful nights kip. If I hadn’t had the last 2 cans maybe I wouldn’t have had to get up 3 times for a piss, but I think it was as much to do with it being freezing fucking cold. When I say it was freezing, I mean it was FREEZING. I was well wrapped up, but it felt like the middle of winter, not the end of summer.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">On top of this, there were some toddlers 2 tents down. I don’t mind toddlers, I was one myself, and I have had 3 of my own, so I know what the little buggers can be like. I do mind selfish, middle class parents who, instead of encouraging the little ones to go to sleep, indulge them in singing horrible, cloying nursery songs, very loud. Until gone 2 am.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There’s more. We had gone back to the tent at about 11ish, maybe half eleven….early, anyway. At about 12ish, a big group of women appeared, having a laugh, and went to their tents, where they continued to have a laugh. Soon after, a group of chaps arrived and joined the women, whereupon the laughter and the chatter got louder. This didn’t bother me so much as the nippers did. Twas first night of a festival, they had clearly had a decent drink and were enjoying themselves. Not really a problem, they weren’t being sweary or obnoxious. My tolerance level dropped a bit though, when some chump started strumming a guitar.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">After about half hour of this, still only about half twelve or quarter to one, I heard a very stern voiced woman demand that they be quiet, as she was trying to get some kip, and they were preventing her from doing so. It was like turning off a switch, they immediately zipped it, and no more was heard from them. The nippers, however, carried on, aided and abetted by their parents, who were possessed of the type of middle class voice that demands that everyone within a 50 yard radius must hear their banalities. It is quite interesting that the stern lady couldn’t cope with adults having a bit of fun at half twelve, but had no problem with a family group making even more noise until well past 2.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><b><u>Friday</u></b></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Up early to avoid queue for the showers and get phones on to charge in the charging tent. Very good showers. Lovely and hot, and quite spacious inside. Despite a bit of a palaver with some scoundrel unplugging my phone when it was only 17% charged, it was a lovely, restful morning and a beautiful relaxed start to the day……another benefit of a Thursday arrival. It is amazing how quickly the morning went, doing absolutely nothing. Before I knew it, it was time to get into the spirit of the thing.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">On the way over to see Ryley Walker, one of my “must sees”, I popped into the Big Top to have a look at Love LUV. I didn’t see much of ‘em, but I dug ‘em.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was gobsmacked to find the Garden Stage absolutely heaving for Ryley Walker. It was only 12.30 for gawds sake. I soon saw why so many had been attracted there…….he was incredible, and so was his band. He seemed as surprised as anyone at the size of the crowd that had turned up, and looked and sounded as if he was enjoying himself. I was certainly enjoying myfuckingself. What a start.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Being a Birmingham fan, I was a bit worried now. On the rare occasions we score early, I shit myself, the rationale being: things can only go downhill from here……….I wondered how the hell the rest of the festival could match up to what I had just seen.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I legged it from the Garden Srtage to the Woods for Andrew Combs. Well, this was a treat as the festival went 2-0 with superb set from Andrew Combs and his fantastic, and cool looking band. The bonus was I learned how to say his name. Combs, not Coombes. I had heard Ryley Walkers record and liked it, but he was much better here than I expected and the same was true of Combs. I love his album, but here there was a bit more oomph to the music, and it suited it well.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">On a day in which I would end up absolutely knackered from all the toing and froing, I headed back to the Garden (there’s a song there) to catch a bit of Juan Waters. He was OK, more than OK, I liked him a lot, very engaging and quirky and seemingly a bit nervous. He reminded me a bit of Jonathan Richman, only a bit though</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Back over to the bastard Woods stage to sit by the bar in the sunshine, listening to Oscar and enjoying my first draught, as opposed to tinned ale of the weekend. Funky Monkey, and it wasn’t long before the second pint. Oscar sounded alright, I’ll be seeing him support Ezra Furman soon enough, so I was happy to sit in the sun, with my beer, just enjoying the ambience.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Fuck me if I didn’t trek all the way back to the Garden for Frazey Ford. Jesus. What a treat that was……another who surpassed all expectations. She seemed to be really enjoying herself and commented on the famed EOTR vibe, self identifying as a hippy freak.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Later, on the same stage, it was a bit of a privilege to see Natalie Prass capture everyone’s heart with what may have been the set of the weekend. She is possessed of wit, charm and cheek and the impromptu version of Johnny B Goode was a right chuffing laugh.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, before the first afternoon was out, I had seen 4 brilliant performances, plus, little bits of other, really enjoyable sets. I no longer cared what the rest of the festival had in store. What I had already seen was good enough.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The one worrying aspect was the tosser quotient, which seems to increase year on year. If people want a chat, have a chat, there’s plenty of space, and if you want to chat at the back, have a chat, I can move further forward if it bothers me that much. What I don’t understand is why, when the place is still far from full, people, lots of ‘em, go right to the front, ignore the band completely while they shout at each other, then whoop and holler at the end of each song as if it’s the best thing they have ever heard. Bewildering.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As is always the case, the later sets become a bit a blur. Best news of the day was the Mrs and daughter finally turning up about 3 hours after ETA.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Evenings at EOTR aren’t really for me anymore. I’m too old, too decrepit and it all gets too busy as the festival lovers come out to join the music lovers. My tolerance levels for the overly ecstatic, the overly indifferent and the overly refreshed isn’t what it once was. There’s still plenty to enjoy though, not least the goddam pies.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I wandered about a bit from stage to stage to sparkly woodland and back again and around again. I caught a bit of Fuzz, liked ‘em a lot initially but quickly grew weary of ‘em, then I caught a little bit of Django Django, a little bit of Jane Weaver neither of whom offended, then saw a brilliant set in the Tipi from Darren Hayman. I don’t know how long he was on, but it wasn’t long enough. Loved the bugger, literate, funny self deprecating and he sung a socialist anthem. What more could a motherfucker want?</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">We finished up sitting under that big canopy thing near the real ale tent, getting some down us, listening to the Tame Impala set from afar, watching the light show. It was a beautiful half hour. The young un’s were down by the barrier and loved it. By now I was seriously cold and knackered so no late night secret sets or forest discos…….home and into bed. I was spark out before my head hit the pillow. It had been an epic day.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><b><u>Saturday</u></b></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Woke up for a piss several times through the night and each time the airbed was noticeably squishier, before it gave up the ghost and completely deflated itself, the bastard. Still felt quite refreshed though and was first to the charging tent and the showers again. The bogs, even after a night of revellers utilising them, were remarkably clean.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">To be frank, Saturday was pretty shit, although we still managed to have a bloody lovely day and the young ‘uns saw some bands they liked. Once again, we were surprised to find the Garden Stage jam packed by 12 o’clock. We had gone over to have a look at Hooton Tennis Club but there was barely an inch to be had between the picnic blankets, chairs and slumbering sprawlers………and no one was about to give up any space, even space they didn’t really need. I liked the sound of the band and we ended up in that little garden bit with a little statue and the peacocks, and it was lovely.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">Scanning the programme we decided that as nothing was grabbing us by the bollocks we would just go and find a nice spot by the Woods stage, not too far from the bar, let the music, whatever it happened to be, drift over us and just chill the day away. This meant missing H Hawkline, who had been on my must see list, but ya can’t have everything.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">We saw a bit of Duke Spirit, who I found quite dull, then I made my way to The Big Top for Peter Mathew Bauer. He proved a bit of a revelation, much punchier than on record and he was banging ‘em out at a rate of knots. I dug the fuck out of him, but he seemed to be in a hell of a hurry to get out of there.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Through the day I saw bits and pieces of loads of bands but mostly just relaxed, and had a fine time getting gently sozzled and having a laugh with the Mrs and kids. I saw a bit of Du Blonde, she was pretty good but she could lose the lame between song patter. I heard, rather than saw Slow Club and they were rather lovely. I caught a bit of Stealing Sheep, but they got on my nerves, a bit, and I saw an interview Uncut did with a Sleaford Mod which was excruciating.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The evening passed me by. I found My Morning Jacket a bit polished and boring, I wasn’t in the right frame of mind for EX Hex and I managed to stay for 1 Fat White Family song.