100TWC - Day 99: Friendship

This post has a lot of tags. It started off with more but I blew Blogger's limit. I didn't even know there was a limit! See, friendship touches so many areas of my life that Blogger can't cope. I'm half expecting it to seize up in the middle of this post. Let's see how we get on...

With the last post of my 100-day (aka 100-theme) writing challenge in sight, friendship has been much on my mind. I've had some really nice comments and feedback on here, but what's been even better, and more surprising, is the feedback I've had in real life. Whenever I've met up with friends at least one of them has commented on each occasion how much they've been enjoying the writing. I've been enjoying it too, of course, in fact that's one of the things I'll be including in the "lessons learned" follow-up post I'll be writing over the weekend. But it's one thing to gain enjoyment from something yourself, and totally another thing to find out that you've been giving enjoyment to others. Writing can be a solitary experience (all writers say this, at least those who speak/write/email to me) with -- often -- not much in the way of validation or appreciation, so it's really cool to hear the opinions of readers, which posts they liked best and why, etc.

I'd also be really interested to hear which ones folk thought didn't work out so well. To see how this matches my own feelings, for one thing, but also because it's all part of the learning experience. Just doing this stuff has helped me improve enormously, but really good feedback that mentions the bad as well as the good, is also a huge help.

I appear to have drifted off topic somewhat, so to drag it back to friendship: I've been lucky. When I talk about the times we have with mates -- the trips to the Lakes, weekends away, meals out (and in) -- the single most common response is how unusual it is for a bunch of guys to have kept a communal friendship going for so long. I'm not sure how rare it is in the great scheme of things, but those who comment on it seem to think it's pretty rare. Much more common for women to have a "girly group of friends"; less so for guys to have a "blokey group", apparently.

I've known for many years that social groups depend on key individuals to hold them together. I had an old colleagues network at one time -- around two dozen people who all used to work together in the same part of the organisation until one dark day a reorganisation came along and scattered us all across the company. Some left for other jobs, some took the opportunity for early retirement, most split up into three or four units, separated by geography, department and skill set. For several years after the split, we would get together two or three times a year (Christmas, obviously, and then one or two other meals or social events like bowling, walking, pub crawls). These were all marvellous events, well attended and very popular, but they all had a single individual -- the same guy in every case -- as the instigator. And then one day he stopped doing it. And none of us have ever met up again since that day.

The small group of friends I always refer to as my "Nottingham" mates (even though only two of them live there now) have strength in depth when it comes to organising get-togethers. It's not driven by just one of us. Once a few weeks, or a months, have gone by since our last meet, one or other of us will get in touch to set something else up. Often we don't need to do this, as we arrange it in advance at the previous one. It's a source of infinite variety, pleasure, amusement and fun to Nikki and I to be able to be part of this, as I'm sure anyone who is lucky enough to have their own strong ties of friendship will understand. Friends, they say, are the family you choose, and I would tag that with "lines I wish I'd written" if there was any space left in the tag list :0)

As I've discovered (and blogged about before), friends come at you from all parts of life, and another group that I've been blessed to reconnect with -- a few years back now -- has been the curry crew. We may only meet once a month, but I find myself looking forward to those evenings immensely. The conversation always flows, it's always stimulating and amusing, and the food is only the icing on the cake (if curry can be said to be any kind of icing).

I have a small number of friends that fall into another different category. All of the aforementioned might be classed as "regular" friends, and if such a term fits then this small number I'm talking about now might correspondingly be referred to as "irregular" friends. People who, over the years, have meandered in and out of my life seemingly at random, but who whenever we meet will pick up the threads of friendship (and even conversation!) and knit them back into something recognisable within a few hours. I met one such person outside a hotel once, a few years back. Having not seen him for more than five years, suddenly there he was, leaving a hotel at which I had arrived to meet someone else. We only had chance for twenty minutes frantic catching up and exchanging of current contact details, but it rekindled some long-buried memories and the spark of yet another friendship stretching back to the mid 1970s. We originally met at university and the names of other uni friends crop up regularly in the strangest places. Naturally the Internet is the perfect medium for this and over the years I've had the occasional email from old friends who've read this blog, or seen my profile on LinkedIn, or Friends Reunited, or found my website through Google.

There is a downside to this though. The reality of how easy it is to lose touch with people was brought home to me when I attended a school reunion about 15 years ago. It was such a strange experience I vowed never to attend one again (although I was tempted a couple of years back when they held a 25th -- or was it 30th? -- reunion). Not only the experience -- spending 3 or 4 hours in a function room with 50 people who at one time I saw on a daily basis but who, with one exception, I hadn't seen for 15 years -- but the aftermath. The impact of the realisation that I had completely lost touch with all of them, even those I'd thought of as close friends, really hit me surprisingly hard. I guess it just shows that friends are more than simply people you spend time with. Just as it's easy to be lonely in a crowded room, rubbing shoulders with a bunch of people every day for six years doesn't necessarily make them your friends. It knocked me for six a bit, did that.

Wedding of the Year

Can't be many happier occasions than witnessing two of your best friends getting spliced, and that's exactly where we were yesterday afternoon, in the company of most of the rest of our best friends, their friends, family and a bunch of very energetic small people. The kind that make weddings... um... loud. No, fun. That's it. Fun.

Starting as we meant to go on with a glass of bubbly at Phil & Vicky's (excellent hosts as always), we wended our slightly circuitous way (on account of an overturned lorry on the A617) to Mansfield Registry office for the ceremony and then, with the day's official business out of the way, we settled down to the more important business of celebrating the nuptials with further champagne, and related (and unrelated) beverages, relieved on occasion by the odd sausage roll (really nice ones, as it happened) and dollop of coleslaw.

Called upon - owing to my acclaimed position as "resident wordsmith" - to pen something in the wedding book on behalf of the mates, I can't help feeling I disgraced myself somewhat, on account of the evening's overindulgences and the ebullient flavour of the day, but what's done is done, and whatever I wrote it was written from the heart, with feeling, and with relatively little time for reflection or composition, so f**k it. As long as it's not the last thing I write in a public place, I'll be alright. I think.

