Damn you Albert Square! (shakes fist)
I had a bet with a mate that EastEnders wouldn't even acknowledge the smoking ban. I am now a tenner poorer.
While I admire this up to date, on the ball with current affairs approach to storylines, I'd much rather the behind the scenes sorts dedicated their efforts to buying Libby a decent bra.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Monday, May 28, 2007
Dinner party from hell
Miss Hacksaw: Afternoon
K: Oh, hullo. Weren’t you meant to be here about forty minutes ago?
MH: Yeah, sorry. I woke up late and then started watching Hollyoaks, and then had to have a deep bath with lots of soothing balms and lotions to stop all the hate, and then had to get newspapers…
K: Ooh, what ones?
MH: The Observer, for the food magazine only. They’ve a special on Chinese food.
K: Oh excellent. I bought the Sunday Mirror and feel a bit sick as a result.
MH: Why?
K: The zebra print is back.
MH: Oh hell, really? Actually, so’s the pantsuit, I meant to tell you.
K: The what? Those…all in one things from the 80s? That make going for a piss a nightmare?
MH: Oh yes. I’m appalled, they’re almost as bad as the body.
K: Oh ewww, the body. That by law had to be work with really high waisted jeans so that nobody would see the fact you were wearing an all in one bodysuit.
MH: Ugh, high waists. Aren’t they back as well now?
K: Probably. It’ll be legwarmers and kilts next.
MH: “Designed especially for Topshop by Kate Moss”, I’d imagine. Oof. What else is in the Mirror?
K: Gail Porter.
MH: Didn’t her hair grow back?
K: Yes, but it all fell out again.
MH: Harsh. What’s she got to say for herself?
K: She’s quite entertaining actually. They’ve thrown her a question about who she’d have at her nightmare dinner party.
MH: Oh wicked! I can do that game!
K: As opposed to not being able to do…other games?
MH: I had to ban myself from playing Fantasy Dinner Party last year.
K: ……Okay.
MH: No, seriously. After the Steve Irwin incident.
K: The what?
MH: Well, we were in the pub, and Fantasy Dinner Party came up, and Steve Irwin was on mine. And then the next day he died. And I had to quit playing Fantasy Dinner Party, because of all the subsequent fears for Kiefer and whatnot. However, Nightmare Dinner Party is do-able, because I really don’t care very much if Julia Roberts is speared by a stingray.
K: Oh, Julia. How we dislike thee. Apart from in Pretty Woman, where you’re actually quite cool although not half as cool as your ho mate. What is it about her we hate so much though?
MH: The obligatory grinning scene in every film she’s done ever, apart from Flatliners where she was all beaky and earnest.
K: Ugh, good call. She’s in. Okay, who else?
MH: Davina McCall. Which I know is well controversial and I’m the only person in the entire world doesn’t like her, but she’d spend all the time SHOUTING or telling other guests what’s happening in the kitchen in that Big Brother conspiratual tone. “It. Is. 7.30pm. The guests. Have been here. For thirty minutes. The starter. Is imminent.”
K: Ha! And when another guest went for a piss, she’d collar them outside the loo to get their bitchy opinions on everyone else in the house. “So. Julia. What did you really think of Jeremy Kyle? LET’S SEE YOUR BEST MOMENTS!”
MH: “Ooh, Sleeping With The Enemy!” Yeah, or not. Jeremy Kyle totally belongs in dinner party hell though.
K: Oh my God it’d be horrendous. Someone would say something fairly standard about how their sister once took coke at Chinawhite and he’d be straight down their throats. “I can’t believe you KNOW she’s taking it and you’re not doing a THING about it!” “Er, it was ten years ago. Nobody goes to Chinawhite anymore, twat.” “Listen to me! LISTEN! To me! You’re irresponsible, you’re a disgrace! That’s a FACT!”
MH: And then Tom Cruise takes him into a corner and tries to calm him down with some calming and not-at-all-sinister Scientology chat.
