...ruffles...

Yesterday: After three weeks of cycling between 10 and 15 miles a day, I was looking forward to my first five-a-side of the season. 15 days of cardio vascular whatnot, my speed has increased, my endurance has improved, my recovery rate has dipped below an hour. Fitness gives you great benefits, you feel better, you (should) look better, and in a sporting context it gives you space to think about using your skills rather than keeping down the lining of your lungs. As a footballer, I can pass, have good positional sense, can time a tackle to perfection and can outthink most of the other players. Except until three weeks ago I was burdened with poor fitness which clouded my skills in a fug of feeble bodily impotence. But lo, I am probably fitter now than at anytime since school, watch me fly.



Today: Hurt.

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Labels: General me

My idea of posh food served by a French person is having a Pret a Manger Super Club sandwich on Regents Street. Le Manoir Quat’ Saison is a level of quality and service I can barely comprehend.

Whilst Emma’s been telling people the reason we took lunch at the world famous restaurant was because “We were hungry” it was actually because my family bought her a meal for two for her 30th birthday.

As you can probably tell, this is no six quid chicken in a basket merchant. Le Manoir is owned by Raymond Blanc. Imagine, if you can, a cook so famous he’s beyond Ready Steady Cook.

Let’s pause to contemplate that bombshell…

It’s so high class it’s coming back the other way. The quality of the service, food, and surroundings is so high there’s simply no need for any snotty pretence which means you’re made to feel entirely comfortable and relaxed.

We took drinks and ordered our food in the gardens. The wine waiter didn’t, as I thought he might, suggest ‘Vin au Imbeciles’, before walking away sniggering smugly to himself. His recommended Chardonnay was spot on. Only Emma was drinking so she went for a half bottle at £28, which means unless you benefit from some economies of scale by going for a full bottle, you’re looking at £56 for the full Monty. And that was a cheap one – one Champagne was £1600 – a lot of money to giggle stupidly and say “Ooh the bubbles have gone up my nose”.

After a little Cod thing to clear the palette it was on to the vegetable soup. Now I’m no expert, but I’d wager it didn’t come from a tin. In fact it was so green each bowl must have contained such a concentration of vegetables that it would’ve fed a small African nation. Our French waitress took us through our order step by step, although she did get her translations a little mixed up telling us rather than it having “hints” of flavour, that there “maybe a little parmesan”. Given the price I’d have expected something a little more definitive.

For the main course, I had cod and mash, although in posh restaurants it’s “crushed potato”, Ooh, get you. Emma had lamb.

Then came the cheese.

When we have cheese it’s usually Tesco blue stripe, it’s usually mild cheddar and it’s usually in kilogram blocks. We like cheese. The nutty offer of the cheese course before dessert was readily accepted and a gargantuan choice presented. Like a Countdown contestant I took a selection from all over the plate. They were orgasmic. My experience of blue cheeses is that they can burn your nostril hair; this offered me a taste that toured my mouth. Just as it seemed it was going to consume my head and overpower my taste buds, it retreated, tantalisingly giving me something new to deal with. It was perfectly balanced, so constant, never too much, never too little and at just £5 for a piece little bigger than a Trivial Pursuit segment, I don’t think I could go back to Tesco Blue Stripe (because I can’t afford to).

The meal was finished with a desert which was so posh it made Vienetta seem like a poor man’s posh ice cream. We took coffee in the gardens.

Although price of the meal in total would have been roughly the same as a weekend away in a three star hotel being there for four hours was like being in another world, I’m go back to tomorrow… because I have to wash the dishes.

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Labels: General me

Whilst out on my bike (every day for the last three weeks) I’ve noticed things I wouldn’t normally. On the edge of Aylesbury, as is customary, there’s a sign which says “Welcome to Aylesbury”, hung underneath is a luminous yellow sign which says “Parking restrictions start from 30 June”.



In other words, welcome to Aylesbury… but not that welcome.



Of course what is should say is ‘Aylesbury, Thank you for staying as long as you did’.

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Labels: General me

“Hello”
“Hello, it’s Vic, the eagle has landed”

Emma sent me a text at 11am on Friday; ‘do you want pizza with the Dobscrubs tonight?’ I said yes, joking it was, after all their last night of freedom before the baby arrived.

We went for somewhere with a bit of class; so Pizza Express it was. We generally ignored Vicki’s assertion that ‘things were happening’, after all, you’d expect things to happen after nine months wouldn’t you?

Nobody has a second choice with Pizza Express. Nobody diverts from their standard order. With me, it’s always a Fiorentina never anything else. Perversely Nobby is rather odd (now now, let me finish)*; he has either a Sloppy Giuseppe or American Hot, from which he idiosyncratically removes the chillies as he eats. We try to guess his choice, it’s a ‘thing’ we do. He chose American Hot, adding an air of excitement by keeping his decision concealed until he ordered, we ‘Ooh’ed’ when he did. This coincided with the waiter getting a cramp and buckling up. He thought we were Ooh-ing his pain, so he reassured us he was OK. We looked perplexed.

As we talked Vicki idly picked the discarded chillies from Nobby’s plate. Someone may have commented that this would speed things up. At the end of the night we paid and left. The Dobscrub’s gave us a lift home; we said our goodbyes as normal.

Last Saturday I said to Vicstah, ‘we’ll see you on the other side’ something I said to my sister a few days before she had Sophie. The reaction was the same; a nervous “Oh I’m sure we’ll see you before that” followed by the rapid arrangement of another night out. Last night I chose to go for a simple goodbye. It was 10.30pm.