Anyway many, many congratulations to Ritchie & Helena (or Helena and Ritchie as they are in the above photo). May your days be long and your troubles few, your friendship strong and your love stay true, and if things go wrong and the air turns blue, just bite your tongue and have a damn good screw.

E.J.Thribb has got nothing on me.

Stags and Dens, and self-determination

It's a fair few years since I went to a stag do (probably not thirty, but not that far off), but as our mates Jamie and Lise are getting hitched immediately prior to setting sail for a new life in Spain, and therefore opportunities to socialise with either or both of them will shortly be severely curtailed, when I learnt that one of the Players was organising a surprise stag do for him at the Frog and Bucket the decision to attend was a no-brainer (even though it clashed with a "girls' weekend").

We were due to meet at the Dry Bar at 7pm, where Jamie would arrive on the pretext of having a quick drink before catching a train for a quiet night watching DVDs at a mate's house, to find around 20 of his friends waiting to drag him off for a completely different sort of night. I'd never been to the Dry Bar so I hopped a taxi. The driver, who gave every appearance of never having heard of the Dry Bar, dropped me off on Oldham Street outside an anonymous building. Armed with the knowledge that said bar was #28 on the street, and noticing the shop opposite was #51, I headed off confidently in the direction of Piccadilly, looking for an even numbered door on my side to give me some new bearings. When I reached #14 I backtracked, counting doorways, and found myself back where I started. Maybe the cabbie was more clued up than I'd imagined.

One friendly face was visible behind the double doors (Hi Bon!) so I grabbed a pint and settled in to await further arrivals. Those of the male members of the Players who could make it drifted in by ones and twos until we received a text message that Jamie was on his way. The ruse worked perfectly, his normally bemused look giving way to total surprise as he rounded to corner to cheers and applause. After another quick lemonade we set off for the Frog and Bucket.

I'm not normally one to criticise (*cough*) so I should probably just say the comedy was appalling. Luckily that's not why we went - at least not for the sort on stage. The craic among the group was way funnier. The first of three acts seemed to think all he had to do was say "nobhead" a few times, interspersed with other colourful language, and we'd all fall about laughing. Halfway through his act I glanced around our group. Almost to a man we were all sat there with our arms folded, staring him down and daring him to make us laugh. I was glad it wasn't just me. He didn't raise a single chuckle during his entire act, even though a group of young ladies on a hen night, or birthday party, seemed to think it all pant-wettingly funny, and literally fell about in their seats screaming and giggling fit to bust. Maybe it was all much funnier if you were pissed. Or an airhead.

The woman who was on second raised the bar a little, but you still wouldn't have been able to limbo under it. Her delivery was good (an Irish accent always helps) but her material weak and predictable at best. I saw her best gag coming several minutes before she finally got to the punchline.

After all that we had great expectations of the "headline act," but he proved to be almost a rerun of the first guy only with more charisma. The compère was funny though. Or at least it seemed funny at the time. Thinking back over what he said (wondering whether to repeat the intercourse here and deciding against it) it wasn't especially funny, but at the time I laughed until tears rolled down my cheeks. I've read that most comedy arises when one group of people is made to feel superior to another, and that was certainly true of this situation, as Jamie had the piss ripped mercilessly from him. Maybe the fact that each of us in Jamie's vicinity knew at some gut level we were only a glance away from being subjected to some of the same, which could have given it more of an edge. All in all, it epitomised the phrase: "you had to be there."

Sometime between the first and second act, the Stag Night Organiser came around with a tray of shots. Now I'm not the biggest fan of shots at the best of times, but the truth is, I've been feeling like shit for the last three days and have been off work with it. Sore throat, congestion, cough, splitting headache, fever and a general lack of energy. It was an act of monumental selflessness to attend the stag do in the first place (*cough*) and I certainly didn't intend to make things worse by getting off my face.

So I selected the smallest shot available, and when the toast was made I touched the glass to my lips and set it down on the table, out of sight among the menus. After the second act one of my table-mates (names omitted to protect self-esteem) noticed the unconsumed shot.

TM: Hey! You didn't drink your shot!
Me: I know. I didn't want it in the first place.
TM: Well I didn't want mine, but I drank it.

I looked pityingly at him as he bemoaned his lack of... whatever it was that allowed me to ignore the shot and the herd behaviour that surrounded it.

Sometime later I heard the Organiser ask the bloke next to him to go around and collect fivers from everyone for another round of shots. TM reached into his wallet immediately and produced a crisp fiver.

Bloke: John?
Me: No thanks.
Bloke: (with theatrical inflection) I don't think it's optional!
Me: Isn't it?

I locked eyes with the bloke until he moved away to the next Stagger.

TM: You've done it again! How do you do that? I didn't want another shot...

What made it worse for the guy was the shot, when it arrived, was a double scotch. Only from the smell of it, it had been distilled from kerosene rather than the more usual substrate. But I'm not smug. Well, not very.

Beware the camcorder

We never need much of an excuse for a get-together with mates, but when there's a holiday in the offing then there's also the obligatory "planning" meeting, which duly took place yesterday. The actual planning part didn't take much more than ten minutes - where and when are we going to meet up for lunch on the way there; who's cooking what meals on what nights; a grocery list for the initial shop (mainly breakfast items and snacks); and are we all having the same bedrooms as last time; and we're done.

So when we started in on the wine at shortly after 4 in the afternoon, I should have known the direction the rest of the evening was going to take. Wine, especially Zinfandel (or rosé of any kind, tbh), is just too easy to drink. Before you know it, your glass is empty and, with excellent hosts like Ian & Gill, it's mostly refilled again without you even asking. Or noticing.

Which makes it incredibly easy to lose track. That's my excuse anyway. Not to mention that we popped around the corner for short pub session before the main meal.

From what I remember of the rest of the evening, we all had a fabulous time. We proved beyond doubt that Ian & Gill's table will seat eight, and I proved that if you sit me in front of a cheeseboard for long enough then eventually there'll be nothing left of it except a few crumbs. I'm not going to write in adolescent fashion about how drunk I got. Certainly drunker than I've been this year. If I'm being honest, drunker than I can remember being since... umm... well, you get the picture.