K: Oh my God. The Cruise is the ULTIMATE nightmare dinner party guest. First of all he’d turn up and do The Grin at everyone –
MH: Gah, the pleased-with-oneself side-smile as patented in Cocktail?
K: Exactly that. Then he’d be sniffing round the entire house checking that you hadn’t stashed a camera or a 3am Girl in the corner or whatever. Then he’d haul in Katie Holmes, stash her on the sofa with a few tomes of L. Ron’s and prop her up with all your cushions to stop her lurching to the side like the blow up doll in Alan Partridge. And then he’d bore the arse off everyone for three hours trying to convert them all to Scientology.
MH: It’s enough to almost make you feel sorry for them. Except Dubya.
K: Ha! Who’d just be sat at the head of the table with half a pretzel hanging out of his mouth, looking cross eyed at Cruise. “Shut him up. Put the off button…er…on.”
MH: Christ, what a motley crew. What are the odds on me killing them all within twenty minutes?
K: I’ll give you a tenner at two to one.
MH: Done.
K: Oh, hullo. Weren’t you meant to be here about forty minutes ago?
MH: Yeah, sorry. I woke up late and then started watching Hollyoaks, and then had to have a deep bath with lots of soothing balms and lotions to stop all the hate, and then had to get newspapers…
K: Ooh, what ones?
MH: The Observer, for the food magazine only. They’ve a special on Chinese food.
K: Oh excellent. I bought the Sunday Mirror and feel a bit sick as a result.
MH: Why?
K: The zebra print is back.
MH: Oh hell, really? Actually, so’s the pantsuit, I meant to tell you.
K: The what? Those…all in one things from the 80s? That make going for a piss a nightmare?
MH: Oh yes. I’m appalled, they’re almost as bad as the body.
K: Oh ewww, the body. That by law had to be work with really high waisted jeans so that nobody would see the fact you were wearing an all in one bodysuit.
MH: Ugh, high waists. Aren’t they back as well now?
K: Probably. It’ll be legwarmers and kilts next.
MH: “Designed especially for Topshop by Kate Moss”, I’d imagine. Oof. What else is in the Mirror?
K: Gail Porter.
MH: Didn’t her hair grow back?
K: Yes, but it all fell out again.
MH: Harsh. What’s she got to say for herself?
K: She’s quite entertaining actually. They’ve thrown her a question about who she’d have at her nightmare dinner party.
MH: Oh wicked! I can do that game!
K: As opposed to not being able to do…other games?
MH: I had to ban myself from playing Fantasy Dinner Party last year.
K: ……Okay.
MH: No, seriously. After the Steve Irwin incident.
K: The what?
MH: Well, we were in the pub, and Fantasy Dinner Party came up, and Steve Irwin was on mine. And then the next day he died. And I had to quit playing Fantasy Dinner Party, because of all the subsequent fears for Kiefer and whatnot. However, Nightmare Dinner Party is do-able, because I really don’t care very much if Julia Roberts is speared by a stingray.
K: Oh, Julia. How we dislike thee. Apart from in Pretty Woman, where you’re actually quite cool although not half as cool as your ho mate. What is it about her we hate so much though?
MH: The obligatory grinning scene in every film she’s done ever, apart from Flatliners where she was all beaky and earnest.
K: Ugh, good call. She’s in. Okay, who else?
MH: Davina McCall. Which I know is well controversial and I’m the only person in the entire world doesn’t like her, but she’d spend all the time SHOUTING or telling other guests what’s happening in the kitchen in that Big Brother conspiratual tone. “It. Is. 7.30pm. The guests. Have been here. For thirty minutes. The starter. Is imminent.”
K: Ha! And when another guest went for a piss, she’d collar them outside the loo to get their bitchy opinions on everyone else in the house. “So. Julia. What did you really think of Jeremy Kyle? LET’S SEE YOUR BEST MOMENTS!”
MH: “Ooh, Sleeping With The Enemy!” Yeah, or not. Jeremy Kyle totally belongs in dinner party hell though.