The phone rang on Saturday morning at 11.30, it was Vic, the eagle had landed. The commencement of labour I assumed, we’d seen them 13 hours ago. Although, on reflection, the eagle thing would have been a particularly crap analogy for labour, and Vic has a linguistics degree. It was only when she took me through the timetable of the night (things started happening at midnight, the midwife called at 3am, in the hospital by 5, the baby arrived at 10.50.) that it became clear she’d actually popped.

“The baby’s arrived!?” I said

Emma pulled the phone off me. It’s a little girl, don’t know how heavy, name unconfirmed. How was the labour? “I swore at Nobby”, to which the riposte should have been, ‘well obviously, now how was the labour’. How are you feeling now? “A little sore” – I should coco. Is she beautiful? “I don’t know Nobby’s been cuddling her”. Which I suppose is fair enough, Vic’s had her for the last 9 months, Nobby deserves his chance.

*Enter alternative joke: - ‘or oddly Nobby is rather perverse’

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Labels: Babies

This weekend I will go to the football and watch Oxford play Mansfield, we’re top of the league and still unbeaten so I’m looking forward to it. The rest of the weekend is pretty blank, we may go to the cinema, we may see Katie, we may even visit the Dobscrub’s new baby, if Vicki conveniences us all by having it on Friday or Saturday (come on Vickster, some of us have to work). But we don’t have much on, and frankly, I’m glad because I’m emotionally spent.

The first time I remember meeting Sara she was in full Stone Roses chic in a pair of flared jeans and wallabies shoes. She was about 13. I don’t remember the first time I met Gareth, but it would have been about four years ago and Sara would have insisted on him dressing up in his best clothes when they came over. Sara doesn’t wear flared jeans anymore, and Gareth barely changes out of his slippers when he comes over. Things change.

They finally did the biggie last weekend and got married. In what was a full day, I nearly wrote off the Rolls Royce (with one working door) hired to ferry Sara around. The Pastor decided to call Sara Louise, “Louise Sara” during the vows. Two people did a runner when Sara walked in realising they’d got the wrong wedding, and then returned having forgotten their camera. A guest sitting at the front of the church in full view of everyone suffered the crippling embarrassment of her camera film rewinding and her phone going off… to which she cursed herself with an audible “Oh for fuck’s sake.”

During the reception, the best man Tim took his duties somewhat literally, his speech dismantled Gareth’s personality bit by bit with stories of vomit, drinking, and nudity, which were illustrated with pixilated photos. Afterwards Emma’s Grandma said that Gareth and Emma’s dad’s speeches were marvellous, but for some reason neglected to mention the best man. He also started a near riot by opening up some old East coast, West coast shit*.

Despite a minor panic over a late arriving DJ, the evening do saw Gareth’s often monosyllabic teenage brother turn from gangling pubescent to Fred Astaire, wowing the ladies (including, most disturbingly, my mum) with moves so nifty it was like he’d been force fed Ceroc lessons since a young age. He finished the night off at 2am returning to his teenage roots, ordering tequila and two vodka shots and then disappearing to the toilets to throw up.

There were other cameos, Donkman’s dancing, the appearance of a back up bridesmaid, Tom doing a Del Boy prat fall when trying to lean on the shoulder of his girlfriend just as she stepped away to talk to someone. Gareth’s mum’s first words when she appeared in her beautifully tailored, carefully chosen designer outfit: “Ooh I’m sweating like a pig”. Then there was Claire shaking her booty like a high class table dancer two minutes before bursting into tears like someone had shot her dog blubbing “It’s like she’s left us”. Another rendition of “One more tune” like we were back on the Stag. Emma’s auntie filming the whole shebang on a video camera the size of an elephant. Tim breakdancing. The dancefloor invasion during the first dance… by the mother and father of the bride. The Waitrose Paprazzi pushing their way into the cheap seats “’scuse me, scuse me, oh no I don’t want an order of service, I’m not invited”. Me and Katie looking on aghast as Gareth’s divorced parents enjoyed a tongue sandwich then walked off the dancefloor revealing themselves to not be Gareth’s parents at all. And what about the ushers and Sara posing for a picture whilst questioning through fake smiles “What the fuck is he doing” as one dirty old bugger tried to lick the ear of the photographer?

The biggest surprise of all was being singled out in Gareth’s speech. Apparently me and Emma have offered “support, advice and above all common sense” which, whilst I’d have preferred “Elk racing, Leer Jet flights and fire breathing” was very touching.

So ubiquitous is the presence of Sara and Gareth in our lives, I had totally forgotten how close we are as friends. But moreover it confirmed to me that we’re on track with the Ruffles Philosophy. Y’see, we want a house that our friends can come to anytime they want. You may have to take us as you see us, which is usually in a mess, but you’re always welcome, the kettle is never cold.

I love the way Sara and Gareth come over in their tracky-bots to do little more than chat the world away, eat takeaway and watch the telly or how Simon appears on a Sunday to watch the 1980 version of Flash Gordon. We may not impress you with our cooking, or the size of our house, or our off-beat holidays to Upper Volta but if you come over there’s no pretence. Totally relaxed, totally normal. I like having friends who let us be like that.

On Saturday Gareth helped confirm to me that the philosophy is working, if during the 20 months of organising, we helped make things a little easier then I’m happy.