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I had been torn all week between Mark Lanegan and Sufjan Stevens. I opted, briefly, for the latter. We were about halfway down and surrounded by fuck faced chatterboxes and clowns who seemed to think we had come to watch their tomfoolery, rather than the band. I gave it 15 minutes and left, in a sulk. I didn’t last much longer with Mark Lanegan……I think I was just a bit out of sorts, and found myself back at the real ale bar quaffing the real ale, listening to the end of Sufjan, and bless my soul, I was content.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><b><u>Sunday.</u></b></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Warm and Sunny, by God.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Before the festival it had looked likely that I might spend the whole damn day at the Garden stage, but again, the place was absolutely heaving from very early on, and wasn’t a particularly relaxing place to be, in fact, it was quite a precarious place to be, with food and drink laden people trying to pick a tip toe route around the sprawled out slumberers.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">What a start though. Charlie Cunninghham. He is astonishingly good and he was clearly a bit overwhelmed by the size of the crowd and the response he was getting. It was a brilliant set, made all the better by the appreciative and increasingly enthusiastic crowd. I shall be seeing that bugger again, no question.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I stayed at the Garden stage for Kevin Morby as the women of the family went shopping for frocks. I think I made the better decision. EOTR always seems to get the Sunday scheduling just right. Morby’s gentle rocking was perfect for the time, the stage and the weather.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I saw half an hour of the absolutely sublime Delines before making the agonising decision to leg it over to the Woods stage for Dawes. I love Dawes, and I don’t know why. It’s as if they have bought a jigsaw on how to make formulaic rootsy Americana and put it together, but by Christ they put it together well. I loved their sunny, soaraway set, and it put me in a right fucking good mood.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I missed Allvays in favour of Giant Sand, and once the initial sound problems had been sorted out, we were treated to a cool, mellow and loquacious performance. Sunday was matching Friday for sheer excellence.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Once again, the headliners held little allure and the decision had to be made who to see next. The nippers love Mac DiMarco and the Mrs likes him too, and as they were due to abandon me after his set, I decided to give it a go…….the first set that the 4 of us had seen together all weekend. Well, the music largely passed me by, but I really enjoyed the set…….he is a very engaging young man and the guitarists chucking their guitars across the stage at each other, and catching ‘em, before continuing playing was a bit of a spectacle and the cake fight at the end, was hilarious. It was fun and fitting end to proceedings for the young ‘uns. Then they were gone, and I was on my own.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In years past, if I’d been left alone at a festival, I’d have been straight into the ale and looking forward to a very late night of tipi tent mayhem. But that was then. This is now. I got into the Big Top for the last half hour of Brakes extremely good and energetic set, but my spark had gone.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I wandered back to the Garden Stage for Laura Marling but my innate hatred of the posh classes got the better of me and I soon departed for pie and peas, before trudging forlornly back to the now empty and lonely tent, serenaded by The War On Drugs as their set came to an end.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was up and on the road home by 6.15 am, with only a beautiful sunrise for company.</span></span></span></div>
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peter bowlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18273004269523440799noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3172748.post-28310264248560250052014-07-11T23:40:00.000+00:002014-07-11T23:52:16.639+00:00Gradually Learning<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/mZ_n2O9vHMs" width="560"></iframe><br />
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My attempt to become vegan turned out to be predictably lame, and I have managed to put on even more weight.The good news is that I should be first in the queue when the gastric band ops are allocated. I haven't been good, but I haven't been all that bad either, so it's a bit baffling, and that's all I'm going to say, as it all seems a bit fucking pointless.<br />
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The world cup is far more interesting than my fat bastard self, and that has also left me baffled, and befuckingfuddled. The early stages gave us some decent games and some folk proclaimed it the best world cup ever. Well, people get excited, so you can forgive 'em, while wondering at their grasp of history.<br />
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Then the competition progressed, and the games got steadily worse and still, we were told, it is a remarkable competition, the best ever, and you began to suspect that some scoundrel had been doping the worlds water. Dire games would have a dramatic conclusion, and the previous 93 minutes of utter shit would be forgotten. Some useless berk of a striker would belt the ball as hard as he fucking could straight at a keepers head and the "save" would be hailed as miraculous. Bonkers. Capitalism gone mad.<br />
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There has been no outstanding player, no outstanding team, and no outstanding game in this competition. Nothing, apart from Suarez mistaking an Italian for a slice of mortadella, has made you rise up and proclaim that the Good Lord is riding a bicycle. The final is yet to come, it may be a classic, but it probably won't.<br />
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Never mind, it has provided some entertainment through the close season. I hate the close season. I love the cricket and the cycling, but they don't compensate. Blues have been busy, buying loads of players I have never heard of, but our chief scout reckons they are just what we need. Mind you, it turns out he has never heard of the fuckers either, so I'm not about to take his word for it.<br />
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It's likely to be a great season for those of us who have been around the block and can watch with wry amusement. All these new players to get to know, plus the thrill of watching the further development of Lee Clark. Lee hasn't really covered himself in glory, although he has provided at least two glorious moments of genuine lunacy, so we have to regard him as one of us. He seems to have developed a genuine liking for us, and he could have hopped it, saying it is an impossible job. It <i>is</i> an impossible job, but still, the daft Geordie get persists.<br />
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He's heading for Roger Hynd like legendary status. You just fucking well see if I'm not wrong.peter bowlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18273004269523440799noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3172748.post-18123504191353261162014-04-15T19:06:00.001+00:002014-04-15T19:06:18.123+00:00Don't Go<br />
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As convinced as I am by the analysis of the Forks over Knives chaps, their eating plan is practically impossible to stick to, it shouldn’t be, but it is. When you watch the film and you see people who were at deaths door 20 years ago and are now spry old codgers, and you consider your own lardy, unfit self, you should be shamed into sticking to it, but it’s not possible. I blame myself and my own lack of self control, but there is a major problem with the book. It leads you up the garden path and gives you false hope: it describes every recipe as delicious, or fantastic or amazing, and none of the recipes fit those descriptions. The best of them are no more than very nice, most of them are edible, but just OK and a few of them I’ll never know about because they are just plain weird. I think of it as medicine, rather than food.<u></u><u></u></div>
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The upshot is that you are inevitably disappointed. You are promised deliciousness and end up with school dinners. It could be that my culinary skills aren’t up to it, but I doubt it. Then there are the issues of time, cost and availability. These are not dishes that you can just knock up after a day at work, unless you have taken a vow of asceticism. They generate lots of chopping, you use lots of pans, and if you live in a small town in South East Wales, you have to plan well ahead, because none of the ingredients will be available at your local One Stop. I end up buying tons of stuff on the weekend, half of which won’t get used, as I can’t be arsed cooking it through the week.<u></u><u></u></div>
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The book makes no claims that you will lose weight, it is a regime purely designed to maintain or improve heart health, However, it does say that a happy side effect is that weight loss is inevitable. Well, excuse the fucking fuck out of me, but I have <i>gained</i> weight, and it has pissed me off. I admit, I haven’t given up using oil, and I haven’t totally given up cheese, but bloody hell, given everything else I’m doing, a couple of pounds off would be nice. Maybe I’ll have to try something other than porridge and rice.<u></u><u></u></div>
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It’s not all bad though. When I say “the book” I mean 3 different books, all of which are pretty interchangeable with each other and use Forks over Knives as a starting point, but I have loads of vegetarian books, more than normal books, in fact, and still pick up ideas off the telly and the newspapers. As I type this during my lunch break, I have just finished a black bean, sweet potato and shitake soup, favoured with cumin cinnamon, chilli and fuck know what else. I’ve read that sweet potato and shitake’s are especially good for you, and this soup really is delicious…………………it tastes a bit like Heinz oxtail, strangely. I’ve also had another variation on a quinoa burger, this time mixed up with beetroot and feta (whoops, dairy alert) and flavoured up with cumin, lime juice and fresh coriander, which is, I apologise for saying, delicious: even my eldest wolfed two of ‘em down, having been assured that there was absolutely no beetroot in it. That was accompanied by a pile of wheatberries mixed up with caramelised onion and kale, which was OK.<u></u><u></u></div>
