Tuesday, February 27, 2007

Silverton crushed by Romana



BBC Breakfast's Kaplinsky clone, Kate Silverton produced an abysmal performance on the red carpet at this year's Oscars. A shame really because she's far more likeable than the ruthlessly ambitious automaton Kaplinsky, despite the scandal of the Philip Hayton on-air walkout. The normally bespectacled pretender looked liked she'd actually lost her glasses in the melee as she struggled to maintain a semblance of control in the red carpet scrum.

Given the open goal of a generous 3-4 minutes with the newly Oscar-ed Helen Mirren she couldn't seem to ask any other question than a variation of the most banal question of them all - "what was going through your mind as they announced the winner". That was followed by "and what were you thinking as you walked to the stage".

I can only assume she must have panicked. This interview had clearly been negotiated well in advance and I can't believe she didn't have a better set of questions prepared. The rest of her time was spent looking more and more uncomfortable with each feeble attempt to shout for the various big names going past, admitting "it's not very dignified is it ?"



By contrast, GMTV's feisty resident LA correspondent Carla Romano was far more at ease. Years of working the red carpet have sharpened her tactics for lassoo-ing the ones that count and even when she fails it's not the personal tragedy that Silverton clearly felt.

So where now for Silverton ? Not quite ready for that big leap into Saturday evening television, a nice daytime quiz show might be a short-term solution. Rob Curling gained a cult following in his time for the under-rated Turnabout and it could be time for a celebrity version 2.0 Still, someone at the BBC is clearly intent on fast-tracking her as she also fronted a pointless Panorama "expose" of some IVF doctor which created barely a ripple of media interest.



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Saturday, February 17, 2007

On a roll


Certain things in life demand to be preserved for eternal online posterity. And this, a birthday cake made up of a beautiful formation of home made sausage rolls, is one of them. Weary from a forgettable trip once more to Euroland that necessitated a 4am start on my birthday itself, this miraculous Homer Simpson-like fantasy made reality instantly dissolved my black mood.

Thanks to all who made this happen. For those who know me, sausage rolls have long been an Achilles heel of mine. An appetite destroyer that triggers a genetically implanted Pavlovian response, I only have to be a few minutes early at Victoria Station on the way home, and the West Cornwall Pasty Co comes a calling.

Of course, for £1.20 I know I'm probably necking a concoction of 25% at best mechanically recovered meat so imagine the liberation I felt as I gorged on multiple sausage rolls made with high class pure meat from the posh butchers.

It's barely three days past and I can only wish there were still some waiting for me to snack on with my morning cup of tea.In the meantime, I have the photo to remember this special occasion by.

Thursday, February 15, 2007

Where's The Mincemeat?


At times of strain, recently, I've found myself quietly singing "Where's the mincemeat, Alan Rough, Alan Rough, Alan Rough? It's in your pocket" to the tune of 'London Bridge is Falling Down'. It seems to comfort me.

Now, as Blogmarch's more football-astute readers will be aware, Alan Rough was a goalkeeper who made his name playing for Partick Thistle and Scotland in the 70s and 80s. As a Scottish goalkeeper, he was always a figure of fun for the unfunny, who would employ the term 'Scottish goalkeeper' instead of a joke, with the understanding that they were famously rubbish. Of course, as Blogmarch's more Scottish-football-astute readers will know, Rough got even more stick because he played for Partick Thistle, the butt of gags a plenty from Rangers and Celtic fans. Which was unfair because the seventies Thistle were a miraculous success, but was better than being the butt of butts a plenty from the same.

Anyway. The song relates to when Alan Rough did a Richard Madely, walking out of a shop without paying for an item of paltry value, in this case mincemeat. Hence a weekly serenading from opposing fans.