*we went to a split site school; there were two lower school’s Lower School East and Lower School West which merged into one upper school in the fourth year – there were rivalries.

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Labels: Friends

Someone’s been watching me, having read “Have gun will travel – the story of Death Row Records” on holiday I got thinking about the gap in my record collection dedicated to Gangsta Rap. During the height of Gangsta Rap I was enjoying the more left field acts of the genre who ploughed a more conceptual furrow – The Goats (Politics Hop), The Gravediggaz (Death Hop), Pharcyde (Silly Sausages Hop) Cypress Hill (Munchies Hop).

I wasn’t a fan of G-Funk; it was a little weedy after the sonic onslaughts of Public Enemy and NWA, and the brilliantly creative samples of the Party Hip Hop it was now eclipsing.

The book is basically the story of Suge Knight, yet, if it was good enough to have a subtext (it isn’t) it would actually be the story of Dr Dre. Reading it I began to realise that with the exception of the few lyricists with anything to say (Eminem, Chuck D), the producer is god in Hip Hop. All the great dynasties have been themed through their production teams; Sugarhill Gang, Marley Marl, The Bomb Squad, Dr Dre, Timabland, and The Neptunes – the lyricists are two a penny.

Lyrically, Gangsta Rap is banal, but reading the book, so are the lives of its protagonists - which are a very boring cycle of fights and beefs punctuated by about three stories of interest i.e. Suge Knight holding Vanilla Ice out of a 23rd story window by his ankles to make him sign over rights to his album, and the killings of Tupac and Biggie Smalls – which seem to be little more than petty spats that got out of hand rather than any lawless street war. There doesn’t even seem to be very many guns involved – in fact they all seem to jump out of their skin when a gun appears.

Given Death Row’s extensive roster of acts you’d think it’d be difficult to find the definitive Death Row album, but it becomes clear that since the 90’s hip-hop has been all about franchising (Wu Tang Clan with Method Man, GZA, ODB, etc, Eminem with D12 and 50 Cent) and most of the spin offs are crap reproductions. The Death Row records worth having have been produced by Dre, and of those The Chronic is where it all started.

The Chronic is a brilliant album, as well produced as any I’ve heard, especially turned up to 25 in the car. But after The Chronic, the genre (sub-genre? whatever) leaves me cold, I like Snoop’s drawl but the rest on the West Coast just make up the numbers and the East Coast equivalent is really very lame pop RnB.

However, being a consummate archivist when it comes to my record collection I needed something to fill my East Coast Gangsta void. The record that always comes into my head is Mo Money Mo Problems by Notorious BIG (featuring inevitably Puffy on backing “Ah Ha’s” and “Oh Yeah’s”). This record is several years old, and was deleted ages ago. I’ve been trying to track it down since I got back from holiday, preferably on 12”, but I’d even failed to find it on CD. The Diana Ross sample has drilled into my head constantly ever since – you don’t know how pre-occupied I’ve become with the record.

Well, someone does, yesterday whilst virtuously walking from Blackfriars to Marylebone after a meeting I dropped into HMV. On a rack of re-released classics, there it was; a repress of Mo Money Mo Problems by Notorious BIG. It wasn’t there last week, but there it was: it – perfectly positioned product meeting me – target demographic. It was expensive, but I’d become so obsessed by it I just had to have it.

WHO’S BEEN WATCHING ME, HOW DID YOU FIND OUT, DAMN YOU CLEVER MARKETING MEN, DAMN YOU ALL TO HELL.

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Labels: Music

Who hasn’t had a few scrapes on a bike? OK, OK, you can put your hands down now, don’t draw attention to yourself, you’re at work remember, you’re not supposed to be reading this.

I’ve had many; I’ve used a peddle-back break, one which I didn’t know I had, whilst taking a corner making me involuntarily apply my front break and sending me flying over the handlebars. I’ve slipped a bike into neutral losing all power causing me to slide alarmingly across a gravely road tearing my 'Battle of the Planets' t-shirt in the process. I’ve been hit by a car, and was so startled just jumped back on and rode off without a word to the horrified driver.

Having cut and banged my knee in that accident, Emma, along with a number of her maternal friends insisted that I visit A&E to get it checked out. After all, they said, knees are funny things; a small bang can come back and haunt you in years to come. It was a little swollen and quite sore. I think Emma may have made me a cup of tea out of sympathy. Yes, it looked that bad.

So the next day I went to A&E and sat with the children with pots on their heads and the winos who had overdosed on Vim. Being healthy, male and in my early twenties, having walked in unaided and wandered around picking up leaflets, I was left to wait for two and a half hours for my check-up. Eventually I was seen by a dashing young doctor who rolled up my trouser leg carefully so not to damage ligaments or dislocate the knee cap. I sat and looked down, wincing and what we might see. I was shocked to see…

My knee.

I swear, even the cut had healed up, the swelling was nowhere to be seen, the doctor muttered something like “another Munchausen tosser”. When I asked him to clarify he looked me in the eye in a pitying way and said. “Would you like a tube-e-grip to go on it?” I said no and left in a hurry.

Despite this my greatest fear and scrape has always been with divots; little folds in the road, the lowered part of pavements that allow cars to access driveways. Anything, in fact, which is less than a quarter of an inch high.

For some reason I can bunny-hop any Doberman that comes my way (I used to have a BMX Raleigh Burner with yellow Mag-wheels and trick nuts… Ah now you’re checking my flow.) but when it comes to navigating over something you can barely see from six inches away I’m all over the place, I inexplicably line up my wheels in parallel with the fold or curb and find myself hurtling along unable to steer with my legs sticking out desperate to stop myself. When eventually I come to a halt, all the cars that have stacked up behind me drive past, laughing hysterically.