Trouble is, these days, I don't need to *remember* how drunk I was. There's evidence. Firstly, the email from Ian which arrived this afternoon. And I quote:
"Sober viewers must be warned these people had drunk quite a bit (18 cans, 12 bottles of wine + 2 rounds in the pub) which may explain hangovers on Sunday."

And secondly the video footage which that email introduced showing, among other things, Ritchie and I at around 1am drunkenly singing Supper's Ready at the top of our (slightly out of tune) voices. I hope they have understanding neighbours.

We have a week of similar, although hopefully not quite so intense, evenings to look forward to. Let me just check we've put paracetamol on the shopping list...

Odds of Evens means a sure-fire loser

We sped over to Nottingham at a snail's pace this morning (owing to the M1 roadworks, which have now reached new heights of ridiculousness) for a long-delayed visit to my Mum. We haven't been over since the weekend before her birthday, which is in March, but to be honest we've (I've) been putting it off. These visits are becoming more of an emotional ordeal with each tick of life's relentless clock. With a rapidly failing memory, she hardly ever has any news for us, simply on account of her not being able to remember much of what has happened, and so has fallen back even more heavily on her stock of extremely well-worn and oft-repeated phrases in lieu of real conversation.

This time around, even my standard levels of dread were insufficient to set expectations for the new depths this visit would plumb as I embarked on the pointless task of relating our news. I say pointless, because it's obvious even during the telling that most of it will be forgotten moments afterward, but there is, clearly, no other option. We can't sit it in silence for four hours.

One of our snippets was that I've recently hooked up with my cousin Joanne on Facebook. Now it's hard enough explaining the concept of Facebook to someone who has absolutely no interest in the Internet, and pretty much no concept of why anyone would want to spend time on it, but I'm used to having to dish up copious quantities of modern-day cultural scaffolding to shore up my stories so that wasn't much of an issue. I was totally unprepared however for the complete lack of recognition on my Mum's part for the name 'Joanne'.

"You know. Jacqueline's daughter."
Blank stare. Slight shake of the head.
"No, I don't know who she is."

We had some photos of Nat's recent Belize trip on our iPod/Phone too.
"Here's one of Nat with a boa constrictor round her neck."
Short pause.
"Who did you say this was?"

But this post isn't really about Mother And Her Failing Memory. To counteract the stress of these visits we occasionally treat ourselves to a pub meal on the way home.

We initially intended to stop at our favourite journeying watering hole - the Dog & Partridge at Dunford Bridge. Home of the UK's finest fish supper as well as an extensive range of main meal alternatives and a good supply of fine local ales. However, since our last visit to the Dog, we have sampled the delights of...

... the Bull I' Th' Thorn just outside Buxton; scene of much hilarity (not to mention temporarily misplaced tempers) during Annie's birthday weekend. Nikki had had a hankering for one of Graham's meat pies for a few days, and casually dropped the stone of the Bull into the calm millpond of our chosen eatery just as I'd thought everything was all settled.

As usual, the final decision was left to me.

"Why do I have to pick? I always pick."
"Because I'm not bothered which one we go to."
"Neither am I."
etc.

I didn't know which one I'd end up heading for until we set off back home, at which point I plumped for the Bull. Mainly, it has to be said, because the sun had broken through the mid-afternoon cloud, and I fancied a leisurely drive through the rolling hills of Derbyshire in preference to the "same old same old" aspect of the trans-Pennine route.

Bad decision.

As we approached the Bull from the south, we were almost upon it (in fact I'd already started indicating to turn into the car park) when we noticed both entrances were cordoned off with dayglo orange barriers, and the camping field next to the pub was awash with multicoloured canvas. One of Graham's famous biking rallies? A camping weekend organised by a group WAY more into tents than the Chorlton Players? Whatever it was, the pub was clearly closed to all but the chosen few, and our dinner plans were left as ragged and bloody as a piece of weekend roadkill.

A few hundred yards further up the road we tripped over the Duke of York, which proved to be *almost* the equal of the Bull in terms of comestible quality, and what's more served up a cracking pint of Robinson's. Result!

July Wednesdays. Number 3: A subdued stag do

Some people seem destined never to meet the right partner. If you're into "people watching" (like I am) you might gaze at them in a reflective moment and wonder what it is about them that is holding the world at bay. They're witty, clever, got a reasonable job, personable. They wash in all the right places and with the right frequency. But somehow, they're still on their own.

Sometimes it's through choice, obviously. Not every singleton is constantly on the search for someone to turn them into a couple. Other times it's simply that they've had other stuff to do. Stuff which, to them, is more important for now. Until the world turns, and Cupid catches up with them.

Well, Cupid finally caught up with an old colleague of mine. Someone who these days I only see about once a year, but for whom another old colleague organised a small get-together of similarly well-dispersed friends. I didn't know he was getting married until the email arrived to invite me to tonight's event which I guess we can call a stag do, even though it didn't involve strippers, or large quantities of alcohol, or being chained naked to anything. Thank God. But, you know, despite my somewhat jaded view of marriage, good luck to him. The statistics may be against him (1 in every 2 marriages in the UK now fail, apparently), but they're probably skewed by all those hotheaded youngsters rushing down the aisle before they really know who they are, never mind who each other is. Having left it this long before "settling down" I'm sure he'll be fine.

Anyway we started off at the Bollin Fee in Wilmslow, which can apparently get a little wild at weekends but which, at 7pm on a Wednesday night resembled a doctor's waiting room in the middle of a swine flu epidemic more than it did a shopping mall on the first day of sales. The six of us were - almost - their only custom. So the landlord must have been a little disappointed when we packed up after only two pints and headed off to Garlic Spice, a small Indian restaurant tucked away around the corner on Bank Square.

What a find this place is! "Summer Special" on the menu gets you a poppadum, a starter, a main, a side dish, rice and naan, all for £8.95. And a gut-busting £8.95s-worth it is too. I almost couldn't finish it. Almost. Once again, we were their only custom. Denizens of Wilmslow apparently don't venture out much in the week. Maybe that's why they go so mad on a weekend? Still, we weren't complaining. Having the place to ourselves just meant the service was excellent, as was the food, and we could relax and enjoy a whole load of catch-up conversation and wit, discuss the issues of the day, and offer Simon some handy tips on matrimony. Which, if he's any sense at all, he will totally ignore.