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I’d consider that dinner to be quite healthy, full of fresh veg and herbs, all cooked and prepared by my own hands, but I deviated from The Plan. First I used oil. I used it to soften and sweat the veg for the soup and also for the burger, as well as the onion for the wheatberry doodah, and then there was the feta, not to mention frying the bastard burgers once they were prepared. Hmm, fried cheese……………….that could be where I’m going wrong. And that’s why I am finding this thing impossible to stick to. Just a little bit of oil. Just a little bit of cheese. Just a little bit of that, unfortunately, not much of the other. All the authors say you have to give up the oil and dairy cold turkey, just a little bit causes you to maintain your addiction, and I can see their point, but it’s a step too far for me.<u></u><u></u></div>
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I’ve tried cooking without oil, and it’s not all that hard, but you have to be bloody alert. Stick a bit of oil in a pan, throw in a couple of onions, put it on a low heat, come back in 40 minutes and you have beautifully caramelised, onions. Try and do it without oil and if you don’t give it your undivided attention, within 5 minutes you have burnt onions and a wrecked pan. Fuck that for a game of tin soldiers. Roll on tea time. Fuck knows what I’ll have……cheese on toast, probably.</div>
peter bowlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18273004269523440799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3172748.post-83269892302829937852014-04-07T21:15:00.000+00:002014-04-07T21:25:42.636+00:00Red Beans and Rice<br />
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About a month ago, I watched a documentary on Netflix, Forks Over Knives and I found it compelling. It told us all about a couple of blokes in the U.S who claim to have reversed heart disease in patients who had been given a very grim prognosis and had survived for about 20 years by eating a plant based diet. I‘ve been a reluctant meat eater for about 30 years and have endured half hearted and brief periods of vegetarianism: from time to time I’ve cut down on red meat, cut out red meat altogether, cut down on white meat, tried to salve my conscience by only buying organic and worried and fussed about the ethics of eating flesh, or, as a bloke in the film put it, eating anything with a mom or a dad or a face.<u></u><u></u></div>
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I happened to see it while I was being a bit drama queeny about my health, and in particular the health of my heart…………….I have developed a bit of a tendency to over react to any minor ailment since my dramatic cardiac event a couple of years ago. So, this bloody film resonated.<u></u><u></u></div>
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I have kidded myself that I have been good since the heart attack. I would tell myself that I feel generally OK, that my diet is better than it was and I diligently take the tablets; but it’s obvious that I lie to myself. Every morning I have to walk up a hill, and it leaves me feeling near fucking death. Any walk over 15 minutes gives me severe pain in my calves; I have not lost an ounce of weight, and, if I was doing as well as I professed, I wouldn’t be going into a panic every time I got a bit of indigestion or a twingey pain in an arm. It was clear. Something had to be done.<u></u><u></u></div>
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I decided that the thing that needed to be done was that I should go vegan. What a lark. What a doomed to failure lark. What a superb example of the triumph of hope over experience. I got on Amazon and ordered the book of the film, complete with recipes, and a couple of other books that extol the virtues and efficacy of a plant based diet.<u></u><u></u></div>
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When they say eat nothing that has a mom or a dad or a face, you think, I can do that, I’m an ethical, compassionate being, for fucks sake! It can’t be that difficult. Then you read that anything that has a mom or a dad or face includes milk and cheese and yoghurt. All meat fish and dairy is verboten. OK, you think, I was wrong, it <i>can</i> be that difficult. No Cheddar, not even if it’s strong enough to strip the roof off your mouth by way of punishment. No Brie. No Yarg. No Blacksticks Blue. And you think: Fuck Me. Then you read you can’t have any fat. Not just dripping or lard………………no olive oil, or walnut oil, no hazelnut oil, or toasted sesame oil, and you begin to despair, then you begin to rationalise, then you begin to chicken out.<u></u><u></u></div>
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Right, you think, all previous attempts at improving your health have failed. Going all Taliban on yourself is never going to work, one has to be reasonable. Moderation in all things…………………all that kind of bullshit. Knowing that you won’t be able to carry it off, you resolve to do the best that you can. And you rationalise that <i>any</i> change has to be an improvement. You feel a bit downhearted but you make a plan. Not a proper, well thought out, structured plan, more a notion that you will go and buy some stuff.<u></u><u></u></div>
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Here’s the first problem, buying stuff. This stuff is expensive. Nut or other alternative milks are expensive (not supposed to have nut milk, but fuck it), things like date syrup and other strange condiments are expensive, as well as very hard to find, and you still have to buy all the normal stuff for the normal people in the house. And there’s another problem, once you’ve bought all this stuff, you have to find somewhere to store it. You may surmise, I wasn’t going into this with whole hearted commitment, although I did buy a decent mandolin.<u></u><u></u></div>
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Reading the book reinforced the message in the film and I felt encouraged to give it a proper good go, although I wasn’t kidding myself I could stick religiously to it. I’ll probably go on about the different things I tried and all my emotions and shit another time, but today I’ll just bang on about 2 biggish, fairly normal changes……………………..milk and porridge.</div>
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I gave up the milk of a cow. By that, I don’t mean that I started lactating, I mean I stopped drinking it. Mindful of the strictures against nut milk I compromised between almond milk and something called Koko, which I think is made from coconut anyway, so, in fact, I didn’t compromise at all. My face is red now, typing that. Both of them are OK in different ways.<u></u><u></u></div>
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I’ve been bringing a huge bowl of raw porridge into work to sustain me through the morning, and, quite frankly, it’s delicious. I pour a load of oats into a bowl, add some ground flax seed and grape nuts, along with some slivered almonds, some sultanas, some goji berries, some coconut, a bit of vanilla and a squirt of maple syrup (date syrup sometimes, but it takes a bit of getting used to). I top it all up with almond milk and by the time I get to work it’s softened up and is nice enough to have kept me away from bacon. More or less. Sometimes I add a bit of raw cacao powder. Have you seen the price of that stuff? The whole thing looks a bit disgusting, and it elicits comments from passers by, but, fuck ‘em, it tastes nice and is good for the soul.<u></u><u></u></div>
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So, there is a use for almond milk that works really well. The Koko thingy also works well with it and gives a slightly lighter, fresher feel on the old palate. Where the Koko works really well is with hot chocolate, made with raw cacao. Both of the milks are horrible in tea or coffee. Truly disgusting. I hardly drink any of those brews but I do have a splash of cows milk with em and feel guilty, which is progress, of a sort, I suppose. <u></u><u></u></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>wheatberries with greens and butternut, quinoa burgers and tomato sauc</i>e</b></span></div>
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peter bowlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18273004269523440799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3172748.post-28642264741083421092013-10-25T20:14:00.001+00:002013-10-25T20:26:23.183+00:00Gloomy Sunday<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/KzWVWY5QUzg" width="420"></iframe>
Watching Tom Kerridge on the telly, you can see how he got to be the size he is, but it is refreshing to see a telly chef who still clearly loves his grub, and also loves sharing his love with the rest of us. Too many cooks on the telly now are jaded and repetitive from having been on for donkeys years, or aren't really cooks at all. I love the way Rick Stein goes to far flung places and tells us that this is what he loves, cheap grub, prepared in a shack by a peasant with a camping stove and battered tin can. You won't find his love of simplicity in any of his Padstow establishments, not when the bill arrives, anyway. Old Tom tells us he loves simplicity as well, but he doesn't really, and he certainly doesn't favour frugality, but he doesn't pretend that he does, so that's OK.<br />
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I'm attempting a bit of frugality myself, and I'm not being very successful. Last weekend I did Tom's duck, which has left me feeling a bit ambivalent. The duck was expensive, there wasn't much meat on it and it was a bit of a faff at the end, but was probably worth it, coz it was nice, and I did manage to stretch it out to two meals, more than that, actually, thinking about it.
I haven't had much experience cooking duck due to the expense and lack of meat on the bleeder, and it has never been very successful......it's impossible to carve the bastard, for a start. On this occasion, I followed Toms instructions and then looked at a video on how to successfully carve it, and it was OK……I managed to get the breasts off in one piece and then carve those nicely, so, for once, it actually looked edible. It tasted, really, really nice, but I was still left with some doubts about it. The problem I had was that I can feed 5 of us and still have leftovers with a chicken, or a lump of red meat; this dear duck only fed the two of us.<br />
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Thinking about it though, it ended up good value. Me and the Mrs only had the breasts, which was enough. There wasn't much meat on the legs, but what there was, I stripped and chopped and turned into a stir fry, albeit a stir fry heavy on the veg and noodles, for the kids. I also followed Tom's recipes for potato pancakes and braised lettuce to go with the duck. The pancakes turned out really well, and there were loads of 'em, and the letuce was nothing short of a fucking revelation. I also knocked up some saffron spuds that I had seen Rick Stein do on Saturday Kitchen and they were also a bit special.............so, I had loads of leftover pancakes, loads of leftover spuds, and loads and loads of delicious duck fat.