I’ve been on my bike everyday this week; I’ve been near to catastrophe about two hundred and forty times.

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Labels: General me

I’ve often thought there’d be mileage in a blog dedicated to commenting on Daily Mirror stories. I used to read The Guardian on the train, but I found I only liked G2 on Mondays (sport and media) and Fridays (Music and TV (which is like Monday’s Media section without the interview with the BBC Head of Welsh Cultural Programming). That plus I can’t turn the pages of a broadsheet without giving those sitting around me a blooded nose in the process. Instead I buy the Mirror which I can read in an hour, be thoroughly entertained by, and usually ensures me a double seat. Three things caught my eye today: -

Firstly this story, which I’ve edited to the essentials: - “Heather McCartney has registered her name as a brand and could develop a range of cosmetics. A spokeswoman for McCartney said she did it to use her name to benefit land mine charities and had no intention of releasing a range of cosmetics. If she does, the Mirror screamed, the range could compete with Stella McCartney’s own range of cosmetics creating further tension between Stella and her dad Sir Paul.”

Unconfirmed reports also saw Stella McCartney buying a nail file from Boots, she said it was because she had a rough edge to one of her nails. HOWEVER, (eyes narrow suspiciously) IF she uses that nail file to saw off her leg at the knee in a desperate attempt to win back the affections of her father this could create further tensions between Heather and her husband Sir Paul. The intrigue!

The letters page offers this cracker: - “Can the recent blackouts in London and New York be too much of a coincidence? Could it be that terrorists are tampering with our infrastructure in preparation for a major terrorist attack?” (This is my favourite bit) “Come on Tony Blair, tell the truth for once.”

Tony Blair resisted the urge to tell us the truth for once in answering “Yes, it’s probably too much of a coincidence and no, it probably isn’t terrorists.” Wriggled his way out of it again, the snake.

What about the enigmatic little boxes that contain corrections from previous issues. In the Guardian they usually contain things like “Correction: - The King of Deheubarth died in 1063 and not 1062, oh how we all had a jolly good laugh at that.” In the Mirror the corrections leave you panting for more. Today’s included: -

Correction: The lowest temperature possible is -273 degrees centigrade; it is not possible for temperatures to drop to -700C.

What was the story?!

Mind you, it might be worth getting the Star ocassionally on the back of today's issue the headline bellows in letters as big as houses “BECKS GOES AWOL!” referring to a story whereby David Beckham’s flight from Spain was diverted from Manchester to Stanstead causing the footballing icon mild inconvenience. The drama!

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Labels: Music

Sadly I can’t claim ownership to this rather incisive social observation. For it is Simon who accurately concludes that women communicate their excitement through the medium of showing each other their wrists, hence…

WRISTS! WRISTS!

I have much to tell you, the week in Italy you know about but we’ve also done lunch at Le Manoir, a weekend in Mallorca with my favourite people in the whole world, and Australia Jo’s wedding.

I have developed the theories of Bridesmaid’s Envy and Airport Machismo, pondered structuralism in relation to my friends; have developed firm opinions about the role of producers in Hip Hop. I’m redesigning justinruffles.com with masses of new functionality (if pictures and good spelling can be classified as functionality). We’re on a healthy living kick. And Oxford are on a six game unbeaten run, third in the table and in the second round of the Carling Cup.

And we have Sky!

WRISTS! WRISTS!

What’s more, it’s Sara and Gareth’s wedding on Saturday, the Dobscrub’s baby is due. The social diary is packed with Willy’s birthday, and Dave Gorman and Al Murray gigs. And we’ve got a party in the planning. All I have to do now is find some time to tell you all about it.

And we have Sky!

WRISTS! WRISTS!

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Labels: General me

Imagine if you will, the people of London converging on Trafalgar Square singing the songs of their region. East Londoners; The Lambeth Walk, those from the West; Tosca, the North, If I Were A Rich Man and the South; 21 Seconds by So Solid Crew. Each follows a horse and a little man in pyjamas, upon which their hopes and dreams rely.

The Siena Palio is the Italy’s most spectacular festival. Every July and August the town’s seventeen family groups or Contrada establish bragging rights through a series of brutal, lawless horse races around Il Campo, the town centre, not the Bolton centre back.

Before each race the Contrada march through the streets, singing songs of battle, afterwards they feast and celebrate. The races are riddled with corruption, it’s been known for jockeys, local Italian cowboys, to be kidnapped on the way to a race. Corruption runs so deep, it is said that by the time they get to the start line no more than three of the seventeen horses have any chance of winning such is the drugging and bribery that goes on.

After an hour and more of jockeying for starting positions, the race lasts 90 seconds, jockeys ride bareback and are frequently sent crashing to the floor. It’s a contradictory event, the rivalries are fierce, yet the atmosphere celebratory and friendly, the racing is chaotic, yet regimented by history and pageantry.

Emma nearly fainted in the crowds, we waited for three hours for something to happen, I’ve no idea who won. It was ace.

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Labels: Holiday

On holiday we rarely got going before 4 o’clock. The heat was oppressive (the car registered 42 degrees one day) so we did little more than sit by the pool and siesta. I don’t really do sunbathing, to use a Danny Wallace-ism – “I know what I want and I know how to get it, it’s just that usually what I want is a cup of tea and a biscuit, and how I get it is by going to the kitchen.” So in between my five books we did frequent a few local towns.