5th Annual Chorlton Beer Festival

Hard to believe tonight saw the opening night of the FIFTH annual Chorlton beer festival. Once known as "ZestQuest Beerfest" but now simply the "Chorlton" beer festival, this is a must-go entry on the annual social calendar and has grown every year since those innocent days back in 2004. Last year they ran out of beer halfway through Saturday and have ordered 50% more, but judging by the rapidity with which the signs were being turned around on the 30+ real ale barrels adorning the... um... bit of the church where they were racked, I still don't know whether that'll be enough.

Anyway it won't bother us. Friday was always going to be "our" night, not least because it's forecast to piss down tomorrow but mainly on account of experience telling us to get there early to be certain of securing our favourite tipples.

An innovation this year: branded glasses. Very nice. Previous years have suffered from the use of plastic glasses but this year we were treated to proper glass glasses with this rather attractive logo. £2 a pop and you could either keep them, or return them on your way out for a refund. There was never any question that ours would be coming home with us. A nice memento of the evening and the slow and gentle quaffing of Alchemist, Snowdonia and Kodiak Gold in the company of good friends and some traditional, live, music.

Camping it up

Let's get one thing straight. We don't do canvas. So when Annie announced that there would be another Buxton camping trip to celebrate her birthday, we decided to opt for the kind of camping that involves a coal fire, home-cooked food and beer from a pump rather than a bottle.

Yes, that's right. We stayed in the pub next door. Next door to the camping field, that is. We had every intention of sitting around the campfire at some stage, and quaffing brewskis from bottles and plastic cups, but for sleeping purposes a hand-carved late-17th-century mahogany bed and a nice firm mattress are so much more suitable for aging bones than lumpy damp grass and anything you have to inflate, and with our shower currently out of commission, the opportunity for a room with en-suite shower was too good to miss.

So we arrived at the pub/camp site around 6pm, and being the first there settled into the... er... settle to await further arrivals and sample the beer. And, later, the food, which was excellent. Nikki and I both chose one of Graham's pies - me the steak & ale; her the steak & stilton - and we both marvelled at how much meat he can get into a single pie. These are large pies - probably a good 12" diameter - so you "only" get a wedge, but wow! a wedge is all you could manage. The pies are a good inch-and-a-half deep (3-4cm in new money) and with pastry being not much more than a millimetre thick on top and bottom, most of that depth is solid meat. Delicious. Served with a vegetable medley (crunchy broccolli, zingy carrots and peas that tasted as though they'd only just been podded) and some of the most excellent chips ever tasted. I nearly didn't have room for pudding! But only nearly.

The Friday nighters were a small but select bunch and we enjoyed more beer, more chatting and more coal on the fire until the campers retired to their camp, and we climbed the creaky 15th century stairs to bed.

African Night

Amazingly it's been more than a year since our last "safari" night on the street - Bollywood night - but there are good reasons for that. Anyway, despite agreeing to organise the next one, and originally saying it would be Greek night, we decided in the end that there would be more room for culinary manoeuvre if we chose the entire African continent as a theme, and so African Night was born.

Even though there are umpteen African countries to choose from, costumes displayed a marked lack of imagination, with pith helmets and khakis being the norm for the chaps while a variety of animal attire (zebras and large cats mainly) seemed de rigeur for the chapesses. One or two enterprising souls had gone for some kind of colourful tent, but there was nothing approaching the splendour of the Indian garb from last time.

We began our safari across the road with some delicious piri-piri chicken, falafel, some kind of cured meat, and a huge pile of tuna samosas, along with "Safari" cider. Back to our side but further down for a selection of mezzes and a delicious orangey drink concoction whose name escapes me, before moving on to ours for bobotie and African Violets. As soon as we decided the theme for tonight, I knew I'd be cooking bobotie. I haven't had it for 25+ years but back then it was an old favourite. I had thought it originated in Kenya, but that's just where the person who introduced ME to it came from. A quick Google for the recipe revealed it to be a traditional South African dish (and before that, Dutch), which gave me a brief pause as one of our neighbours hails from SA and I knew I'd be feeding it to an expert.

In the end, I found three recipes, so I based the dish on this one, but added in little somethings from the other two as well as putting my own slant on it. I also made it with Quorn mince rather than beef, as we have at least two vegetarians on the street. The end result looked exactly as I remember it, and was greeted with much praise, especially from Keith, who declared it to be "just right." For me though, the highlight of our stop was the African Violet.

It's becoming something of a tradition on safari nights to have cocktails at our place, so I was delighted to find this recipe for a stunning-looking shot, comprising layered white crème de cacao liqueur, blue curaçao, and whisky. A little tricky to make - I cocked the first one up royally and just had to dispose of it in the only way possible - but once I'd had a bit of practice and steadied my hand, the layering turned out just right. I'd slipped home half-an-hour before the guests were due to give me chance to add the eggy topping to the bobotie and prepare a dozen African Violets, which went down really well. I ended up making another dozen!

Then it was on to #19, where the lads had made a variety of deliciously spicy stuffings for some traditional deep-fried dumplings, #16 where we were treated to dessert - a choice of tropical fruits, or bananas with toffee crunch sauce, or marvel cake (or something) which was spongy, treacly goodness in a small package. Fab! By this time, of course, we were all creaking at the seams, so we were glad our organisation had decided to have food at only 5 houses. The last stop was for drinks only, but we did end up staying until 4am!

A coat of single colour

After our first couple of experiences of decorating in this house, we'd normally be waiting until a room had been skimmed before painting, but this is a special case. Not only has the bricked-up-doorway-and-replacement-window area already been plastered, but it's likely to be a while before the rest of the room gets the same treatment and before then we have a fireplace to rearchitect, so painting was called for. Not to mention the fact that we chose and bought the paint about two years ago, and wanted to use it before it dried up in the tin.

It was a close call. As it was the colour had settled into a 2-inch thick gloopy layer on the bottom of the tins (we bought two), requiring a good 20 minutes stirring to restore the emulsion to its rightful appley greenness.

