If you remember way back when, I got excited about Rumer’s debut album, Seasons of My Soul. I still think ‘Slow’ is one of the most beautiful songs I’ve heard. It’s a song that can calm me, if only for four minutes at a time, no matter what else is going on in my life. I knew from that very first play I heard on the radio that the girl can sing. Subsequent appearances on Later with Jools Holland (back in 2011 and then again last week) have, to me, proven that I was right to think she’s awesome. Which, of course, makes me pretty badass too. Not ‘badass’ in a Chuck Norris kind of way, but badass in a musical Nostradamus kind of way. That’s me: 12th level black-belt in predicting upcoming cultural trends, and clocking Rumer two years ago was pretty much a roundhouse to your musical face. I’m the talent-finding equivalent of Patrick Swayze's Dalton and I’ve just defeated the future in nothing but dirty sweats and a bad haircut. Don't pretend not to know what I'm talking about. We all know that Road House is quite possibly the best misunderstood drifter, quasi-martial arts film of 1989 with a the tagline 'The dancing's over. Now it gets dirty.' I mean... COME ON!
So anyway, she’s back. Her latest album is called ‘Boys Don’t Cry’ and features 12 songs, comprising ‘a diverse collection of covers, paying tribute to some of her favourite 70s songs.’ The variety of the tracks is interesting, including songs from Leon Russell, Issac Hayes and Bob Marley. But, to be honest, she had me at ‘Hall and Oates.’
Wrap your ears around this, the lead track ‘PF Sloan’ – originally written and recorded by Jimmy Webb in 1970. If it doesn't chill you out, or at least make you smile, I'll eat my stonewashed jeans.
I can't count how many times a day I refuse coffee. Go to a meeting, get offered coffee. Go see a colleague, get offered coffee. Go for a meal, get offered coffee. Starbucks this, Costa Coffee that. From toothless hobos, to penny-farthing riding hipsters, to middle-aged soccer moms and blue-haired, absent-minded grannies...everyone loves coffee, right? Not me. I hate the stuff - and it's not for lack of trying. I’ve wanted for YEARS to like coffee more than I do, and to some extent The Bean and I have had a love/hate relationship since I was old enough to smell.
Lies, all lies.
My mom was an avid coffee drinker, and even though I was religiously opposed to drinking the stuff, I took a lot of pride in being able to make her cup exactly how she wanted it. Well, exactly how I thought she wanted it, anyway. It may have been lovely; then again it may have been like the time I made her a ham sandwich that was more mustard than bread and not much ham at all. I didn’t always get it right, I’m sure – but as a child I loved the precarious two-handed presentation of the overflowing mug that (regardless of the quality of the brew) resulted in a smile and the thanks of someone who really believed that it was the thought that counted.
Even today, I love the dark, seductive scent that surges out and slides smoothly up your nose when you open a new vacuum-sealed bag. I love the drip, drip, drip of the old-fashioned percolator machine as it passes the hot water through the filter. And I love the deep-chocolate colour of the perfect cup of coffee, with just the right amount of milk and sugar to bring the drink back from the bitter edge. That’s the love bit.
What's Sanskrit for 'Alpaca Poo'?
Unfortunately, the hate bit starts just as the taste of that foul stuff hits my lips. It’s truly horrible, and no matter how much my nose and nostalgia try to convince my taste buds that it’s worth drinking, I can’t help but think that the rest of world has been conned into drinking hot muddy goat’s pee and paying £3 a grandé for the privilege. Some ancient food and drink gambles have paid off. Like the guy who first saw a mushroom and thought, “It may look dirty, smell of wee and feel a little like a rotting sponge, but I’ll eat it. What could possible go wrong?” Brave man (or woman); genius. All of my pizzas (and a few good nights out) thank you.
But to the Ethiopian farmer who first thought that it would be a good idea to push hot water through ground-up coffee beans: you, sir, were a fool. Not only have you inadvertently created a coffee subculture of pseudo-snobbery, ruined the breath and teeth of millions of people AND taken professional basketball out of Seattle – but you’ve made liars out of my eyes and nose. I blame you personally for every mocha-based chocolate I’ve spat out in surprise, every tiramisu I’ve left unfinished on my plate and every coffee-flavoured jelly bean that snuck its way into my mouth. Your only saving grace is the coincidental invention of the Chocolate Cream Frappuccino® Blended Crème’ which has no coffee in it at all and (let’s face it) is really just an overpriced watered-down milkshake riding on the coattails of delicious-sounding drinks like the caramel macchiato and espresso con panna. Man those sound good. They sound sexy. They sound important. Then I remember that they’re all jut fancy ways to say coffee, and coffee is horrible. Give me a nice cup of tea any time. No, wait. I hate tea, too. But somehow ‘I like my women like I like my drinks: cold and fizzy’ just doesn’t sound right.