The nearest was Pistoia, a town typical of the area, although you can become complacent of Tuscany’s beauty. As we sat in the square watching the Galetaria seller open her stall in preparation for the evening’s trade I turned to Emma and asked her a question I’ve wanted to ask for ever: -

“Is sweat dripping down your back and into your bumhole?”
“Yes what about you?”
“Yes”

Pistoia’s like that; it really needs something to lift it from being more than just another Tuscan town. Pisa is equally unremarkable but at least it’s got the tower. When you walk out of the meadow and into the town it is remarkable for its emptiness. It’s a town built on bad surveying techniques. Figuratively, not literally, if it was literally built on bad surveying techniques it wouldn’t be there.

Italian towns in August are dead; you can walk through them on a Saturday afternoon and not see a soul. Siesta is very unnerving for those of us cursed with a protestant work ethic. Would it be too much to ask the locals to siesta in the town square to assure hapless tourists that people live there? For all we know everyone could have been killed by a huge leak of noxious gases.

Florence on the other hand doesn’t fail to deliver or impress. When I went as a teenager it was in the middle of huge clean up so the Cathedral and surrounds were covered in scaffolding. That gone it is everything you hope for and more.

Emma, whose map reading skills are nigh on legendary told me before the holiday that we were so far from Florence that it wasn’t on our map although we were just 20km away from Firenze. It makes me wonder, how many people, and there have to have been a few, go to Tuscany intending to visit Florence but never make it because they are unaware of the Italian spelling.

We parked in a city centre car park, when we returned we were greeted by a swarthy unshaven Italian covered in sweat, in a dirty vest. He muttered something to his mate then turned to us and said “That will be 10 Euros please” in a voice which suggested he had learnt English from Mrs Slocombe from Are You Being Served? As we sorted through our funny money he broke back into his growling Italiano. we handed over the cash and he said “Thenk-ewe very maaaarch, your car is around the corrrrrner”. He even rolled his ‘Rs’. Apparently he went to boarding school in Dorset which has clearly paid dividends now he’s secured this late night shift in an undercover car park. Whilst we were tempted to ask about buggery and the intricate private school fagging system, we had to get home.

You’ve got to admit I’m a bit of a Bill Bryson, we visit the cultural behemoth of Florence and tell a story about the car park.

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Labels: Holiday

Strategically it was a simple holiday; low key and low maintenance, and whilst there was something very fedora hat and imported copies of the Independent about a week in Tuscany, it met all pre-defined objectives. We were based in Il Cagnagno; a tiny hill village outside Pistoia which was accessible only by “A rough but asphalted road”, as if to say, ‘well at least it’s asphalted, what do you want? Jam on it?’

Emma took driving responsibilities, a fair challenge for the winding ascents to the apartment which were reminiscent of family holidays driving through the Alps and Pyrenees. One time mum took over from a tiring dad whilst driving over a precarious Alpine pass. As she pulled away, a guide book balanced on the dashboard slid down and jammed behind the steering wheel locking it up and putting the car on a direct trajectory towards the edge of a million foot drop. She eventually decided to brake, and shaken they swapped back over so dad carried on driving, fully rested from travelling fifteen feet in the passenger seat.

Our apartment was a converted something or other with narrow windows like those you find on castles. Maybe Il Cagnagno was an independent state, as many of the towns in the area seem to have been, although with a population of no more than six, its nuclear arsenal was likely to be limited.

The pool next door was a honeypot for beautiful middle class locals. Young Italian women are without exception slim sexy bronzed nymphets able to wear bikinis without a second warning, capable of walking in 38 degree heat without perspiring a bead of sweat, and able to exit and enter swimming pools like supermodels. But their gorgeousness is short lived because young sexy slim Italian women just don’t grow into older sexy slim Italian women. They leap straight to being gnarly 32 stone deep sea monsters with jowls like a clowns pocket. Could it be that the diet of pasta and pizza, and inevitable stream of dates they attract catches up with them? That they wake up one morning with legs like oak trees. Perhaps Italian men don’t marry the thin ones because mama wouldn’t accept them (no child baring hips, don’t like their food, sullied by years of being gorgeous) and the fat ugly ones, hidden away learning to cook for years, suddenly become desirable wife material. Emma thinks that British Women win overall because they may start plain, but at least they sustain their plainness longer. 


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Labels: Holiday

I am currently away from this blog, I shall be returning in a week, I will deal with your queries then. If your need for blog relief is urgent, please contact another blogger. But then come back to me. I’m funnier, and rely on your site hits to give my life value and purpose.

Yep, I’m off on holiday, which I’m sure you’re relieved to hear. I am fully aware during this hottest of hot patches, you could perceive from my recent musings that I, the boy Ruffles, have spent the last month playing tennis once, going out for dinner with Katie once and watching a whole heap of TV. This isn’t true. The TV bit is, but I have done other stuff.

It’s true I don’t really like the heat, if I were to choose one season to live in for the rest of my life; it would be winter (I can’t abide the Halfling seasons of spring and autumn). I find it very difficult to enjoy a hot day. I can’t sit in the garden and read a book, I mean I can read, but I’m not like Clare at college who covered her legs in cooking oil when sunbathing. She fried, quite literally.