After that, we were off. Cutting in and rollering for all we were worth. And trying, against the odds, to get enough coverage from a single coat to avoid having to do any more painting tomorrow. It almost worked.

Knowing that tomorrow would bring only a relatively small amount of repainting, we repaired to the Marble beer house for a well-earned pint or two. Ever noticed how beer tastes funny when you've the smell of emulsion up your nostrils?

Wales - day 1

This is Paul's third trip to the UK to see us (he's also slipped one in between, but that's another story) and in one respect the most ill-prepared. Although we have a vague list of options, we don't have anything resembling an itinerary or a plan. Except we knew we wanted to spend a few days in Wales this time around, and having kept an eye on the weather, this weekend looked the best bet.

In a strange echo of a recent news story about a man almost following his sat-nav directions off the edge of a cliff, we programmed the device for Aberdovey and were only halfway there when it announced "you have reached your destination." So much for technology. We ended up taking the coast road we had intended to enjoy tomorrow, and fetched up in Aberdovey mid-afternoon after a short detour to take in the delights of Oswestry.

Before long we were tucked away in the bar of the small but perfectly formed Dovey Hotel, enjoying the first of many pints of Brains. In some strange way a perfect alternative to our usual pints of Boddies.

After the light refreshment and having checked in and checked out the rooms which were also small but perfectly formed, we decided to take advantage of the remaining light and amble around the town for a while to see the sights.

I don't know what it is about travelling with Paul, but we always seem to come across unusual signs. Last year it was the Gunt. This time we found Pusi. What can I say? This wasn't the only "enhanced" sign we saw during this three-day jaunt to Wales. It seems to have become something of a sport in the area, to perform amusing alterations.

After watching some outward bounders chucking themselves off the pier, and climbing up and around the backstreets of Aberdovey for an hour or so, we returned in time to take pole position in the sports bar to watch the Six Nations match between Wales and Ireland. I wouldn't normally be interested in the rugby, but you can't beat the atmosphere watching a national team in a national pub, and it was actually a cracking game, during which we consumed an evening meal and several pints.

The day was finished off with a swift game of pool before we retired to spend the night in what must be the most uncomfortable beds any of us had ever slept in.

Drinking and driving

Popped over to Nottingham yesterday to deliver Mum's birthday presents, and used it as a good excuse for an evening at the dear old Test Match with mates.

I *had* planned to pace myself, interspersing pints of the amber nectar with equal quantities of lime and soda, but my "good friend" Phil did me the "favour" of offering us a lift down to the pub.

I should have took more notice of the sign I was given from the Universe - I only picked his offer up when I turned on my phone, and by that time we were already in the pub, having driven down. But no, on his arrival he was insistent that he could still come with me while I took my car home, and run me back, and then take us both home later. For some mad reason this seemed like a good idea at the time. It's been a while since I had a good session.

And there's a very good reason for that, which I didn't remember until this morning.

Even at 3.5% there's a limit to the amount of beer one may drink with impunity. And yes, I exceeded the limit. Doesn't help when you're surrounded by people who complain that they "can't drink like they used to" and then proceed to drink like they used to.

Still, no harm done eh? We had a marvellous time and after a couple of coffees and a few rounds of toast I was as right as rain. Although we did also succumb to an unaccountable longing for a Big Mac on the way home. Another strange side-effect of too much beer.

Tis the season to be merry - #1

No, I didn't mean jolly. Although I started off jolly as I left to drive into town yesterday morning just before lunch to meet up with an old team of mine for the first of several Christmas "dos", the last one of which won't take place until January 28th. Don't ask.

I had intended to catch the bus, thereby giving myself maximum flexibility to get bladdered or not, as the fancy took me, and depending on how the party panned out. You know how it is. Sometimes the sparks fly and you're really enjoying the mood, other times you can't wait to get home. A combination of another bitterly cold day and the probability of rain made me realise (a) I didn't really fancy the 20-minute walk from Piccadilly and (b) I wasn't really that bothered about having a lot to drink. That, and the fact that the restaurant I was heading for is surrounded by a multi-storey car park, meant the car was the obvious option.

This particular do was the "VME" Christmas party, so named because it's organised by, and ostensibly for, those people who are still working on VME. Many years ago, and for many years, I was one of those people. I still know a lot of them quite well, but more to the point their senior PA is also the lady who ran our office when 40 of us, followed shortly by another 40, branched out into the scary new world of Microsoft technologies a little over 12 years ago. That team is no longer together either, but since many of us came originally from the VME team, we share a history, and therefore a Christmas do. For most of us it's the only day of the year when we get together, because the majority of the original members (of either team) have moved to other companies, other parts of the same company, or retired, and even those who now work in the same building don't see each other very often owing to the overly paranoid security locks on all the internal doors, which admit staff only to the floor for their own department.

Today's meal took place at the modestly named "Glamorous" on Oldham Road, an establishment which I had visited on a couple of previous occasions and which can usually be guaranteed to provide mass catering on a huge scale and at extremely high quality.

Has it changed hands I wonder? Or chefs? Or is the credit crunch biting? I certainly don't remember the Christmas meal being this piss-poor in previous years. Two small scoops of chicken and sweetcorn soup, followed by some sad looking dim sum (paper wrapped prawns, spring rolls and ribs). OK, the ribs were excellent, but the rest didn't do much for me. Little did I know it was about to get worse.

Aromatic crispy duck was optional on the menu at an additional charge of £3.50, and owing to having a minimum requirement of two diners (per table), it had been left to us on the day to organise. Regular readers will know I'm an ardent lover of crispy duck. I'd be happy if that was the ONLY thing on the menu. So I was fortunate - I thought - to find four other duckophiles on my table. So we coughed up our £19.30 (10% service charge mandatory) and awaited our pancakes. 13 sad, cold, dry little pancakes between 5 of us. Two tiny plates of shredded leek and cucumber, and less than half a duck. Clearly, having left the ordering until the day, the restaurant had been caught on the hop by the popularity and run out. Instead of coming clean and saying "we've run out, sorry" they decided to fleece us of our £3.50s and spread what they had between all of us.