I had pancakes with poached eggs on Sunday for breakfast, then fried a couple more up for a snack before bed, then, the other night, I had lamb chops, accompanied by the last of the pancakes and the leftover spuds, fried very gently, for a very long time, in a load of duck fat. I also stuck a load of green veg on, just for appearances sake, and it was bloody belting. So, although the duck was dead, and there wasn't much meat on it, I managed. from the one meal I cooked on Saturday, to make 3 other biggish meals, a breakfast, and some snacks. Hat's off to Tom.<br />
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The cheapest meal I have had in ages was on Sunday: an Ottolenghi,which is a bit surprising because there was no faff involved and it was frugal, neither of which you would associate with him. A couple of boxes of free range chicken portions, a load of spuds,and several onions into a big pot and then a load of soy sauce, pomegranate mollases, mango chutney, ginger, and a couple of other bits and pieces. That was it, all in a pot and into the oven for 2 hours. Bloody delicious.<br />
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All this marvelous duck fat reminded me that I am defined as a man with a chronic illness (although I don't feel like a man with a chronic illness) and I am also obese (although only just!) so I should be a bit more mindful about the shit I scarf down. All through the summer I had been really good, or, more accurately, less bad than usual. I invented a cold porridge concotion that I had for breakfast every day, in place of my usual bacon butty, which gets wolfed down in the car en route to my labours. I can't pretend it was delicious, but it was edible, and very cheap, and, possibly, healthy; but it took a bit of getting through, and you most definitely can't eat it while driving.<br />
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The last few weeks have seen me revert to the bacon butty in the car, much quicker, much nicer as well, to be honest. This is bad, I have to acknowledge that. Next time I keel over, I will deserve no sympathy. I keep telling myself that I shall go back to the cold porridge, and I will, one day.peter bowlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18273004269523440799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3172748.post-34995841379595906172013-10-10T20:08:00.004+00:002013-10-10T20:17:16.055+00:00In The Neighbourhood<br />
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When I was a lad, we knew what we would be having for tea, day by day, week by week, year by year; it never varied. There was a time when I could have remembered in minute detail, but those days are long gone. On Mondays we would always have stew, stew ala Lou, as me and me brother came to know it. It was delicious and was a dish of rare delicacy, consisting of a tin of stewing meat, a tin of mixed veg, a pint of water and an oxo cube. I’m surprised it never became the national dish. </div>
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<span class="aBn" data-term="goog_336511983" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-bottom-width: 1px; position: relative; top: -2px; z-index: 0;" tabindex="0"><span class="aQJ" style="position: relative; top: 2px; z-index: -1;">Tuesday</span></span> would be lamb chop, boiled spuds and peas; can’t remember what <span class="aBn" data-term="goog_336511984" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-bottom-width: 1px; position: relative; top: -2px; z-index: 0;" tabindex="0"><span class="aQJ" style="position: relative; top: 2px; z-index: -1;">Wednesday</span></span> would have been, possibly pork chop, boiled spuds and peas, <span class="aBn" data-term="goog_336511985" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-bottom-width: 1px; position: relative; top: -2px; z-index: 0;" tabindex="0"><span class="aQJ" style="position: relative; top: 2px; z-index: -1;">Thursday</span></span> would be fish fingers, mash and peas, <span class="aBn" data-term="goog_336511986" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-bottom-width: 1px; position: relative; top: -2px; z-index: 0;" tabindex="0"><span class="aQJ" style="position: relative; top: 2px; z-index: -1;">Friday</span></span> would be chips from the chippy, with whatever we wanted, saveloy and peas for me usually, or a scallop, or roe, tinned, not fresh, never fresh. <span class="aBn" data-term="goog_336511987" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-bottom-width: 1px; position: relative; top: -2px; z-index: 0;" tabindex="0"><span class="aQJ" style="position: relative; top: 2px; z-index: -1;">Saturday</span></span> would be egg and chips, <span class="aBn" data-term="goog_336511988" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-bottom-width: 1px; position: relative; top: -2px; z-index: 0;" tabindex="0"><span class="aQJ" style="position: relative; top: 2px; z-index: -1;">Sunday</span></span> would be a <span class="aBn" data-term="goog_336511989" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-bottom-width: 1px; position: relative; top: -2px; z-index: 0;" tabindex="0"><span class="aQJ" style="position: relative; top: 2px; z-index: -1;">Sunday </span></span>dinner and a <span class="aBn" data-term="goog_336511990" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-bottom-width: 1px; position: relative; top: -2px; z-index: 0;" tabindex="0"><span class="aQJ" style="position: relative; top: 2px; z-index: -1;">Sunday</span></span> tea, consisting of tinned salmon, lettuce, bread and butter, spring onions, a tin of mandarins, some jelly, and evaporated milk. Oh, and a chocolate log. Being a weak and frail child, I never got an end of that bastard cake. Maybe I should write a misery memoir. Rather than say grace, eldest brother would signify that we could start eating by hilariously flicking water into an innocent and unprepared face from a lettuce leaf.</div>
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It wasn’t Gordon Blue cookery, but we knew where the fuck we were, and we ate together.</div>
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It’s all a bit more haphazard now. We never know what we are having from one day to the next, we rarely eat the same meal, and we rarely eat en famille . I blame the telly cooks. We would starve without the telly cooks to guide us. I’m always doing something that I have recently seen on the telly. Most of it ends up in the bin.</div>
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I had my longish affair with Jamie, and now I’m flirting coquettishly with Gino DiCampo and Tom Kerridge. I tried Toms lamb shoulder, which was shit, and I bought all the stuff for his dripping salad but was too scared to try it, and this week I saw him arse about with a duck, which I shall try on the weekend. I love the way he states that simplicity is his watchword then tells you to spend 3 days making a dressing, and several hours cooking a duck, not just sitting there and leaving it, but paying it loving attention.</div>
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Gino is the man for me at the moment. I’m skyplussing his programme and skimming through it……………..when he says a recipe is simple, it usually is. I did his pasta with broccoli garlic and chilli, which was delicious, and cheap, as well as being a piece of piss to make. Last week his lamb chops in a honey sauce looked rather good and I shall be giving them a whirl before too long.</div>
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For some reason, our local Asda has started selling enormous pork bellys, this is a good thing, I hate those little bastards, no bigger than a chop that supermarkets usually sell. I followed (more or less) a Rick Stein recipe, turned out delicious, made a hell of a mess of the roasting tin though</div>
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I haven’t given up on Jamie; his book has gone back, but he’s still on the telly, if becoming increasingly hard to swallow. He did a squash thing in rolled up pasta this week which looked easy enough, and will be tried at the weekend.</div>
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I just read <a href="http://www.scotsman.com/lifestyle/books/denise-mina-the-red-road-1-2999701" target="_blank">“Red Road” by Denise Mina</a>. I liked it. When I was a very young man, and first got into crime fiction, courtesy of Birmingham Library, I was reading classic American noir, by the likes of Dashiell Hammet, James M Cain, Jim Thompson, et al. I liked that these authors tried to shine a light onto the murkier corners of the soul and society. They were not much concerned with middle class angst, and, although set in a distant place, a long time ago, the words connected with me in a much more profound way than the words of Kinglsey Amis or David Lodge did, as much as I enjoyed the words they wrote. It is crime fictions willingness to address the shit that the working stiff has to put up with, the obstacles put in the way of the little guy, and to expose the hypocrisy and smug sense of entitlement of the elites that attracted me and has kept me reading it.</div>
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In recent years, it has become increasingly difficult, but not impossible, to find really interesting, insightful, nuanced crime fiction. Pelecanos remains highly readable but has become almost a parody of himself, Lee Burke’s villains continue to be possessed of downright heroic levels of depravity, the Scandinavians have all gone fucking mad and, with very few exceptions, British crime fiction is as shit as it has always been, and even the good ones end up writing the same book over and over again.</div>
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Reading "Red Road" was like returning to a gentler, more sensible time. No savage violence. No villains with powers so great that they are impossible to kill off, no warped moral relativism in which it is bad for the bad guys to kill, but OK for the good guys to mete out lethal vigilante justice. What the book gives us first and foremost is brilliant writing, and a sad, wistful humour. It recognises that the world is mostly shit, that justice for the poor is a different beast to justice for the rich; it doesn’t portray the wrongdoers as simply evil, and the good doers as simply good; it doesn’t ratchet up the violence, but it lets us know the devastating effects that violence has upon the victims, and it keeps us turning the pages, right up until the final brilliant sentence.</div>