This is the funniest time of year for me. It’s my birthday on Saturday, an occasion of underwhelming gravitas. The school summer holidays meant opportunities for parties and presents from friends were limited. Even when people were around, I wasn’t. I’ve spent many birthdays sitting in the boot of a car waiting to board a ferry on the first stage of an annual family invasion of Europe. We’ve even had holidays when I’ve gone back to work after two weeks on my birthday.

It doesn’t even have a particularly special place in the family calendar. Y’see we have a family birthday week. Two days before mine is Annia’s birthday, three days after is Kirsty’s. Yeah, go on, parents as regular as clockwork. Even Australia Jo’s is on the 5th. Emma’s 30th, which exists in blessed isolation in the middle of May, lasts forever. Her 30th lasted a month. My 30th was cocooned in several other birthdays and eclipsed, quite rightly, by Penny’s wedding. Over the years my birthday has simply paled into insignificance.

But I’m not bitter, the football season starts on Saturday which is compensation enough for me - life’s not that bad.

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Labels: General me

I should have gone to the gym or the pool or have done something because by 9pm last night my teeth were itching with boredom. Emma turned to watch That’ll Teach ‘Em on Channel 4, a series where children of the noughties are taught in the style of the 50’s.

There was nothing wrong nor right with the programme, it filled a space in the schedule whilst most people enjoyed the last of the evening sun in parks and gardens up and down the country.

The only interesting thing about it was Mr Daplin the PE teacher. Y’see, Mr Daplin was one of my PE teachers at school, a PE Teacher Without Portfolio. He wasn’t the debonair Mr Jones (Brittle Bones, Jam and Scones) the head of the department and destined for a deputy headship. He wasn’t in the brigade of young bucks, like Mr Bannister, who was subject to enduring, probably apocryphal tales of being banned from one of the school’s sites after being found in the showers with a sixth form girl. Nor was he, The PE Teacher Who Used to Play for Morton, who definitely did enjoy carnal knowledge of someone he taught, because nowadays they are often seen cosily doing their weekly shopping together around town.

Mr Daplin was just a ubiquitous presence in the changing rooms of our school (am I allowed to say that?). Little did we know of the successful TV career he was planning for himself.

I can’t let this pass without giving you the simple stratification of women games teachers. There were only two kinds, the Gorgeous Ones (at our school numbered one – though thinking back she did look like a Duran Duran groupie, but at least she was young and wore a short games skirt), and The Lesbians. The Lesbians all had husbands and children, but because they were women and hung around where women got naked, and had short hair they were all lesbians, those were the rules. Don’t blame me for it, this is the law of PE.

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Labels: TV and radio

I took the opportunity to watch Fat Bob’s Knebworth shindig on Saturday and I just don’t get it. I don’t blame Bob himself; he’s just doing what he’s doing, and getting paid handsomely for it. And I don’t deny he can be entertaining. But is he really 375,000 people in three days entertaining?

Don’t get me wrong, he’s not blameless; his craving for fame is nauseous, thanking everyone from his family to his manager but “most importantly his fans” and claiming he was “Your son Great Britain”. But why do people pay £30 and more to watch a bloke doing a wedding reception cabaret? Bob claims he wants to be Iggy Pop and Johnny Rotten when he goes on stage but it all comes out Norman Wisdom and he hates it. He’s right, he’s basically a cynical rip-off of stadium performers throughout the ages – from Freddie Mercury the yodelling call and response skit to the Bono-esque ‘saving’ someone from the crowd crush (a crush incidentally, which everyone else on the front row seemed to endure with big smiles on their faces). Throw in a little bit of the big show off at the school disco, and you seem to have a pop phenomenon.

There is an element of empathy in all successful music. So perhaps that’s it, maybe the girls want to regress back to school and be all giggly and silly around the good looking fool, the cheeky chappy who could get away with looking up their skirts in science lessons. The blokes just wish they could go back to that time or have had the guts to get away with it.

There are other benefits of course, it’s definitely cheaper and easier to see one Robbie gig than put the effort into seeing Oasis, The Stones, Queen, Bowie, U2, Bono, Take That and Wisdom live. It’s also easier to buy one Robbie CD than the back catalogues of all these bands. It’s definitely more interesting to see it at Knebworth than at a working men’s club. Although, don’t kid yourselves, we saw Oasis at Knebworth and when you’re as far back as we were, it’s more of a buzz for the singer that the crowd.

Will we look back on the Robbie phenomenon with a slightly embarrassed snigger, much like we will look back on Sex And The City and conclude that the women looked not like fashion icons, but like crap on a rope stick (whatever that is) and that all we fell for was the fact that Kim Catrell was prepared to do full frontal nudity in a mainstream TV show, and say “fuck”, or as she actually says “Fuuuurk”.

It’s definitely on the cards, the show last night seemed to involve Let Me Entertain You followed by two hours of fillers rounded off with Angels. In between were a series of skits and celebrity guests (well Max Beesley) and few vaguely recognisable hits, of which only Kids really makes the grade. What I assume is the new stuff, sounds like ropey copies of the old stuff and whilst I’m bored of it now, others’ will get bored of it soon enough. What Robbie does for his fame then, god only knows.

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Labels: Music

I’ve put a new mix in the mix club. Knowing that Simon, who will always gets a copy, occasionally does his gym stuff to Ruffles’ mixes, and knowing how hardcore Plump DJ’s TB Reality is, this is called the Simon Splits A Kidney Mix.