The mains were a disappointment too. No large, steaming bowl of rice for each table. No. A cold plate, with a handful of tepid rice (which was cold by the time the food was served).

That's another place to strike off my list of acceptable eateries at Christmas. But! All was not lost, for it's a truism that if the only thing you're going to a Christmas do for is the food, you're bound to be disappointed. The company is the thing! The craic! And boy, did we have some craic on our table.

After lunch we decanted to the Crown & Kettle for a pint. No offence, but what a dismal little hole this is. Sadly, what few sparks were flying at this party were extinguished as soon as we set foot through its dingy door onto its bare, dirty floorboards. I cracked an inward smile at the irony of the drink I ordered - a pint of Flat Cap - quaffed it as quickly as I could and beat a hasty retreat. Sincere apologies to those luvverly people I was sharing space with. Had the food been better, the watering hole more comfortable, and the weather warm enough to walk, I would have loved to stay longer. Next year, maybe?

Dos

It's not an age thing. I've never been able to hold a proper conversation in a crowded pub, even in my twenties. Worse when it's a small group of people sitting round a table. The added distance, measured in inches only, may as well be yards (substitute centimetres and metres if you were born after 1970). Still worse if there's live music playing. Even if, like last night, the music is good.

So we sat there, listening to the lively Portuguese salsa music, and watching the lips move on the people we were supposedly conversing with, trying not to be eaten up by the ubersoft couches in one of the little alcoves, and trying to judge when was the right time to laugh, or nod, or just look attentive. We probably looked like we'd escaped from somewhere clinical. Or that we weren't interested. Which wasn't true at all. The odd word that reached us tantalisingly across the table, fighting and clawing its way to our ears desperate to be heard - epée... choreography... joey... tequila - all sounded like the bones of a fascinating story. But there was no meat. No organs. And no sense at all. So like the carcass of the Christmas turkey picked clean before you press it into the kitchen bin, the conversation was never going to fly.

When live bands do a sound check prior to striking up for their first number, it's traditional to use the word "two" to allow the sound man to set the right level on the mic. That word is chosen because it embodies, in one short simple syllable, everything the engineer needs. The 'plosive' of the initial 't', the transition from 't' to 'oo' and the bass note of the 'oo' itself gives a dynamic soundwave perfectly suited to a mic check.

Only this was a Portuguese band. So their lead singer said "Dos" into the mic a few times, which didn't serve the purpose half as well, but provided a comic touch for anyone with a sense of irony. And that was us as we knocked back the last of our drinks and left the rest of our small group to flap their gums at each other. Dois povos, wending our quiet way out through the hubbub. Boa noite!

Chorlton Beer Festival - Mark 4

Although it was raining (again! Jeez!) early evening, by the time we'd had dinner the clouds had passed over and the rest of the evening looked promising, so we ventured out to the fourth ZestQuest beer fest.

This event has grown bigger and more popular with each passing year, and the early rain certainly had not dampened the spirits of the revellers who thronged the church grounds when we arrived shortly after 8.30. We'd soon filled our half-pint glasses with our first sample tipple - Jaipur India Pale Ale - and caught up with some friends who were already well established on a couple of large rugs in one corner of the grounds. This proved a good pitch later on, when a slight sprinkling of rain was easily held at bay by the canopy of trees above.

Having eaten before we left home, we weren't tempted by the food on offer, even though it looked very good. The hog roast of previous years was absent, but the Danish sausage looked very appetising. Half a pint never lasts very long, so in the space of a few minutes we were back in the "beer tent" (I think it was the vestry, actually) queuing up for two halves of Summer Solstice from the Pictish Brewing Company. "A crisp refreshing blond ale" said the tasting notes and they weren't wrong. Delicious, and helped down by the good company which had by now been swelled by the arrival of another half-dozen friends.

With space on the rug now at a premium, the beers slipped down even faster and before we knew it we were supping on Wild Swan. We had limited ourselves to a £5 voucher each (I'm not going to explain the voucher system). We no longer live within walking distance of the festival, so having to drive meant four halves was my legal maximum and previous years' experience showed that with careful selection of ales we could each enjoy four beers for a fiver. If we'd been attending for the whole session - the Friday night session started at 5pm, and tomorrow the revelries will commence at 1pm and go right through to 11 - we'd have taken the bus, but this was only ever going to be a short, sweet visit.

The Wild Swan was excellent, but we were prevented from enjoying another on account of it having run out. Forced to choose anything at less than £1.25 a half, we opted for the rather mundane Hartington Bitter for our last glug, with a wistful nod in the direction of the more exotically named beers on offer such as Wobbly Bob, Alchemist, Dave's Hoppy Beer, Golden Wrath, Guzzler or Dark Side of the Moose. We'd beaten last orders by five minutes (yes, they rang the church bell to call last orders - how cool is that?) and stood supping our Hartington in the gloom of the churchyard, under the ancient trees and in the company of good friends. A very pleasant two hours or so, and a fine way to start the weekend!

The welcome of the Twisted Spire

I'm still nervous about leaving the house unoccupied with the scaffolding up all around it, but we didn't have much choice this weekend. Drove to Mum's right after work Friday to deliver the birthday present she's been waiting a month for, and perform the "duty visit." Having listened to standard conversations 1 through 10, we escaped to the pub as soon as politeness allowed and although we hadn't planned on a long session ended up staying until around 11pm.

Saturday breakfast was followed by standard conversations 1 through 10 again, at which point we made our escape again, this time in the direction of Chesterfield - the real reason for the weekend's travel. The "excuse" - insofar as we need one - was to have a planning session for our upcoming week in the Lakes, but really we don't need a reason to enjoy the Welcome of the Twisted Spire.

We had our third attempt at walking around Chatsworth too, previous tries having been aborted owing to family illness and inclement weather respectively. This time round the rain was threatening again, so forking out for the formal gardens seemed like a waste of money. We wandered around the various tat shops for a while and walked up and down past the children's farm, until everyone decided we'd had enough fresh air and it was time to head for the Robin Hood and go into a huddle around a couple of pints.

Then it was back to the house and time for the girls to run through the essentials of provisioning and menus for the week while the lads pored over maps none of us really understood, and planned the rendezvous point and the route from there to the cottage. Yes, I'd have to agree that we had the easier job, but then we are blokes so we couldn't cope with anything too taxing.