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It is probably pertinent that Mina is a Scot: Scotland and Ireland have been producing fantastic crime fiction for about 10 years now, you’d probably need a degree in research methods to find most of it though. The American South and the Rust Belt has also been producing great, edgy fiction. Dark tales from the margins of marginalised regions are telling us great truths about this beautiful capitalist world we live in, but it’s only dopes like me who seem interested……still, at least I can be entertained while the system slowly chokes the life out of those it doesn't need anymore.</div>
peter bowlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18273004269523440799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3172748.post-13996030930746290642013-09-30T12:38:00.002+00:002013-09-30T12:43:41.191+00:00Welding Burns<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/0Xh_NHG0U_w" width="560"></iframe><br />
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The king is dead,long live the king. Jamie has gone, to be replaced by Tom. I saw Tom Kerridge on the telly last week in a new <strike>lifestyle porn </strike>cookery series. He always comes across a hearty and genial sort of guy, but you don't get the acclaim that he has won by being simple, and I doubted if any of his recipes would suit my simple skills or lack of patience. True enough, he made a veg pickle that no sane person would attempt in their own kitchen, but then he did a lamb shoulder and spuds that was simplicity itself. I made it. It was shit. Probably my fault.<br />
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Looking at this blog, you would think we were carnivores of the most rapacious kind, forever having a bloody piece of flesh within our grasp, but, as a rule, we eat hardly any meat at all. A chicken dinner every Sunday, the odd bacon sarnie, the occasional meaty stew, a bit of chorizo or pancetta added to pasta or rice dishes and that is about it. The kids have an aversion to red meat of all kinds unless it comes out a box, bearing no resemblance to actual flesh .<br />
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After the meat feast of Jamie's recipes, and Tom's shit shoulder, without even thinking about it, I started cooking some of my old standbys, and bugger me, no meat was involved, and bugger me sideways, they cost next to nothing. And nobody died.<br />
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First off, I made a huge pot of minestrone. No one needs to be told how to make a minestrone, you just bung whatever veg you have to hand into a pot, sweat it for 15 minutes, cover it with stock and boil the bugger up for 15 minutes. On this occasion the stuff that went into the pot was onion, garlic, celery, sage, rosemary, thyme, carrot, spud, spinach, kale, tomatoes, butter beans, broken up bits of spaghetti, and a couple of pints of veg stock. Total cost: no idea, probably about 3 quid. It was delicious with a sprinkling of parmesan and a bit of walnut bread and there is loads left, enough for at least two dinners at work, or, if you strain a bit of the stock off, or add another tin of beans, it would be just the job with a pile of chillied up polenta. I have a recipe for polenta that is unbelievable. I might share it one day.<br />
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Despite my aversion to faffing about, the second thing I did was a helluva of a faff; took a couple of hours at least to prepare, even before it went in the oven, and it generated a shitload of washing up to boot, but it is one of those rare dishes that is worth the faff. It is Marcella Hazan's vegetable lasagne. I noticed in a tweet yesterday that Marcella has departed this life, RIP Marcella.<br />
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There are 3 main ingredients, courgettes, carrots and broccoli. You have to slice the carrots and courgettes thinly and par boil the broccoli, before breaking into tiny florets. You brown 2 garlic cloves in a big pan with butter and oil, then you chuck the garlic away, wilt all the carrots down in the pan, then repeat the whole damn process with the courgettes, then the broccoli. You are supposed to keep them separate and layer them up individually, but, as a very wise man once said: "fuck that for a game of tin soldiers". Then you have to make a cheesy bechamel and layer it all up as you would any lasagne. It seems simple, and it is, and it is delicious and it makes loads for probably not much more than about 4 quid for the lot.<br />
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Next up, a veggie shepherd pie. Nothing to it, all you do is make it as if you were making a meaty one, but use green lentils instead of mince. I like to add some very finely chopped mushrooms too; dunno why, it just seems like a reasonable thing to do. I make the topping nice by mixing up sweet and ordinary spuds with loads of very well caramelised onions, a bit of chopped and wilted spinach and shitloads of cheese and butter.<br />
<br />peter bowlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18273004269523440799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3172748.post-1287887122686954812013-09-26T19:43:00.000+00:002013-09-26T19:51:37.374+00:00River<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/apMxsNrGM54" width="560"></iframe><br />
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My affair with Jamie has come to an end. The book had to go back to the library, and there wasn’t enough good stuff in there to justify spending the 26 quid Jamie wants for it. Having said that, it is a decent book, and not nearly so aggravating as the telly series; it gave me some good ideas to do with leftovers, and almost converted me to brisket.</div>
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I deviated slightly from Jamie’s recipe for the brisket. I seasoned it and topped it with mustard, as I was told, but then poured half a bottle of wine into the roasting tray and cooked it for 6 hours. It came out alright, ‘twas still only brisket though. I didn’t make a meal with it, couldn’t be arsed, nor did I make any of the leftover recipes, but it made bosting sarnies, with a bit of red cabbage. Some might argue that spending 12 quid on a lump of brisket and cooking it for hours, just so you can have a nice sarnie at work is a bit of a false economy, and they might be right.</div>
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The major problem I have had with this new book is that it is really, really heavy on the meat……………..the main premis seem to be to buy a huge fuck off lump of meat and have a <span class="aBn" data-term="goog_57057016" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-bottom-width: 1px; position: relative; top: -2px; z-index: 0;" tabindex="0"><span class="aQJ" style="position: relative; top: 2px; z-index: -1;">Sunday</span></span> dinner with it, then spice and rice some of it up a bit and have a sarnie or a wrap with the rest. That’s OK, up to a point, but you do get a bit sick of scarfing down the same thing day after day. This morning I opened the fridge door and was confronted with leftover veg curry, leftover bean and chorizo stew, leftover lentil soup, leftover rice and half a bastard chicken. Couldn’t face any of it, made a load of brie and ham sarnies. On sliced white bread. To be fair to Jamie, as we must, none of that grub came out of his book.</div>
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I had a go at Jamie’s broccoli and cauliflower bake last week. It was alright, if a bit of a faff. I noticed on the box that he used frozen veg, and he reckoned it was as nice as with fresh veg, if I do it again, which is unlikely, I might try that, not for increased cheapness but for decreased faffness. Another faff was his fish pie, which I <i>did</i> make with frozen fish and veg. It went straight into the bin. I don’t mind a bit of faff, but I want the results to be spectacular, not just OK, and that fish pie, even using frozen ingredients, was bastard expensive. That's not why it went into the bin though; it went into the bin partly because I had been cooking like a bastard and we never got round to eating it, and partly because it looked shit</div>
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I finished “The Cook” in no time at all, having taken to my sick bed with it. It maintained its brilliance throughout, although the twist at the end, while delicious, stretched credibility a bit too far.</div>
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I’m now reading Denise Mina’s new one, “Red Road”. The jury is out. I read one of hers years ago, and thought it was brilliant, and then read another, which I thought was shit, and then didn’t read any more of hers until this one. I’m feeling quite poorly and sorry for myself, and have a very thick, fuzzy and painful head, so it has done well to keep my attention for the 60 odd pages I have read: however, a bunch of shady toffs are becoming more prominent, and I am fast losing interest.</div>
peter bowlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18273004269523440799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3172748.post-5858578845062158202013-09-21T15:37:00.001+00:002013-09-21T15:46:38.995+00:00Fat Man<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/s2qo4Nbxoy4" width="560"></iframe><br />
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This morning I made bread. Beset by a mild malady, I spent Friday evening in bed, with a cup of cocoa and a book, rather than drinking wine and posting endless nonsense on twitter. Consequently, I was up early, and feeling revived, rather than desperate, so I made bread, to go with a lentil soup that hadn't yet been made.<br />