A couple of weeks ago, I went to see Dara O’Briain in Manchester. The weekend away with my brother-in-law was a present from our respective wives (sisters to each other), and included two nights’ stay in a hotel, plus tickets to see the bald Irish funnyman. The weekend was a golden opportunity for both of us, if only for the fact that we were going to SLEEP (an event that is all-to-often curtailed by his 3 young boys and my 2 young daughters). Of course there were many other things to do as well: FA Cup Final, Avengers in the cinema, beer. So, with all of the culture and buzz of a big city that Manchester had to offer, I feel obliged to report that the thing I was most excited about was being able to visit one of only three Taco Bells in the UK.
When I first visited the UK in 1992, there were 5 Taco Bells in London alone. Every time we visited the Capital (which was often during that year abroad), we either ate there or at Pizza Hut, and sometimes at both. Even at 21 years old, we were under no illusion that either of these places represented fine American dining, or that they demonstrated any kind of refinement in our palettes. But when you’re eating the canteen version of British food, which is already as soggy and as gravy-laden as British food is, there was something so – comforting – about visiting a familiar place to eat, even if it meant dealing with the intestinal consequences for days after.
And, if I’m totally honest, I fucking LOVE Taco Bell. I can hear my foodie friends' jaws dropping in disgust. Yes, I know what’s in it. I know it’s the shit on the bottom of the boot of pond scum at the bottom of the lake in even the lowest valley of the American fast food pecking order. I know that a 99c taco is that cheap for a reason, and I’m pretty sure they’re playing fast and free with the term ‘beef’. But I still love it. It’s the first place I go to when I land back home. My dad no longer meets me at SeaTac, he meets me at the Taco Bell on the corner of 188th and International Blvd. I ate it every day during my summer as a ‘Landscape Hydration Engineer’ (I fixed sprinkler heads at the local mall), and could eat it most days still if I had the chance. But I don’t have the chance, really - because by the time I returned to the UK in 1996, Taco Bell had disappeared, even from London.
So I waited. And waited. I campaigned to Taco Bell International to bring it back to the UK. I enquired about a franchise. I kept my burrito-loving ears to the ground, living in hope of a triumphant return. I knew it would eventually be back, of course. Subway had come over and was doing well. I no longer had to have the pilot dad of a friend sneak tortillas into the country; I could buy them at the shop. When I served nachos at parties, the beans weren't mistaken for peanut butter or dog food. People were becoming more aware of good Mexican food, so it was only a matter of time before the cheap-and-nasty version of it popped up its Chiuaua-shaped head, too. Sure enough, in the summer of 2010, Taco Bell UK re-opened its methane-producing kitchens on UK soil just the other side of London.
Of course, by that time I’d moved back to Aber, which meant a 6-hour drive to The Border. Plans were made and pilgrimages plotted. Unfortunately, every time I prepared to make the run, something got in my way. Things like the birth of a child, or a car crash, or Christmas…
So you can imagine my joy when I actually arrived in Manchester’s Arndale Centre, looking square-on at the Purple and Yellow cloche that would signal an end to both my taco bell drought and any hope of having a healthy gut. I was ready. I’d taken the top bunk and worn loose jeans for a reason. My moment had come, and I would not be denied. I approached, more patiently than I thought would be possible as the ill-informed track-suited British public tried to make sense of the alien menu. The words stumbled out of my mouth in sheer anticipation as I ordered the same thing I always order in the States: two tacos, two bean burritos and a refillable drink. I handed over my coins, looking around to see if anyone could tell how ridiculously giddy I was to be paying for my whole meal in loose change. I filled up my drink, waited for my number to be called. Finally, I heard those magical numbers: 119. One. One. Nine. I approached the counter and recognised the familiar wrapping of my tacos and burritos. I welled up, and just looked at the spoils of my efforts. I looked to Stuart with what must have been the most pathetic, imploring eyes, begging to be mercifully released from the shackles of social convention. ‘Go ahead,’ he said as he waited for his order to be called. ‘I’ll catch up.’ I found a table. I sat down. I was home.
And you know what? It wasn’t bad. I mean, it wasn’t Nirvana or anything. I mean come on, it’s just Taco Bell.
I had two in-depth conversations about sport the other day. For anyone who knows me, this is noteworthy for many reasons. Firstly and most importantly: I don’t know anything about sport. Yes, I play a few sports regularly and have tried a few more over the years, with varying degrees of success. But as most of my unfortunate teammates, opponents and some supporters will bear witness – and as my ironic college nickname of ‘Smooth’ will confirm – I’ve never been particularly graceful or especially tuned-in to the social conventions of sport - nor particularly interested in acquiring the encyclopaedic knowledge of sport that some of my friends can espouse. Luckily, such a deadly combination of historical ignorance, physical incompetence and social awkwardness was never a source of serious concern for me; I just accepted myself as a clumsy nerd who happened to like playing sport.