Planning complete, we negotiated a short walk to another of Phil & Vicky's locals for a session that ended up going on far longer than expected, after which we "walked" back to the house for a later-than-anticipated (but still fabulous!) meal. These days the result of four pints and a wonderful meal is inevitable, but the embarrassment was relieved slightly when I discovered I'd been joined in the Land of Nod by two of the other three guys and at least one of the girls. At which point we all made our excuses and headed for our rooms. Is this how it's going to be in the Lakes? I expect so - we'll have days full of fresh Lakes air and walking to contend with then on top of the other factors!

We returned at lunchtime today to find the house still in one piece. I'll still be happier when this scaffold is down though.

The Outlaws #2 - Meet the Gang

Today was one of the highlights of the trip - the annual get-together of Nikki's family on her Mum's side. Her Auntie Sue having died almost two years ago, this shindig now consists of her Uncle John, his three kids and their wives/partners and their kids, together with the four of us.

We drove down to Dunchurch to meet up with everyone at the Dun Cow for a welcoming drink and then hot-footed it across the road to the Huntsman Carvery. In previous years we have been a bit nomadic in our choice of eatery but having eaten here last year everyone agreed we should return as the quality of food is second to none.

Fairly unimposing from the outside, inside the restaurant is familiar and welcoming, and dominated by the excellent purpose-built carvery station. The four kids were very excited to be given a table to themselves, while the eleven adults were even more excited to be able to eat in peace. The menu is a delight. Regular readers will know of my love for curry, but there is rarely a chance for me to indulge in this passion while Nikki's folks are here. They won't touch it, hating even the smell. So I was very pleased to be able to start with Huntsman Chicken Madras - chopped breast of chicken in a creamy madras sauce served on a bed of lettuce. Then it was off to the carvery, where I was disappointed this year to find only a small piece of rather well-done rib of beef remaining.

I asked if it were possible to have the beef a little more on the pink side. To my horror the chef told me they didn't do rare beef any more as no-one ever asked for it! He then went on to say that they would do it if I called beforehand to give them some notice. And finally, seeing the disappointment on my face, he relented, fetched another roast out of the oven and said "let's see how this is doing - although it's only been in two hours so I shouldn't really be serving it."

Could that be the reason they don't serve rare beef any more? Some horrendous attack by the health and safety crew? He agreed with me that really it's the way beef should be served, and when he cut into the joint, it was perfect. Surprisingly, in view of the fact that "no-one ever asks for it," the entire queue behind me piped up with "I'll have some of that" - even the kids! So I ended up with 4 slices of beef, 4 of turkey, a dollop of mashed potato, a dollop of mashed swede, five large roast potatoes, a large spoonful of baby sprouts, a portion of stuffing and a helping of both home-made horseradish sauce and cranberry. It was like two meals in one really. Fabulous. The only downside was that Nikki, being further back in the queue than me, reached the carvery after he'd cut the pink beef so far into the middle that it was coming close to being raw and he had to put it back in the oven.

Normally after a main course that size I wouldn't have had a dessert but as it's included, most of the diners forced themselves to order one, even if only to take away. I opted for a banana split, which arrived with several inches of whipped cream on one split, several inches of whipped vanilla ice-cream on the other split and covered in nuts and chocolate sauce. I really thought my sides would split. The food was excellent, but oh! the pain!

We staggered back across the road for a farewell drink. The conversation had flowed at my end of the table and since one of John's sons and his family live in Stockport, we'd agreed that next year we should host the family meal in the Manchester area. It's only fair - we've been travelling down to Coventry for the last six years - but it'll be a challenge to find anywhere up to the standard of the Huntsman. Still, we've a year to experiment!

The Outlaws #1 - The Pattern of Our Days

Nikki's folks arrived safely yesterday around 11.30. This is the fourth time they've visited and their first stay in the new house (their visit last year coincided with our move - they spent a week surrounded by packing cases and our movers arrived about two hours after we'd taken them to the airport) so Neil hadn't seen the house at all, and Shirley had only had a brief tour.

Normally their flights arrive earlier and there's time for a refreshing nap to readjust the body clock, but this year things were a little different and Neil was keen to get his first bet on at William Hill's.

This establishes the pattern of activity for the week, barring those few days when we go sightseeing or family reunioning:

• Have breakfast
• Take Neil to the paper shop and leave him studying the day's form for an hour or so
• Take Neil to the bookies and make sure he knows where the pub is
• Nikki and Shirley go off to do girly stuff
• I come home and entertain myself for a few hours
• We all meet up in the pub and have a couple of early evening drinks
• Back home for dinner

This arrangement worked extremely well in the old house, which was walking distance from the paper shop, the bookies AND the pub. Here it's not so good, as we don't have any of those things within walking distance, so it's a drive to and from the newsagents, pause, drive to and from the bookies, pause, drive to and from the pub.

But hey! I'm on holiday. It's a nice change from the pressure of work, the pressure of decorating, and pretty much any other pressure you can think of. My afternoon reverie (well, I say "reverie." Actually I was unpacking the grocery shopping that I'd just brought home, having delivered Nikki and Shirley to the bookies) was disturbed somewhat yesterday by an unexpected call:
"Hello, this is the florists."
"Err...yes?"
"We've got a gentleman here called Neil, who says he's something to do with you."
"Err, yes."
"Can you come and pick him up please? He's a little bit lost."
"I'll be right there."

It's an easy mistake to make when you're not familiar with the territory - a single wrong turn and you by-pass the pub and end up at the florist's. I picked him up, dropped him at the pub, and went home to finish putting away the leeks.

Home

Saying our goodbyes to the sleepy village of Shipton, we took the scenic route to my Mum's through Northampton and Melton Mowbray, stopping for a pint at the Griffin in Plumtree.

This is probably the first pub I ever visited - it was the one my Uncle Ken used to take us to occasionally on Sunday lunchtimes when my Dad and I visited my Nan. At the age of 8 the journey from the Meadows (where my Nan lived) to Plumtree seemed to be a trek worthy of Amundsen but in reality it's only about 10 miles.