Shake It (Mutiny Funk Mix) - Marascia
Stucco Homes (Return of the Ghost Mix) - Brett Johnson and Dave Barker
Shine On (Circoloco Remix) - Lucky Vs Hill Sixty
Patricia Never Leaves The House (Wally Lopez & Dr Kucho 2003 Edit) - Wally Lopez and Dr Kucho
Thrill Me - Junior Jack
Dooms Night (Da Hardstylaz Remix) - Azzido Da Bass
Body Freefall Electronic Inform #2 (Counterplan Mix) - Luke Slater
Bucci Bag (Wally Lopez Weekend Con Mazo De Graves!! Mix) - Andrea Doria
TB Reality – Plump DJs
Remember My Name – Plump DJs
No Ticket to Run – Santos
Killa Instinct – Initial Research
Noels House Party – Midfield General
People of the World Unite (Jon Carter Mix) - Tony Thomas & Access S8
Deeper Down (Hill Sixty Remix) - DKS

Hell, I’m so excited, I’m going to put another mix in there, it’s an oldie but a goodie - here’s my Wedding Special: -

Young Scene
Groove is in the Heart – Deee Lite
Doin’ The Doo – Betty Boo
Vogue – Madonna
Can’t Get You Out Of My Head – Kylie Minogue
Static Avenger
Roger Sanchez
Café Del Mar – Energy 52
Professional Widow (Armand Van Helden Mix) – Tori Amos
Red Alert – Basement Jaxx
Renegade Master (Fatboy Slim Mix) - Wildchild
Hey Boy Hey Girl – Chemical Brothers
Because of You - Scanty Sandwich
Born Slippy – Underworld
Star 69 – Fatboy Slim

By the way if you have asked for a CD, I’m getting round to it.

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Labels: Music

I rather like Busted, well I like the principle. Whilst I’m sure they’re not a statement on the hackneyed rehash of punk rock attitude that fills MTV, it would be nice to think their was some art statement going on behind their chiselled good looks.

Emma often talks about their single “Year 3000”, in which they claim to have been to the Year, er, 3000 and how the story in the song doesn't ring true: -

Overlooking some outstanding rhyming couplets including “Funny noise” and “Rowdy boys” the story begins when the lads see their neighbour Peter holding a Flux capacitor, part of a time machine he’d built. Instantly, the boys recognise it as like the one they'd seen in a film. Peter, the errant genius replies with the rather unsettling “Yeah, Yeah”. Now we’re not given any indication as to whether this was a nonchalant agreeing “Yeah Yeah” or a rock god “YEAH! YEAH!” either way it’s a less than inspiring response from someone who has changed the face of science using no more than Back to the Future as reference.

Things then begin to spin out a little. You see, thanks to Peter, they’ve been to the year 3000 where not much has changed but they live under water. Here I must interject, I know younger people are more agreeable to evolutionary change, but surely even they must agree living underwater is somewhat of a significant change, for example, you couldn't eat digestive biscuits anymore.

Now whilst change is unnerving the Boys reassure us that your great, great, great grand daughter is pretty fine. Now my reaction to any punk with a guitar making overt advances on a relative would be to pin him up against a wall and cut his throat. However, if this is your great great great granddaughter, to be still living in the Year 3000 she would have to be nigh on 800 years old. In which case Busted are a bunch of sick little shits. On the other hand she may be your 23rd generation granddaughter, but that wouldn't scan.

The next thing they see in this world where not much has changed is triple breasted women who swim around town… totally naked. They're adament that this is fairly normal.

But as the song progresses it sounds like Busted are doing OK. Their song has gone multiple platinum – which is not surprising, Prince has a big hit in 1999 with 1999, Eurythmics with 1984 in 1984, presumably Paul Hardcastle will be raking it in with 19-9-9-9-9-9-9-19. But that's a few year's off, and a terrible terrible joke to boot.

Things are going well for the boys, everybody buying their seventh album and its outsold Mich…. Hang on, SEVENTH? What the bloody hell have they been doing to cause them to release an album on average nearly every 143 years? Those cheeky scamps with their boyband rock hybrid music are cheating the fans. Looking at the evidence, and their simple workshy attitudes, I think they could be an evil marketing scam pulled by a major record label.

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Labels: Music

Getting back from dinner with Katie on Friday, not tired and having heard nothing of the result of the Big Brother final I decided to watch it on video (yes, yes, we videoed it, bite me). I sent a text to Emma who is away on Sara’s hen do: “Watching BB on vid, don’t know who wins.” Seconds later she replied “Cameron wins”.

Well of course it’s not been as good other years but the killer 10pm daily update are perfect to keep you watching, Once you’ve bedded in for the night, its too late to go and do something new or demanding, too early for bed. You might as well let BB keep you company.

In Jon Tickle we’ve been able to watch the seduction of fame. Despite claims that he feared it in the outside world he, quickly fell for the whole national hero bunkum. So complicit was his fascination with the fickle mistress, by the time they put him back into the house, he truly believed that he had some kind of holding power over people claiming he would mess with their heads. This, he plainly failed to do, resorting to bleating embarrassingly at Cameron about why he never expressed an opinion. This was because Cameron was too canny to expose himself more than he needed to. Sadly Jon’s own mortality was cruelly exposed in that he was an ordinary bloke in an extraordinary world, not the other way round.