K: Oh my God it’d be horrendous. Someone would say something fairly standard about how their sister once took coke at Chinawhite and he’d be straight down their throats. “I can’t believe you KNOW she’s taking it and you’re not doing a THING about it!” “Er, it was ten years ago. Nobody goes to Chinawhite anymore, twat.” “Listen to me! LISTEN! To me! You’re irresponsible, you’re a disgrace! That’s a FACT!”
MH: And then Tom Cruise takes him into a corner and tries to calm him down with some calming and not-at-all-sinister Scientology chat.
K: Oh my God. The Cruise is the ULTIMATE nightmare dinner party guest. First of all he’d turn up and do The Grin at everyone –
MH: Gah, the pleased-with-oneself side-smile as patented in Cocktail?
K: Exactly that. Then he’d be sniffing round the entire house checking that you hadn’t stashed a camera or a 3am Girl in the corner or whatever. Then he’d haul in Katie Holmes, stash her on the sofa with a few tomes of L. Ron’s and prop her up with all your cushions to stop her lurching to the side like the blow up doll in Alan Partridge. And then he’d bore the arse off everyone for three hours trying to convert them all to Scientology.
MH: It’s enough to almost make you feel sorry for them. Except Dubya.
K: Ha! Who’d just be sat at the head of the table with half a pretzel hanging out of his mouth, looking cross eyed at Cruise. “Shut him up. Put the off button…er…on.”
MH: Christ, what a motley crew. What are the odds on me killing them all within twenty minutes?
K: I’ll give you a tenner at two to one.
MH: Done.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Someone kill me now.
I just cried at The Horse Whisperer.
Either I'm obscenely premenstrual or I just need a good slap.
Either I'm obscenely premenstrual or I just need a good slap.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
I love....
...the fact that Patrick in EastEnders gets turned on by chicken.
I don't love the fact that I write so frequently about EastEnders that I have had to give it its own label.
I don't love the fact that I write so frequently about EastEnders that I have had to give it its own label.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Monday, May 14, 2007
Four! Four chocolate souffles! Ah ah ah
I love Delia Smith!
While I love cooking, and get a great amount of pleasure out of dicking around in the kitchen all day whipping up treats for those nearest and dearest, it is rare I actually make a great effort. During the week the Hubbo and I are kings of the easily-knocked-up dish such as meatballs and tomato sauce, or steak, or homemade Gourmet Burger Kitchen style burgers (and other dishes that do occasionally involve non-red meat, not that you'd believe it from that list). At weekends we generally have a takeaway on a Friday, eat out on the Saturday, and on the Sunday we'll whip up a roast - a meal that is very much the Hubbo's forte, while I end up going over the road to buy the Ben & Jerry's and Aunt Bessie's Yorkshire puds after I've inevitably cocked up the attempted homemade ones.
However, occasionally I'll invite people over for dinner and become obsessed with turning out a meal of champions. The first instance of this was New Year 2005, when we decided we were all far too old to go gallivanting about London trying to get into a pub that wasn't full of vomiting teenagers and so invited a gang over for dinner and a few buckets of champagne instead. I cooked for twelve hours solid, and against all bets managed to turn out a slow roasted pork belly, as well as stuffed aubergines for the token vegetarian. Since then, when people come over I always try to do something new - something John and Greg off Masterchef would be horrified at I imagine. Still if it goes wrong there's always the pizza menu, and nobody looks like a tit apart from me.
We had the same gang over for Eurovision on Saturday night - because Eurovision isn't tolerable unless you have a house full of drunk people screaming with laughter at the Ukranian Su Pollard-esque act. Plus, we didn't want a repeat of last year, when the Hubbo and I watched it alone and sober and nearly split up because I wanted to vote for someone other than Lordi.