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Bread vexes me. Most weekends I make soup at least once, and you need to have nice bread to go with it, but, have you seen the price of it? Even nasty bread costs an arm and a leg, and a decent loaf is painful to purchase. You can buy a decent loaf in any supermarket, I'm not so daft as to deny that, but you can't argue that it is good value: in the end, it's only flour, yeast, sugar, salt and water, for fucks sake.<br />
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I used to have a bread machine, but I kept losing the little paddle thing and having to replace it, and I didn't like the bread it produced all that much either, long and thin, like the Nicola Zigic of the kitchen. Trying to cut a piece of that in a straight line required the dexterity of a surgeon. So I binned the machine and started making bread by hand, although not all that often, to be honest.<br />
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Here's the thing. Making bread is a piece of piss. No skill is required, very little time is required, and even a basic bleeder is as good as a premium supermarket store baked loaf, and, in most cases, better………and you can arse about and add flavours and textures as much you like, virtually for free. The bread I made today is very basic, half wholemeal, half white, sachet of yeast, bit of salt, bit of honey, bit of olive oil……..I dunno how much it cost, but I would be surprised if it was much more than 40p and I had the added bonus of a wonderful smelling house. A similar loaf in Sainsburys would be about £1.50, at least.<br />
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The book I took to bed was "Cook" by Wayne Macauley. Got about half way through, and so far, I love it. The thing has no punctuation, apart from full stops and is quite difficult to read until you get used to it; then it develops a strange, hypnotic rhythm all its own. So far, it is a bit of an hosanna to service, whether it remains so time will tell. I hope not, but it is still a brilliant, original and exhilarating read.<br />
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I can't watch Masterchef, it brings out the class warrior in me, all that fine dining; the kowtowing to the knobocracy: the deference. I sometimes think that if I had my time again, I might want to cook for a living, but I doubt I could cope with the subservience. 'Cook", so far, takes a different stance, and celebrates the monied class, the heroes of the book salute them, as their willingness to spend absurd amounts of money on a plate of innards provides the bottom feeders with a route out of the shitkicking suburbs. I love it, and it is funny, not uproariously funny, but funny, and provocative. What more could you want, apart from a couple of murders? <br />
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I haven't finished with Jamie by the way, I still have all last weeks recipes to complain about, and I have made his fish pie this morning, but I've come over all delicate again, so it will have to wait.<br />
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<br />peter bowlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18273004269523440799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3172748.post-91432107091407929782013-09-13T20:54:00.001+00:002013-09-13T21:38:18.492+00:00One Meatball<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/dq-dN0EZ6DM" width="420"></iframe><br />
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I made a Jamie leftover thing and it turned out delicious, however, I became confused and started with one recipe only to finish with another, in the same dish. Moreover, I bastardised it, so I'm reluctant to give Jamie the credit. He can have a bit of the credit, but not all of it. On the telly I'd seen him do a Korean stir fry with left over brisket. It looked nice: I had leftover pork, and it was obvious that the dish would work with pork just as well as beef, probably better.<br />
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I shredded up all my left over pork, it didn't look like much, so I chopped up a few mushrooms; it still didn't look like much, so I chopped up half a cabbage, and some spinach. It looked delicious even before I cooked it. I took Jamie's advice on the spice mix and whizzed some garlic, chilli, ginger, turmeric and fresh coriander into a paste.....it required the addition of a fair bit of water to make it into an actual paste. The aroma was worth the price of admission on its own. That was more or less it. I chucked the paste into a pan, let it sizzle a bit, then threw in the 'shrooms, and the cabbage, then the spinach, let it all sizzle and pop for a bit, then chucked over the leftover pork gravy, that I was no longer going to have with mash, and some coconut milk, made from a block of creamed coconut, and let it all bubble away. I may have chucked a bit of soy sauce in, can't remember.<br />
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At this point, I decided to open the book and check the recipe. Fuck me, I wasn't doing Korean stir fry, I was doing beef rendang, except it was pork rendang, with a few minor Cwmbran interpolations. I continued as if nothing had happened and I was making Korean stir fry all along, which consisted of boiling up some rice and chucking that in with the rest. When the rice went in, it started to take on the appearance of an old fashioned Vesta biryani, so I chucked some sultanas in, just for a laugh. Turned out to be an inspired decision.<br />
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We scoffed it while watching the latest Breaking Bad, or the Mrs scoffed it, I wasn't that hungry as I had cooked the eldest some sausage and chips, but he was out, so, taking Jamie's entreaties to be frugal on board, I scoffed that, with a couple of eggs.
I watched with increasing dismay as the Mrs stealthily went back to the trough, for more Cwmbran Rendang Stir Fry Bollocks, 3 times.<br />
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I was hoping to have some for the next days dinner at work. Luckily, she left enough, which is how I know it was truly delicious. I'll try and make it again, but I doubt it will turn out the same......it was probably that delicious pork gravy that was the kicker, and I won't have that to hand very often. In the end, it's as much as about the energy you put in as the ingredients you use, and the universe was smiling upon me that day.<br />
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I have also utilised the sauce I made for the Crap Chicago Pizza through the week, once for a very simple coating for some left over chicken, fried up with some mushroom and spinach for a pasta sauce, and also for a simple sauce for some slightly spiced prawns, again with pasta. I offered the daughter pasta again last night but she declined, and opted for poached eggs on toast. There's gratitude. I bet Jamie doesn't have to contend with that.<br />
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I watched the Jamie episode with the pork the other day. It showed that, while his heart might be in the right place, his brain isn't. For a start, the joint cost 28 quid. He justified it, like the berk who claimed a whole salmon was frugality itself, by saying that it would last a week. I have 3 observations on this. One, if you are skint, or poor, or yer finances have, one way or another, gone down the shitter, it is highly unlikely that you will have 28 quid to spend on a single joint of meat. Second, did you see the size of the fucker? You would need an industrial sized fridge just to keep it in... an ordinary household fridge would not be able to house a lump of pork that big. Third, no one in their right mind could cope with pork every day for a week, no matter how often you bling the fucker up with a bit of galangal.<br />
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I'm not convinced Jamie is enjoying this series; it looks like little more than a marketing exercise on behalf of his Uncle Ben. He doesn't really seem all that enthused by any of his recipes, he doesn't even provide many recipes, and the thing is padded out with idiocy. He has some inarticulate "mate" try one of his creations, looking very uncomfortable, before declaring it amazing, and also goes around to some chumps house to teach them how not to waste stuff. This weeks food waster bought half a lamb every week, despite not knowing what to do with it or what the different cuts were. Half a lamb. Ye fucking Gods. She didn't need a visit from Jamie, she needed a visit from a man in a white coat.<br />
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I'll give Jamie some credit. Using his ideas, if not his recipes, has saved me a few bob this week. I have a load of chicken and different packs of mince in the freezer that I didn't need to use, and which, most weeks, I would have used. And here we are again, back at the weekend, and I'm going to do a Jamie again. I have already got a biggish lump of brisket brining. I'm not confident though. I hate fucking brisket,<br />
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Us Brummie types, especially us Brummie types who support the Blues, have been getting all beside ourselves at the prospect of Peaky Blinders starting on the telly. My departed nan used to call me and my brother peaky blinders when we played up, which was hardly ever. It concerns a bunch of Brummie hoodlums from 1919 or thereabouts, and there is a femme fatale, a mad Irish cop, social history, revolution and fuck knows what else in the pot. Jamie would be proud…..everything gets cooked, or overcooked.<br />
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Plenty has been written about the sets and the accents, but I have been surprised by the generally good press that it has received, because it is shit, absolutely woeful. If they had put as much effort into writing a decent script as they did in practising laughable accents, it might be OK, but they didn't and it's embarrassing.