My pre-college sporting ‘career’ was peppered with moments of ridiculously uncoordinated calamities. I broke my arm the first time I carried the ball in football, EVER. I dislocated the shoulder of a champion wrestler the first time I wrestled. I nearly bit through my own tongue playing basketball. I farted LOUDLY as I took off during the long-jump (winning, I might add). At my first pole vault invitational, I misaligned the bend of the pole and managed to vault myself away from the crash mat and into the bench of competitors – to the raucous applause of the crowd and the palpable annoyance of the shell-shocked vaulters-in-waiting who generously cushioned my landing. The list of my truly cringe-worthy primary and secondary school sporting mishaps made me something of a loveable idiot when it came to competition: I was never either the best or the worst player on any team, but you sure as hell didn’t want to be around me when things went wrong. ‘The Hammer’ is not a nickname that many co-ordinated middle school basketball players get – nor is it one that is earned without more than a few exceptionally violent fouls. A game I didn’t foul out of wasn’t worth playing in – fact.
So when I went to college, and tried new sports, I’m not sure why I expected anything to be different. It wasn’t, of course. I was as much a klutz at 18 ½ as I was at 18. I know… who’d have guessed, right? My one-week introduction to Lacrosse in my freshmen year of college resulted in me basically blowing $200 on protective wear for creative and misguided drinking games. After all, what could possibly be more fun for a drunk 18-year-old than massive gloves, a helmet and big stick – especially when you’re the only one who has all of these wonderful things?
In fact, college turned out to be a veritable smorgasbord of sporting mishaps, as I looked to fulfil the PE requirement of my degree with as many unfamiliar sports I could sign up for – and all of which ended badly. Taekwondo ended after 2 semesters when I accidentally broke the instructor’s nose with an ill-advised and poorly-executed sidekick during a sparring session. Needless to say, Gyo-san-nim Roberts (an ROTC jarhead) was not overly happy and the next few weeks of class included several demonstrations just for me, all of which seemed to end up with the back of his leg hooking the back of my head and sending me ungracefully to the mat.
Who's ready for a few laps? Backstroke...? No...?
I fared a little better in Beginner’s Golf, until one of my shots at the driving range managed to find its way in through the metal grid of the tractor cab that was protecting the ball collector. It was sometime, between giggles, before I was able to convince them that I hadn’t done it on purpose. Anyone who's seen me play golf will confirm that me hitting anything on purpose just isn't possible.
And then there was the Conditioning Swimming disaster, where my eagerness to commit to the class – and perhaps a latent penchant for skimpy swimwear – allowed me to introduce myself to my mostly male classmates as the only person in Speedos. Luckily, the act of swimming laps in a pool for 45 minutes is pretty anti-social, and I can only hope that everyone else was hung-over/still drunk enough not to remember by the time I reappeared in week 2, with my baggy shorts and averted eyes.
So when I get into a conversation about sport, I’m usually – instantly – out of both my depth and my comfort zone. And yet, this week, it happened twice.
And I can’t say that either conversation would be particularly interesting to write about. One was about the ridiculous and unrealistically short-sighted nature of the professional English football (soccer) managers’ jobs; the other was about the need to recognise a balance between ‘talking’ and ‘doing’, and being able to understand that different people motivate themselves and their teammates differently. At the time of each of these conversations, I’m sure I felt educated and entitled to forward an opinion.
Emotional Knapsack: disappointing on so many levels
But the fact is, really… I don’t know anything about sport. I know how to play some sports well, and I know how to help other people to play some sports well – but I am NOT the guy you want on your sports-themed pub quiz night. I’ve known people who can rattle off players on teams from 20 years ago. I’ve sat and heard someone who was failing out college list off the complete batting records of the entire 1993 Seattle Mariners. I am not that guy. I name my fantasy football teams after obscure Friends references. I pick my horse at Cheltenham every year on any tenuous link to me, the United States or general silliness. Shakalakaboomboom did not pay a very good return on my £5 investment this year. Every March Madness bracket I fill in has UNC as the champion, regardless of whether they’re any good or, indeed, even in the tournament in the first place. My Six Nations fantasy team usually consists of at least three guys who retired a few weeks before the competition begins. I am NOT the guy you want on your quiz team, but I AM the guy you want to be playing against.
At least, in quiz, the chances of me showing up in a shiny green Speedo are less likely. Not completely impossible, but far less likely. But what do I know...?