The main course was kept fairly simple - chicken and ham pie out of Nigella's Feast. Worked a treat - apart from the fact that the pastry I made according to her specifications was wrong, wrong, wrong. Luckily I had half a pack of puff pastry left over from K's vegetarian mushroom pie that I'd made her specially (veg cookery is not a talent of mine, and mushrooms are one of the only vegetables I can cook without fucking them up royally, so she got a pie to herself. I could have made a massive mushroom pie for all, but the Hubbo's allergic to fungus (ha! I love that word), and I love chicken pie anyway) so I used that. It looked a bit stretched, but the glory of puff pastry is that after five minutes in the oven it looks like nothing else on earth anyway, so it didn't really matter. Plus, I made individual pies for each person, and there's nothing quite as fun as One's Own Pie.
The pud was a slightly different matter. I always go a bit balls out on pudding, mainly because I don't really eat dairy produce and this is the only way I ever get to have fun with cream and eggs.
Because of the zero expertise I have in the pudding zone, a souffle may have been a bit above and beyond what I was capable of. However, I'd bought some ramekins that morning from the pound shop, and a souffle in a ramekin is one of the prettiest desserts ever, even if you can't eat it because the double cream will bloat you up for three days and give you hives. Also, in the clean up we'd had on Saturday morning I unearthed the Christmas Sainsburys magazine which included a Delia recipe for chocolate rum souffles which according to her, are "well behaved". After the Nigella pastry fiasco I was somewhat concerned that I'd end up just covered in whipped egg white and collapsed spongy stuff and sending someone off to Costcutter to buy a slab of Dairy Milk; but you never know unless you try, and I trust Delia a lot more than Nigella anyway (you'd never get Delia licking the fish slice, or whatever. Ew, that sounded more dirty than it should have done.)
They worked. All four (four! Chocolate souffles! Ah ah...okay, got to quit it with the Count japes) rose perfectly, didn't sink into themselves when I dusted them with icing sugar, and weren't just raw eggy chocolate underneath. Brilliant. There's nothing quite like the pleased feeling you get watching four people hoover up something you've put effort into, especially when you were convinced it was going to go horribly wrong. Especially when you can't have any of the pudding, and so get to finish off the bottle of rum by yourself instead.
While I love cooking, and get a great amount of pleasure out of dicking around in the kitchen all day whipping up treats for those nearest and dearest, it is rare I actually make a great effort. During the week the Hubbo and I are kings of the easily-knocked-up dish such as meatballs and tomato sauce, or steak, or homemade Gourmet Burger Kitchen style burgers (and other dishes that do occasionally involve non-red meat, not that you'd believe it from that list). At weekends we generally have a takeaway on a Friday, eat out on the Saturday, and on the Sunday we'll whip up a roast - a meal that is very much the Hubbo's forte, while I end up going over the road to buy the Ben & Jerry's and Aunt Bessie's Yorkshire puds after I've inevitably cocked up the attempted homemade ones.
However, occasionally I'll invite people over for dinner and become obsessed with turning out a meal of champions. The first instance of this was New Year 2005, when we decided we were all far too old to go gallivanting about London trying to get into a pub that wasn't full of vomiting teenagers and so invited a gang over for dinner and a few buckets of champagne instead. I cooked for twelve hours solid, and against all bets managed to turn out a slow roasted pork belly, as well as stuffed aubergines for the token vegetarian. Since then, when people come over I always try to do something new - something John and Greg off Masterchef would be horrified at I imagine. Still if it goes wrong there's always the pizza menu, and nobody looks like a tit apart from me.
We had the same gang over for Eurovision on Saturday night - because Eurovision isn't tolerable unless you have a house full of drunk people screaming with laughter at the Ukranian Su Pollard-esque act. Plus, we didn't want a repeat of last year, when the Hubbo and I watched it alone and sober and nearly split up because I wanted to vote for someone other than Lordi.
