Mercy, Mercy, Me

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 .

It's all very well as long as things go to plan. 

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.

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.

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.

1 big sweet potato

1 big onion

1 stick of celery

4 cloves garlic

Big knob of ginger (not Prince Harry)

6 ounce red lentils

A couple of veg stock cubes or some boullion powder

A shitload of good quality curry powder

A tin of coconut milk

About 2 pints water, depending on how thick you like it

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

OR

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

Perfect Skin

I stuck with the vegan challenges to the bitter end, even though they pissed me  off. 

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 Sunday, although we were cheese fiends. Wanna make something taste nice? Chuck a load of cheeses on it, any kind will do.

So there was no need for all my angst. If you have tomatoes, garlic and chilli, yer laughing.

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.

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.

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. 

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!

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.

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!

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?

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. 

Here it is:

Put this lot in a little saucepan and warm through to dissolve the salt and sugar

About 8 fluid oz of water

About 4 fluid oz organic cider vinegar

About 2 teaspoons each sugar and salt

About a tablespoon of coriander seeds

A few strips of lemon peel

MEANWHILE

Cut a couple of carrots into matchsticks/ batons/ thin little sticks

Slice a red pepper, about same size as the carrots

Slice a red onion nice and thin

Put 'em all into a sealable jar. Pour the liquid in, leave for about 12 hours. Roberta is yer auntie.

Lord knows how long it lasts, not long in this house.

Thug Kitchen

Ranters

Milk and Alcohol

I started my new regime discreetly.

Knowing my history of failure, I thought it best to keep it to myself. Of course this discretion lasted until the first Sunday, 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.  

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.

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.

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 really 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.

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.

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.

Who Ate All The Pies?

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.

“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.

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.

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.

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.

When it comes to meals, I’ve surprised myself. I think I’ve had one bacon and egg sarnie, on a hungover Saturday 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.

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 Friday night

Regardless of the drama, I have hit upon the perfect recipe, and here it is.

4 tablespoons porridge

Little handful dried coconut

Little handful sultanas

Tiny squirt of maple syrup

Decent sprinkle of cinammon

300mls non dairy milk  ( I use KOKO or Almond, whatever is on offer)

Chia seeds, depending on how it turns out.

Into the microwave 2-3 minutes, Bob’s yer uncle.

I eat that shit, every single day, and it’s really, really nice.

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.

A review of the fillum

Some maverick research

EOTR '15

Thursday.

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^th 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.

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.

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.

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.

Ist night kip

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.

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.

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.

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.

Friday

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

Saturday

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Sunday.

Warm and Sunny, by God.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I was up and on the road home by 6.15 am, with only a beautiful sunrise for company.

Roll on September 2016

Gradually Learning

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 is an impossible job, but still, the daft Geordie get persists.

He's heading for Roger Hynd like legendary status. You just fucking well see if I'm not wrong.

Don't Go

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.

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.

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 gained 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.

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.

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.

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.

Red Beans and Rice

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 can 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.

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 any 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.  

wheatberries with greens and butternut, quinoa burgers and tomato sauce

Gloomy Sunday

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.