I’m happy to report that both of my children survived the weekend, with all of their digits and most of their hair. I’m calling that a win. We had a shaky Saturday, if I’m honest, when I tried to move the sleeping feverish child from the sofa to her room. What’s that saying...‘Let sleeping spawns of Satan lie…?’ Something like that. Well, this effort to clear the living room (so that the Watching of the Six Nations could transpire un-shushed) proved to provide the Mother of All Backfires, as my half-banshee child screamed the house down upon my gentle and loving attempt at removal - thus waking Cherub #2. THAT ended up in a 50-minute drive around Nant-y-Moch (which isn’t quite as beautiful when draped in thick, squelchy mist) and me missing the entire second half of the Wales v. Italy game. Luckily, balance was restored on Sunday as the Screaming Eagle fancied a trip to the farm (not a euphemism – the in-laws are farmers) and the Drool-and-Poop Factory slept for 3 hours, giving me plenty of time to watch the England v. France game and clean the house in preparation for Mummy’s return. Expect the short story and afterschool special, “Daddy Needs Some Sleep” sometime in the summer of 2013.
In the meantime, enjoy this clip of Paul Reiser (post-Aliens but pre-Mad About You), introducing us to 'My Two Dads' - a sitcom about a child who is placed into the care of two men by a strict-but-kind-hearted judge. Of course, the Two Dads in question are two former boyfriends of Nicole's deceased mother Marcy (never explained) - both of whom we'd have to assume slept with her mother around the same time (never explained), with hilarious consequences. Anyway, it takes TWO of you to do this job? Child, please.
PS - How Dick Butkus got overlooked for an Emmy in his role as Ed Klawicki, I'll never know. Maybe his commitment to the role was diluted by all of the guest appearances he was making in 80s television. Murder, She Wrote, Night Court, Matlock AND Growing Pains? A man can only do so much, Dick (there's never been a more important comma than that one right there).
Italy's Luke McLean. Apparently,
he can spell 'lasagne', so he's Italian.*
So I'm in charge of my two daughters this weekend. Mom is off to the nation's capital to 'watch' Wales v. Italy in the Six Nations Tournament. For my friends who live outside the UK, Six Nations is an 8-week rugby union tournament when the best players in England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, and France play to see who's the best team in Europe and Italy plays guys like Kristopher Burton, Paul Derbyshire and Luke McLean in the hopes of someday not being the whipping boys of the Northern Hemisphere. For the players on their respective national teams, it's an opportunity to apply their skills at the highest levels of competition, and outside of the Rugby World Cup, I'd imagine nothing means more to a rugger than to claim the Six Nations title. For the fans, it's an 8-week piss-up and an annual excuse to be in a pub from 10am on Saturday until lunchtime Sunday in the name of sport. And, seeing how my espoused has had exactly one night of alcoholic consumption in the last 18 months, I'm expecting her to make the most of it. Which probably means she'll be asleep in the corner of some pub somewhere by about halftime.
So while she's off bnoozing (boozing and snoozing, of course), I will be home with a 2-year-old who seems to have developed an inability to focus on anything other than Fireman Sam (LIVE!) for more than a minute and a half and a six-month-old who I'm sure would gum me to death if she a) had the chance or b) could sit up. My coping strategy depends a great deal on the following, the absence of any one of which could result in me being overrun by toddlers and/or eaten by my cat:
Keep them entertained. I have a tv repairman on retainer for the weekend. He has promised to supply me with a working television and/or live Fireman Sam actors upon request. I have also secretly learned to juggle shiny objects and cats.
Keep them well-fed. The fact that I am off bread for Lent means that we have plenty of stale pieces of it in the house. I live in Wales, so water should not be a problem. So that's the basics covered. Besides, worse comes to worst: I've seen my kids - they could stand to lose a few pounds.
Keep them well-rested. I have invested in several hundred metres of black-out blinds. While they sleep tonight, I plan to darken out every window in the house. Hopefully this will convince (trick is such an ugly word) their body-clocks that we now live in the Arctic Circle and being awake will not be necessary until mid-April.
Keep them dry. I've adopted the US military's 'Don't Ask, Don't Tell' policy and will assume that they both are urine and faeces free until they can articulate a coherent message to me that they are otherwise. If they can't ASK for me to change their nappies, then it can't be that bad, right...?
I think that pretty much covers all my bases. Right now the only potential failure in my carefully considered plan of action is if they don't like watching rugby on television. If that turns out to be the case (or I cannot convince Darling Daughter #1 that Sam Warbuton is Norman Price's cousin), then I need to find something else to occupy 300 minutes between now and Sunday afternoon.
Also: is 2 too young to be sent on a beer run?
I'm reasonably confident that most of us will survive.
* I had to look up how to spell 'lasagne', thus proving my on-going theory that I'm 7/8th Irish.
