Imagine a plate of food served up to you at 8am, with the sun steaming through the whispy clouds.
Rashers of sizzling bacon, plump sausages, fried tomates, beans, eggs sunny side up, potato croquets or has browns if you will, mushrooms in butter, fried bread, toast on a side plate, a hot steaming cup of coffee and some fruit juice. A Full English breakfast. They say the entire british empire was nurtured by this hearty meal, everyday during its 300 year reign.
To you and I in this enlightened world, we may see it as a coronary waiting to happen, and would recommend 30 minutes on a stairmaster. However, in the days of the british raj this was not an option. Instead they used to hunt lions so thats nice.
As I sat in the cafe at Gatwick Airport, on the grubby seats and sugared table waiting for my Egg and Bacon toasty, I watched the esteemed group of various gentlemen that patronised the 'Greasy Spoon', and my thoughts went back to this image of 18th century Bristol filled with sailors looking to gather new booty from the Americas.
The sandwich finally arrived, and the only way to describe it was dissapppointing The bacon was limp and gristly, the egg yolk was congealed, and the barely toasted toast, was dry and stale as if the penicillin had only just been scraped off. There was no sign of butter or mayonnaise, tomatoes or lettuce. The coffee was weak and sourly burnt my lips with its insipid taste. I have no idea how many bacteria resided in the china chips.
Thats when it occured to me that Britain really is a nation of shopkeepers, and they dont go to work on a hearty, traditional full english at all, but instead go to work on a diet of shrivelled up sausages, rancid eggs, and a tomato so mushy that they'd give Halle Berry a run for best oscar acceptance.
Thank god I ate my cornflakes before i went.
The small businessmen and manual workers however, devoured every last morsel down to the final crumbs of buttered bread, as they sat and chatted with bonhomie and jus de vive.
Clearly I will never be a millionaire in Britain... for a start they're clearly all too French!
Saturday, 2 August 2008
Thursday, 31 July 2008
The Colour of Life
If your character formed by years of stories make the pattern of your lifes picture, then your quirks, the things original to you make up your colour.
As I look at myfriends, they all have dashes of colour. Particularities that makes sense to them and them alone. Things that a complete stranger can talk to you about.
Alice and Nae have a spiritual connection that scares the bejesus out of me...
Rae writes graffitti on his living room walls.
Amanda has a hand bag fettish
Angela dreams of being a lawyer
Shona gets all weirded out by odd numbers
And my flatmate Krispin likes taking pictures of flowers!
Anyhow I will let you into a little bit of my colour. I do taxi runs for the local sealife centre. Now i'm not talking the people, or experts from overseas (although that does happen very rarely), I'm talking the fish.
Yes, the fish go on holidays.
And I drive them to the airport.
They're pretty good customers, except the prawns change the radio channel all the time, and when I get squid on board the cab smells like a deodorant factory.
I can only presume the sea horses are sent out to seahorse stud farms, have their wicked way with the foreign seahorse by getting them drunk and molesting them in the clubs.
Whatever the reason, I love it. It adds colour into my life. The best time, though, is when I have to pick them up, like I did today.
I am sat in the quaranteened animal reception area. There are 7 people there with me, a couple with a small baby waiting for their small dog, a couple discussing the charges waiting for two cats, and three people waiting for a German Sheppard named Boris.
Now I have never had a pet, well thats not totally true, but I've never been responsible for a pet. And quite honestly I cant imagine anyone liking their pet so much they want to take it on holiday with them, but clearly they have an odd clique, because these 7 strangers were talking to each other like they had been friends for years. I felt much the same way as when I did when I accidentally walked in on a pregnant mums group at the Town Hall.
I didnt have a clue as to what they were talking about.
So I sat there smiling at people, like a grinning fool. The discussion ranged from vets fees to amusing stories, the couple with the baby even mentioned pedigree, whatever that means. And all the time I sat there smiling through it all. That was, until the woman said....
"Whos picking up the Octopus!"
Suddenly, I have been elected Pet Owner of the day, as all the weirdoscrowd round me asking questions.
I know nothing about octopi, but there were more of them than me, and they were circling me like hyenas. So I blagged it... Yes there are 2, yes their names are Gregory and Matilda, yes i keep them in a tank, yes i feed them crab... Thank god they were boxed up or else they'd have been fondled to death!
The truth is, I love the little critters, I know they're not everyones cup of tea, but for me, the octopus is the only possible pet I would consider.
As I look at myfriends, they all have dashes of colour. Particularities that makes sense to them and them alone. Things that a complete stranger can talk to you about.
Alice and Nae have a spiritual connection that scares the bejesus out of me...
Rae writes graffitti on his living room walls.
Amanda has a hand bag fettish
Angela dreams of being a lawyer
Shona gets all weirded out by odd numbers
And my flatmate Krispin likes taking pictures of flowers!
Anyhow I will let you into a little bit of my colour. I do taxi runs for the local sealife centre. Now i'm not talking the people, or experts from overseas (although that does happen very rarely), I'm talking the fish.
Yes, the fish go on holidays.
And I drive them to the airport.
They're pretty good customers, except the prawns change the radio channel all the time, and when I get squid on board the cab smells like a deodorant factory.
I can only presume the sea horses are sent out to seahorse stud farms, have their wicked way with the foreign seahorse by getting them drunk and molesting them in the clubs.
Whatever the reason, I love it. It adds colour into my life. The best time, though, is when I have to pick them up, like I did today.
I am sat in the quaranteened animal reception area. There are 7 people there with me, a couple with a small baby waiting for their small dog, a couple discussing the charges waiting for two cats, and three people waiting for a German Sheppard named Boris.
Now I have never had a pet, well thats not totally true, but I've never been responsible for a pet. And quite honestly I cant imagine anyone liking their pet so much they want to take it on holiday with them, but clearly they have an odd clique, because these 7 strangers were talking to each other like they had been friends for years. I felt much the same way as when I did when I accidentally walked in on a pregnant mums group at the Town Hall.
I didnt have a clue as to what they were talking about.
So I sat there smiling at people, like a grinning fool. The discussion ranged from vets fees to amusing stories, the couple with the baby even mentioned pedigree, whatever that means. And all the time I sat there smiling through it all. That was, until the woman said....
"Whos picking up the Octopus!"
Suddenly, I have been elected Pet Owner of the day, as all the weirdoscrowd round me asking questions.
I know nothing about octopi, but there were more of them than me, and they were circling me like hyenas. So I blagged it... Yes there are 2, yes their names are Gregory and Matilda, yes i keep them in a tank, yes i feed them crab... Thank god they were boxed up or else they'd have been fondled to death!
The truth is, I love the little critters, I know they're not everyones cup of tea, but for me, the octopus is the only possible pet I would consider.
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