The main course was kept fairly simple - chicken and ham pie out of Nigella's Feast. Worked a treat - apart from the fact that the pastry I made according to her specifications was wrong, wrong, wrong. Luckily I had half a pack of puff pastry left over from K's vegetarian mushroom pie that I'd made her specially (veg cookery is not a talent of mine, and mushrooms are one of the only vegetables I can cook without fucking them up royally, so she got a pie to herself. I could have made a massive mushroom pie for all, but the Hubbo's allergic to fungus (ha! I love that word), and I love chicken pie anyway) so I used that. It looked a bit stretched, but the glory of puff pastry is that after five minutes in the oven it looks like nothing else on earth anyway, so it didn't really matter. Plus, I made individual pies for each person, and there's nothing quite as fun as One's Own Pie.
The pud was a slightly different matter. I always go a bit balls out on pudding, mainly because I don't really eat dairy produce and this is the only way I ever get to have fun with cream and eggs.
Because of the zero expertise I have in the pudding zone, a souffle may have been a bit above and beyond what I was capable of. However, I'd bought some ramekins that morning from the pound shop, and a souffle in a ramekin is one of the prettiest desserts ever, even if you can't eat it because the double cream will bloat you up for three days and give you hives. Also, in the clean up we'd had on Saturday morning I unearthed the Christmas Sainsburys magazine which included a Delia recipe for chocolate rum souffles which according to her, are "well behaved". After the Nigella pastry fiasco I was somewhat concerned that I'd end up just covered in whipped egg white and collapsed spongy stuff and sending someone off to Costcutter to buy a slab of Dairy Milk; but you never know unless you try, and I trust Delia a lot more than Nigella anyway (you'd never get Delia licking the fish slice, or whatever. Ew, that sounded more dirty than it should have done.)
They worked. All four (four! Chocolate souffles! Ah ah...okay, got to quit it with the Count japes) rose perfectly, didn't sink into themselves when I dusted them with icing sugar, and weren't just raw eggy chocolate underneath. Brilliant. There's nothing quite like the pleased feeling you get watching four people hoover up something you've put effort into, especially when you were convinced it was going to go horribly wrong. Especially when you can't have any of the pudding, and so get to finish off the bottle of rum by yourself instead.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Ms. Baroque knows the score
Har har. I thought I was the only one who found that Nurofen works best when washed down with Diet Coke. I am regularly told off for this in the office (obviously the reasons for taking said Nurofen are stressed-migraine and not alcohol induced, you understand) and was starting to think that perhaps it wasn't the acest of all ideas.
However, Ms Baroque is on my side.
I knew I was right.
However, Ms Baroque is on my side.
I knew I was right.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Heh
Someone got to this website by typing into Google "toms mum has sweaty beef curtains".
I'm not sure who should be more embarrassed by this fact, them or me.
I'm not sure who should be more embarrassed by this fact, them or me.
Monday, May 07, 2007
Bradley Branning is a genius
For years, medical professionals have been trying to cure the phenomenon that is man-flu. Lemsips, Strepsils and Night Nurse have all failed the test. Doctors all over the globe scratch their heads and try to come up with a solution.
Fear not! As ever, EastEnders has come up with the answer, thanks to the flushed-of-face, red-of-hair buffoon that is Bradley Branning.
And that answer seems to be.....Haribo. Ugh.
In other EastEnders news, I see that Polish builders have finally migrated their way from Chiswick to Walford. Polish builders + Ian Beale = comedy genius.
In non-television related news, I will write a proper entry soon. The violent London entry went on hiatus, then Blogger ate it and I can't quite get the new version to come right. In the meantime, stay tuned for more soap-related tosh and a rant about Donald Trump's hair.
Fear not! As ever, EastEnders has come up with the answer, thanks to the flushed-of-face, red-of-hair buffoon that is Bradley Branning.
And that answer seems to be.....Haribo. Ugh.
In other EastEnders news, I see that Polish builders have finally migrated their way from Chiswick to Walford. Polish builders + Ian Beale = comedy genius.
In non-television related news, I will write a proper entry soon. The violent London entry went on hiatus, then Blogger ate it and I can't quite get the new version to come right. In the meantime, stay tuned for more soap-related tosh and a rant about Donald Trump's hair.