It's one saving grace was getting a mention of the Blues in. The barman in The Garrison reckoned half the team were in there, sinking a few before the game……a tradition which continues to this day, going by our start to the season.peter bowlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18273004269523440799noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3172748.post-4424679728527442222013-09-09T18:27:00.000+00:002013-09-09T18:27:28.868+00:00I'll Trade You Money For Wine<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/rbp0lQO8Q8U" width="560"></iframe><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">First things first, I only found out about Robbie Fulks a few weeks ago, and bugger me, what a man, what a talent, what a crime that he so little known. Listen to that track just up there if you don't believe me. You might want to <a href="http://www.robbiefulks.com/" target="_blank">visit his website too</a>; it's very old fashioned in that he writes stuff on there, as opposed to filling it with PR bullshit.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've been struggling to find a book that holds my attention for a few weeks, but I have been saved by "Black Irish" by Stephan Talty, which has had me scouring wikipedia for information on Buffalo, where it is wonderfully set. The city is as much a character as Washington is for Pelecanos, but minus the sentimentality. Talk about hard bitten.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222;">My weekend with Jamie was not a great success:</span></span><br />
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<strong><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Dough</span></u></strong></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I don't usually cook on Friday night, what with working all day, then going shopping and not usually getting home much before 7, but Jamie had inspired me, and I resolved to make his Chicago pizza pie. I can make pizza, I've made thousands of 'em, and I can make bread, I have made millions of loaves, and they are usually pretty good, so I why I decided to use this new and unfamiliar method of making the dough, Lord knows. Anyway, it didn't work. The dough didn't rise and it felt very heavy, dense, and soggy. The sauce was very easy to make though. Being Friday, and as I'd been shopping, the kitchen was well stocked and I managed to ease the disappointment with plenty of red wine accompanied by many corned beef cobs </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I couldn't be arsed throwing the dough away on Friday night, and when I got up on Saturday morning, bugger me if it wasn't showing signs of life. Having nothing to lose, I decide to give it a whirl. I stretched it out, lined a flan tin with it to make a big one, not the 4 recommended by Jamie, smeared some of the sauce on it and topped it with some crumbled sausage, some torn pancetta and a load of cheddar and Parmesan. It was alright, no better, no worse. The kids ate it, but wondered why I hadn't made a normal pizza. It was no easier to make than yer bog standard pizza, and I won't be using that method to make dough again. The sauce, though, was something else, and required absolutely no effort to make, and I still have loads left .The kids will be getting it mixed up with some pasta and leftover chicken before this week is very much older.</span></div>
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<strong><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Sauce</span></u></strong></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm not at home typing this, but, as best as I can remember, you just chuck a tin of tomatoes into a processor with some red wine vinegar, a clove of garlic and some chopped chilli and salt and pepper and whizz the bastard up. That's it.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Usually, when making a topping for pizza I sweat an onion, then add garlic, chilli, sugar, salt, pepper and red wine or sherry vinegar and reduce it down into almost a jam. Takes a bit of time but tastes nice. Jamie's simple effort is as good, and there is loads left. It is virtually an arrabiata, so just cook up a bit of bacon and mushroom, mix with the sauce and some pasta, and you have an effortless tea. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hats off to Jamie for that</span></div>
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<strong><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Pork</span></u></strong></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">His recipe for pork shoulder required a 4.5 kilo lump of meat. One is not going to find a lump of pig that size around here, besides which, 4.5 kilo???? No one can eat that much pig, you'd have to be a family of 14, and even then, people would be begging for mercy. Now, I may complain that we have no deli, baker, greengrocer or decent butcher in town, but we do have 3 big supermarkets and a little M & S. I am intimately acquainted with all of them, so I knew that the best place for a sizeable lump of pork was Asda, so that's where I went, and I bought the the biggest pork shoulder they had.......a measly 1.2 kilo. At times like these it is best not to think about the provenance of the meat, but, it looked like a sorrowful and sad specimen.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My plans for this went a bit awry. I had intended to do a huge Sunday dinner, except it would be for Saturday tea. What I hadn't factored in was that, come tea time, I would be the only fucker in the house. That was OK though, the point of buying this joint was to try some of Jamie's recipes for leftovers, rather than have him tell me what veg to cook with a slab of meat, and, clearly, there were going to be plenty of leftovers,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Jamie doesn't say to do it, but I brined that poor dead flesh for about 12 hours. He recommends bashing or whizzing up a load of fennel seed with salt and pepper and rolling the joint in that. This was new to me and I gave it a whirl, with some trepidation, but it turned out fucking delicious. That's it for the meat really: chuck the spice on, with some oil, sit it atop some sliced onion and apple and whack it into into the oven. I deviated from Jamie a bit, I added a glass of white wine and about half a pint of chicken stock to the roasting tin and cooked it on 160 for about 3 hrs. The crackling was the best crackling I have ever had. I shall be doing this again, but not until I can find a lump of meat weighing at least 2 kilo.</span></div>
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<strong><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Gravy</span></u></strong></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The eldest got in from his McDonalds shift at about half nine and declared that he wanted me to cook him steak, mash and gravy. My initial thought and response was rather unkind; fuck me, I thought, I've been arsing about all afternoon and half the night and now he wants steak, mash and bloody gravy. Well, he had the steak, a huge ribe eye, and that wasn't going to take more than 10 minutes, the spuds would be little trouble and I had the pork just about finished, which would give me juice for the gravy. So I did him his bloody steak, mash and gravy. The gravy was so nice it made me cry. I'm crying again, just thinking about it. I've saved some and I'm going to make a huge mound of buttery mash and have the gravy with it. Nothing else. Then I shall rest.</span></div>
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<strong><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Soup</span></u></strong></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When it became clear that there was little point in making a huge, fuck off dinner, I made soup. I love soup, so easy, so cheap, so comforting. I had a bag of watercress on its last legs so made a pea and watercress soup. This is how: I sweated an onion with a spud for about 10 minutes, then I added the pitiful looking watercress, about 12 ounce of frozen peas and a couple of handfuls of spinach; then I added salt and pepper, a chicken stock cube and a spoon of vegetable bouillon. Cooked it for 20 minutes, gave it a whizz, and added a blob of creme freche. That was Bob, my uncle. I had it with some expensive bread, I shall come back to bread another time, as it bugs me. There you go, I had been cooking and preparing food for hours and what I had for my tea was a bowl of soup and a load of pork crackling. And very delicious it was too.</span></div>
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<strong><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Sunday Dinner</span></u></strong></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have nothing to say about the Sunday dinner. It was just Sunday dinner: Chicken, with a load of veg, and stuffing. And Yorkshire pudding. That's how it is, some like stuffing, some like Yorkshire pudding. I forgot to salt the Yorkie pud, but It was only me that seemed to notice. I had bought a big enough chuck that there should be enough left on its poor, sorry carcass to utilise another of Jamie's leftover recipes.</span></div>
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<strong><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Poodles</span></u></strong></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I used some of the leftover pork to make the kids tea, and I didn't use a Jamie recipe. Just tore a load of pork up, put it in a hot wok with spring onion, spinach, soy sauce, black bean sauce and chilli bean paste, sizzled it all up for a couple of minutes while some poodles were doing and then mixed it all up together. They ate it, and you can't say fairer than that.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">While I was at it I made a couple of pork wraps for my dinner at work. So pea soup and pork wraps already made for a free dinner.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Jamie is a genius.</span></div>
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<strong><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The verdict</span></u></strong></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So far, so so. I have also made a pasta, prawn and pea thingy out of that book, which was simplicity itself and all cooked up in the time it takes to cook the pasta. It was OK, nothing special, but good enough to add to the old repertoire, so that's a win. When I make it again though, I'll add some chorizo or bacon to it at the start; it was nice, but a bit lacking in oomph, however, for a tea knocked up in 12 minutes flat, I'm not complaining.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The tomato sauce for the frankly mediocre pizza was really good, and so was the crackling on the pork and the gravy. I'm not sure if me or Jamie should get the credit for the last one though.....me, I think.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I didn't use the book that much, I got notions from it, rather than recipes. For the rest of the week I'll be using his leftover ideas, and I hope this is where the book will come into it's own. Some of his ideas are quite obvious, and there is nothing wrong with that, but some of them are new to me and I shall look forward to giving them a whirl.</span></div>
peter bowlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18273004269523440799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3172748.post-27355177909219215442013-09-06T21:04:00.000+00:002013-09-06T21:07:37.459+00:00Working Dream<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/4jnOARtCyJw" width="560"></iframe><br />
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I think I might resurrect the blog, but make it a bit more focussed than previousy. I learned the hard way that you can't use a public blog to let off steam about yer work colleagues, and the world doesn't need the likes of me to post random links to interesting stuff anymore. Everyone knows how to find stuff now.<br />
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Here's the rationale: 18 months ago I experienced a dramatic cardiac event, which necessitated a bit of a lifestyle reappraisal. Sad to report, reappraising a lifestyle is one thing; acting on the reappraisal quite another: I'm still the same fat bastard that found himself being whisked off in ambulance in such a humiliating fashion. I have tried, a bit. I am much more diligent with the medication than I was and the blood pressure and cholestrol level is way down, and I eat less through the week and I make sure a I go on walk of at least 45 minutes every day and I go on the occasional bike ride. The bikes gears are knackered and according to the local repair man, not worth repairing, so that isn't much fun in such a hilly environment, but I try, occasionally.<br />
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You may ask, why don't you get a new bike? I might reply, because I'm fucking skint! Which brings me to the point of this newish blog. When I returned to work, I was grumpy and miserable. You think to yourself, I'm not going to accept as much pressure as before, not going to eat quite as much shit, and your managers and human remains departments all tell you that you must look after yourself, before piling as much shit on your poor, decrepit bonce and down yer lily livered throat they did before.<br />
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They pile more shit than before on your head, and warn you "not to play the heart card" Then they say, "work is stressful, and it's going to get more stressful, and we are not in a position to protect you, so you better be able to man up…….you said you were fit for work, so you better had be"<br />