In those days, too, the presence of an 8-year-old meant the adults were forced to drink their drinks sitting in the car park. There was no beer garden and no adventure playground like there is now, nor any "relaxed" policy about kids sitting inside the pub during daylight hours.

Social mores have changed out of all recognition in the last 40 years.

Chedworth & Burford

Way back when the year was young, my wonderful partner Nikki - ever mindful of the need to relax well and often - decided that by the time we reached the August Bank Holiday we'd be in serious need of some R&R and suggested we book two extra days hols to make it a *very* long weekend.

Owing to one of the many cock-ups with the bathroom fitting, she'd had to forfeit one of her days which meant I spent yesterday at home faffing about with some of the smaller jobs in the study while she slaved away over a hot telephone. But by dint of doing the early shift AND forgoing half her lunch break, she managed to get away at 4pm and we set off for a short break in the Cotswolds.

The first 95% of the journey was frighteningly familiar to me, it being the same as the journey to Slough or Bracknell, but when we left the M40 at Junction 11 all became calm, new and exciting.

Nikki had found a fab place for us to stay in the little village of Shipton-under-Wychwood (Cotswolds names are so Middle Ages aren't they?) - a 700-year- old hostelry known as the Shaven Crown. The Crown is a ramshackle mixture of old and new but very tastefully extended. It has a welcoming bar, attractive "beer garden" courtyard with fountain and a stone-flagged lobby with a most impressive staircase. The hotel "reception" is the small desk underneath the stairs and the part of the porter's bell is played by the shop bell hanging off the back of the lobby door.

We arrived shortly after 6.30pm and after dodging the low ceilings, wrestling with the room key that doesn't quite fit the door and dumping our bags, repaired to the beer garden for a bar meal and a couple of pints.

This morning our first stop was to be the roman villa at Chedworth. Originally discovered and excavated by the Victorians, this was a bit of a curate's egg.

Although they had taken great pains to preserve the exposed walls by adding twee little caps of brick and tile, which resulted in a very well preserved site, they had laboured without the advantages of modern archaeological technique, so no notes were made as they dug down through the layers of evidence, and much that would have been useful in determining exactly who lived there, what they did, when they did it, etc, was discarded in the digging process.

Nevertheless the site is impressive. The mosaics on the bath house floor are almost completely intact, and the hypocaust-heated rooms with their brick flues and raised stone floors are in marvellous condition for a site estimated to have been built around 4 A.D.

Owned by the National Trust, this is probably the last Trust property we will visit on our family membership which we decided last year to let lapse. It's very nice to be able to walk up to the ticket office, flash a membership card and gain free entry, but at over £60 a year you need to be visiting more than five times a year to make it worthwhile - something we never did. So with an expiry date of 31 August on our cards, it felt good to finally get some benefit from it.

After a "full Cotswold" breakfast at the hotel this morning (as far as I could tell the only variance from a "full English" was the lack of baked beans) neither of us felt much like lunch, but Nikki did spot an intriguing sign for a pub set on the banks of the Windrush. We took a detour and found a delightful pub - The Fox Inn - in the village of Great Barrington. The Windrush proved to be a small river, but well-named (especially after recent floods) as it was still in full flow. A little muddy as the flood waters drained off the fields, but gurgling happily along in the late August sun, which was nevertheless still hot enough to make our swift halves all the more welcome.

On the way to Chedworth we'd driven through Burford - a charming Cotswold village with a wide range of antique, art and craft shops. We decided to stop off here and see what it had to offer. What we found was quite surprising - a huge range of gift possibilities including handmade garden furniture, countless jewellery shops, three or four well stocked antique shops, a flea market (entry 50p) in the Methodist Hall, another (entry free) in St. John the Baptist's parish hall which stretched over four rooms

In all we spent over three hours walking up and down the hilly main street of Burford and were left with the impression that it was a fascinating place for visitors, but must be very frustrating to live in. Of the fifty or so shops on the main street there was only one butcher and one newsagent that would be of regular use to the locals.

Having dined in (rather frugally given the lateness of the hour) yesterday, this evening we were determined to branch out and seek the famous "posh nosh" location in Shipton - the Lamb Inn. Tucked away around the corner of the road leading to Digger's Wood (I kid you not), at first this looked no different from any other country pub of the area. Low beams, low lighting, very clean and quiet, the first difference we discovered was the guest ale - a wonderfully clear dark pint with a hint of blackcurrant behind its hoppiness. But the best was yet to come. The meal!

Soup for me - carrot and orange - in a deep bellied bowl, probably enough for two people and fabulously orangey, with a deep carrot colour the consistency of thick cream. Wonderful. Nikki started with a tart tartin, on a bed of caramelised onion with a wedge of goat's cheese on top. Her main was a stuffed and honey-glazed breast of chicken with salad, while I tucked in to a fillet of beef and wild mushroom stroganoff. Now I've eaten beef stroganoff many times over the years, but this was a universe away from anything I'd experienced before. The sauce was so heavily laden with paprika as to be veritably a-glow with redness, and yet had a rounded flavour without a hint of bitterness. There were two - possibly three - different wild mushrooms in the sauce, each with a distinct flavour that crept up on you halfway through a mouthful. The sauce was thickened with slivers of red onion that imparted a delicious sweetness to the mix and this sweetness was occasionally and temporarily heightened when an unexpected sultana burst between your teeth in a wave of fruity goodness that was almost akin to an orgasm. OK, that's enough to secure my place in Pseud's Corner, but you get the picture. If you're ever in the vicinity do not pass the Lamb Inn by without stopping for a bite to eat. The place is an undiscovered gourmet paradise.

Dessert course, which we should have declined on account of being stuffed, we both couldn't resist once our eyes lit upon the first entry: Ginger Brulee. The ginger part did not disappoint - the whole dessert was crammed with it - but the brulee part was closer to a mousse with a nod in the direction of its title in the shape of a caramelised sugar topping. It was served on a circle of the thinnest meringue I've ever seen under which sat a thin bed of chopped pineapple which added another dimension to the flavour and prevented the mousse being to cloying. Perfect - the only trouble being that we could hardly stand by the time we'd finished.