Of Cameron’s opinions, the one that did stand out was that he didn’t believe in same sex marriages. Sissy, who grated both in and out of the house, claimed that he shouldn’t win because he didn’t have the same view as “normal” people. Mind you this was the same person who developed a series of vendettas with people who nominated her, like it was in anyway avoidable. The crucial thing about his view was that he began the sentence, “It is certainly my opinion…”, that is he didn’t want to impress it onto others, that was just how he saw it. It is certainly my opinion that it is OK to hold a personal opinion, whilst I don’t agree with his view, his opinion is valid on this point alone. He also doesn’t believe in sex before marriage or excessive drinking, but I didn’t see him casting opinions or shunning those who did.

Big Brother is like a night out with friends. It could be just another night, it could be the best night of your life, either way, you participate to see which it will be. This is probably why it’s often branded boring, because it’s hard to induce the entertainment on demand. When you do try to do that it’s totally crass and cack handed… and called Fame Academy.

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Labels: TV and radio

I once bought mum a kite for her birthday. After some aborted launches throwing it in the air in a vane attempt to catch a gust, dad suggested we take a run up with the kite trailing behind. The instructions on the kite contradicted the approach, but Dad countered that he knew more than most about kite flying as he’d been doing it for “30 years”. It didn’t take Stephen Hawkins to work out that this would mean he’d started flying kites in his late twenties, about the time I was born which is a funny hobby to take up in a crisis. Either that or maybe time got lost somewhere.

“Your summer sport?” said Emma incredulously “When have you ever had a summer sport?”

Tennis is my summer sport; I just haven’t had a tennis partner for fourteen years. I used to play every day and was a member of our local club; we used to play best of about 140 sets in a single session. I was a bit of a Boris Becker, and a lot of a Boris Johnson.

I’ve not had a regular tennis partner since, what kind of girl do you think I am? I don’t just play with anyone. In Gareth I now have a potential tennis partner, so my natural talents could again grace the (school) tennis courts of Britain.

Playing on Wednesday for the first time in at least two years, I thought I would be rusty, but it was positively alien. The fourteen year gap since I played regularly opened up in front of me like a yawning chasm. Hitting a tennis ball involves moving your feet into a position far enough away to get a good swing, close enough to hit the ball. Power comes from your legs, through your spine and into your arms. The forearms are used for direction, and the wrist adds the spin.

But playing was not like riding a bike, for one thing, there’s no bike. Much as I tried to work it through, my brain couldn’t move my feet, so before I knew it the ball was hitting my forehead. The new fangled racket I borrowed off Sara did all the work in terms of power, so my viciously whipped forehand top spins sent the ball sailing over the fence, over the school maths block, and the English block, and into the Eastern bloc. Whilst I wrestled with the basics, Gareth waited patiently for a ball to come over the net, or eagerly chased after each homer lamped over the fence. Me? I apologised, a lot.

And now my shoulders burn, my fingers have blistered, my summer sport is as alien to me as buffalo racing. We’ll try again next week.

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Labels: General me

ITV have introduced a new programme into their Thursday night ‘ooh the weekend is coming’ schedule. Previously post Big Brother was Club Reps and Pleasure Seekers – a programme that shot itself in the foot by introducing its features before the programme began.

“This week on Pleasure Seekers, a woman who dresses like an antelope for sexual pleasure”

Click, bed time.

The pack has been shuffled by moving Falaraki based Club Reps into the later Pleasure Seekers slot amidst tabloid outcry of teenagers going to the Greek Island on cheap holidays and drinking and having sex. The 10.30 slot is now occupied by Young, Posh and Loaded.

This is a “Reality TV Show” aka a documentary with no substance that ridicules the likes of Donetella for the indulgencies of her parents, one of which was her £45,000 Mini, a present from her dad for failing her driving test.

We were also introduced to a 23 year old “party animal” whose name escapes me; he wants to control London and everyone in it. His David Brent philosophising had a future of heroin addiction and bankruptcy written all over it.

He tells us his privileged background only gave him the foundation for take-off in his career, his ability provides the dynamite, his drive ignites the fuse. He didn’t need a weapon to murder the analogy; he strangled it with his bare hands.

Furthermore, it was all about the money, nothing else. “Some people think money is a dirty word, I don’t think money is a dirty word, in fact I think it’s a particularly clean word” – illustrating ‘clean’ by stretching an imaginary elastic band between his fingers.

None of this prepared us for Victoria Aitken, daughter of disgrace MP Jonathan. Victoria claimed she was neither posh, nor loaded, in fact she’s the opposite to Jennifer Lopez (what? Small bottom and, er, what’s the opposite of a velour tracksuit?) She even had a lyric to describe it - she was, it seems, “just Vicki from the yacht, she had a lot now she’s got a little”.

Victoria’s natural rhythm and her rhyming ability clearly cut her out to be a “rap star” – a career she’s very serious in pursuing. Now I don’t know if the TV crew simply gave her a couple of grand to make an idiot of herself, but for reasons best known to herself, she went to Soho for a hip hop open mic “battle” session. She was clearly intent on showing the rough boys how she can spit lyrics with the best of them. Without shame or hesitancy she got on the mic in front of hundreds of hardened hip hoppers for her first battle in a pair of slacks and a red jumper and danced like your mum at a wedding. Thankfully her lyrics saved her: -

“I wear red like Queen Victoria, Yeah Yeah Yeah Yeah Yeah Yeah”.

Her battle partner opened with something like, “You’re a sloan, I’m gonna give you my bone...” going on to describe how he would flip her over, fill all the holes she had etc. etc.

Guess who won?

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Labels: TV and radio