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Frankly, I was feeling sorry for myself. I was burned out. I was lacking in enthusiasm. I couldn't be arsed. A major crisis would hit and I would think, "here we go again same old shit" I was no fucking use to anyone.<br />
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So I changed jobs. Still a social worker, of sorts, and, in some senses I have more responsibility than before, but not as far to travel, no management or supervisory responsibilities, no huge caseload, but, a huge fucking pay cut of about 400 quid a month. Was it worth it? Who knows, time will tell. So far, it seems worth it……..the little team I joined is ace and despite spending all day every day up to our arses in other peoples pain and misery, we spend most of the day laughing our heads off. For the first time in years, I can say that I love my job. Might just be a honeymoon period though. Also, love might be overstating the case, a little. And the pay cut hurts, a lot.<br />
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So, I have to economise. This is difficult, as I was hardly flush to start with. A few years ago there was a spate of articles on high flyers downsizing. I would chuckle as I saw that they were tending to downsize to a lifestyle and income I could only dream of. I've always been mindful of the cost of good grub, and tried to buy and cook stuff I could get several meals out of. It isn't difficult, if you have the time and patience……..and there's the rub, time and patience: I have little of either.<br />
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The prompt for all this bullshit is the increase in celebrity chefs telling us how to economise. There was an Irish bloke on the telly the other week, a big, bluff, jovial bloke, forever on Saturday Kitchen. His task was to shop and cook for a family on their weekly benefit income. He couldn't do it, he blew the budget on a whole salmon, saying they could make it last a week, the fecking eejit, Then last week there was the Jamie Oliver hullabaloo. I like Jamie, but he can be a dope.<br />
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So they have vexed me. They are full of good heart and good intentions but they have vexed me. I propose to change the tack of this blog. There will still be a bit of the usual bollocks, the odd link, the odd book and record recommendation, the odd diatribe against the bastard tories, but the focus is going to be on food, good cheap, everyday food and how to stretch it out…….food that can be bought in a supermarket in a small, nondescript Welsh town: a town that has no decent butcher, no decent bakery, no kind of delicatessen at all.<br />
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I got Jamies new book out of the library yesterday.How's that for saving money? I have already tried 2 recipes, one worked, one didn't. I'll be using it all weekend and all next week and posting my thoughts. I bet you can't wait.<br />
<br />peter bowlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18273004269523440799noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3172748.post-4141937295422804402012-10-22T21:25:00.002+00:002012-10-22T22:49:20.829+00:00The Weight<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He was in the G.P’s waiting room. Waiting.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Waiting........waiting......…waiting.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He should have come weeks ago, but it was such a trial. Phone for a specific doctor, the nice doctor, the one who noticed that you were actually in the room, and you would be told to phone after 10 for an appointment the following week, then you would phone, bang on 10, and it would be engaged. You would hit redial, frantically, only to find that when you finally got through, all the appointments were gone. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No, what you had to do was phone early for an emergency appointment and hope for the best. His wife always got to see the nice doctor, he never did, but he lived in hope. So he phoned. The reception asked if it was urgent. He hesitated. He hated this question. Clearly, it was not urgent, or he wouldn’t be phoning the GP, he would be en route to the hospital........it wasn’t as f he had sliced off a digit or was having a heart attack. Still, if he said it was non urgent he wouldn’t get in, and he would have to go through all that phoning for an appointment next week rigmarole and miss the boat, and then he would have to go through it all again tomorrow. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Yes”, he said, as gravely as he could, “it is urgent”.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He was told to present himself at 9, and he did, and here was, at 10, waiting......waiting.......waiting. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He was a bit conflicted. He should have come at least 2 weeks ago. On the other hand, he didn’t feel as bad now as he had done yesterday, or a few days before. He wondered if he really needed to be there. He had consulted Dr Google and knew that the only thing that was bothering him was a bit of fatigue and a susceptibility to anxiety attacks. The truth was, he was hoping for a couple of weeks off to recharge his batteries and regain some moral heft. He felt a bit of a fraud. Roger Hynd never suffered from anxiety attacks.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Every time a patient came out of the nice doctors room he would implore the universe......me next, me next, it has to be me next, but it never was. Every time someone came out of the other doctors room he would implore the universe, no, not me, it can’t be me....that child should be seen before me. It added a little excitement to proceedings. He could never work out how the system worked, people arrived long after him and were seen, whereas he always had to wait for hours.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He didn’t much care for ancient copies of National Geographic or Golfers Monthly, or even Caravanning Today, so he was grateful for his smart phone, which enabled him to while away the hours, and, thanks to the miracle of twitter, keep abreast goings on in the world, like howpacked the tube trains were, or how many hot babes there were on the Number 50 bus in Birmingham.......all of which is crucial to the well being of a man sitting in a waiting room in South Wales.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The other doctor came out, and called his name. Oh dear.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He presented himself in the room. The doctor, as was his wont, said hello in a cheery fashion, while avoiding all eye contact.....choosing instead to stare intently at his PC screen while enjoying some mid morning tea and cake. He marveled at this mans lack of social, never mind professional graces and waited until the doc was ready to converse. He looked idly around the sparse room. The desk, the bed, the scales, the nearly bare wall, decorated only by an opticians chart. Why the hell was there an opticians chart?</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Finally. he was asked what ailed him. He spoke: extreme breathlessness, tiredness, heavy chest, numbness in extremities. He explained that he had done his research and it was all to do with anxiety. He didn’t actually feel anxious, but he did have a stressful and busy job, so supposed that his symptoms were physical manifestations of an emotional malaise that his ego wouldn’t allow him to admit to.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The doctor didn’t say anything, but left the room and returned a few moments later with a huge tablet and a glass of water, then left again. He took the tablet. It took some swallowing. The doctor returned, asked if he had taken the tablet. He confirmed that he had taken it, and commented that it was a bloody big pill, only to be told that he should have dissolved it in the water.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well”, he thought, “you might have advised me of that in the first place........you might even have put the fucking tablet in the fucking water”.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The doc asked him to open wide, he did (did he moonlight as a dentist, as well as an optician?) the doc sprayed something horrible under his tongue, and said, that’s going to give you a severe headache in a minute, then he left the room again. By now he had guessed that the doc considered him to be poorly, but was keeping it to himself, for some reason, and, strangely, he really didn’t feel like asking. He didn’t actually want to know.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The doc took him to another room and asked him to wait there. After a few minutes a receptionist with a concerned look on her face peeked in on him and asked him how he was feeling; then, before he could answer, said </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You must be really shocked” </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well”, he thought, “I am now!”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He continued to wait. He phoned work. He said he would be in later than expected, as he had no idea what time he would be out of the damn quacks, who seemed intent on playing silly buggers. In due course, a hale and hearty para medic arrived, ordered him into a wheelchair, and wheeled him out into a waiting ambulance. Fuck, he thought as he was wheeled through the waiting room, in front of everyone, this is a bit of a show up.</span></span></div>
peter bowlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18273004269523440799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3172748.post-273625319538768132012-06-12T09:41:00.000+00:002012-06-12T10:01:57.749+00:00Ballad of Cable Hogue<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/lRAsyWnW8dY" width="420"></iframe><br />
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That was a decent enough start for England last night, and they played as anyone who has ever watched a Hodgson team thought they would. At the time, I was reasonably happy, but as night has turned to morning and I've listened to phone ins and read and heard reports, I am wearying of it all. The consensus, especially from ex players and the professional pundits, is that it was a superbly disciplined performance and we did brilliantly to keep France at bay. Where people have dissented, and said that it was bloody tedious to watch, they have been ridiculed……….the wise ones say, hah, how idiotic, play more openly and you will get ripped apart, As is often the case with football debates, people can only entertain extremes. It is shit, or it is bust.<br />
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The style didn't surprise me, and, given that we all knew what was coming, it didn't disappoint me. If that's the way we are going to play,we may as well do it well, and we did do it well, especially as it was Hodgson's first competitive game. As was the case when Eck managed Blues, I live in hope that as the players become more attuned to each other and the system, the relationships between defenders, midfielders and forwards will become more fluid and cohesive. I live in hope that we will play on our toes, rather than our heels. My dreams never came true with Eck, but Hodgson has much better players at his disposal; I would hope that their own sense of dignity and self worth will compel them to offer more of a threat.<br />
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I have nothing against teams playing to their strengths, whatever they are, and I have nothing against managers analysing the opposition and working out ways in which to nullify the threats they pose, but, there has to come a point when you pose a threat of your own. These are games being played at the highest level, you cannot just play for set pieces, you have to be able to offer a surprise, to work out how to unsettle the opposition. France didn't look all that good last night, perhaps because we didn't let them, but the thought nags with me that if we had attacked with just a bit more purpose, or cohesion, we may have won.<br />
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Playing defensively is no guarantee of success. Just because Chelsea pulled off a bit of a coup doesn't mean that England will. Big media is being very kind towards Hodgson this morning, but if we go out having achieved 3 dogged draws the tide will turn….. it's OK to be defensive when you are the underdog, as we were perceived to be last night, I recall some heroic 0-0 draws under Eck, but, if that style is your default position whatever the opposition, and you fail, life becomes uncomfortable. Just ask Big Fucking Eck.<br />
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People are commenting on Alan Shearer's new found desire to gurn idiotically every time a camera is pointed at him. Someone needs to tell him to desist……..it's the scariest grin since Jack Nicholson in The Shining. It's one thing being allowed to travel the world at licence payers expense, saying not very much at all; it's quite another to induce nightmares in the children of the nation.<br />
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<a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/football/blog/2012/jun/12/the-question-position-possession-tiki-taka?CMP=twt_gu">Reactive football can be thrilling</a><br />
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<br />peter bowlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18273004269523440799noreply@blogger.com2