It's quite funny, in a disposable sort of way. But I'm not sure why it works so well to sooth my squalling brain. Perhaps because it takes me to late seventies football. Now, I'm only vaguely interested in the weekly goings on in the Premiership. But football has been around me all my life. Nowadays, I find myself boning up on the results before going home to see my parents. But the era of Steve Heighway, Pat Rice, Jim Cannon and Jock Stein, and Alan Rough, holds a deep imaginative allure for me.

In 1978 I supported Scotland during the World Cup in Argentina. 'England cannae do it cuz they didnae qualify', as the song of the time ran, after all. And so, partisan issues of my Scottish mum and English dad were temporarily postponed.

I suppose I feel the safety and certainty of childhood in the song, now with an adult, sarcastic twist that would have quite passed me by at the time. The faces of players of that era are so burnt into my psyche that I feel I can imagine the expression of mild annoyance flickering across Rough's face under a sustained barrage of phlegmy heckles.

There is something perfect about the stolen item in question, as well. The mince 'n tatties Scotsman may be as much of a stereotype as the jellied eel troughing cockney, but the idea of a Scottish crowd singing 'Where's the mincemeat?' just brings me a smile. And where's the harm in that, I asks yer?

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Monday, February 12, 2007

A true patriot


Dayne Gilbey. Step forward the UK's first martyr in the campaign for enforced sterilisation. A man who endured 5 hours of pain to have the Great British breakfast fry-up permanently tattooed on his head. Explaining his decision, Gilbey said: "My friends and family keep asking me why I'm doing this. For me it's just something different which has never been done before."

I guess the thing is he can always grow hair over it and all. But when it starts receding. Whoa!

Dr Quirky, BSc, PhD, MSc Napoli

Whilst attending a quirky wedding in Dorset last weekend, I took an early evening stroll along the Sidmouth waterfront. Quite without warning I actually entered a moment of history.

There on the stormy horizon lay the slumbering hulk of the MSc Napoli (I didn't realise ships could receive academic honours), a tragic sight that captivated the hearts of the Great British Public this January. Despite its atmospheric, emotional mood, this photo is not by a professional but by my very own hand.



I would be lying if I said I wasn't moved. And a distinct lack of memorial or book of condolence was quite frankly a slap in the face. I hope this publication will serve to fill that gap for the time being.

If

David Koresh had been christened Ian, would his sect have been called the Branch Ianian?

Sunday, February 04, 2007

Savoury Saveur


If you were to assemble a full evening meal using nothing but crisps, how would you do it?

For me, the key is to stick as close as possible to the classic menu of crisps. It seems unreasonable to respond to such a challenge with johnny-come-lately gastro-chips. These are, of course, muchly and reasonably derided elsewhere. My satire battery is not full enough to retread this territory. Just imagine Punt and Dennis talking about it with their trademark imaginative and surprising humour.

So. Prawn Cocktail for starters? I think I might opt for the Skips, the maize snack variant. Not just because of a long held fondness for Giant Haystacks (BTW did anyone reading this tell me that they knew the women who used to clean his wrestling costume? And it had more skidmarks than a Croydon carpark? If so, well done.) No, but I think the gentler flavour of the Skip would spark the appetite better than the harsher Walkers PC, say.

When stepping into the main course, and considering options, one notices for the first time what crisps, actually, are. They seem to mimic the bits on the edge of the plate. Salt and vinegar. Cheese and onion. Even tomato sauce. So, for the main dish, the choice comes down to Frazzles/ smoky bacon crisps, or Roast Beef flavour Monster Munch. If you would suggest brown hula hoops here, consider yourself banned from these pages. We don't need your sort.

Now the glory days of the Munch are long gone, of course. But for those not lucky enough to try the roast beef variety, it had the oppressive fleshiness of pedigree chum kept in the toe of a wellington boot. Great days. Perhaps I would get one of my five-a-day with a pickled onion monster munch or to. Or, for those on a budget, a handful of 10p Transformasnacks.

The dessert is a quandry. And an ironic quandry at that. For many packed lunches, it is the crisps that serve as afters. Unless you had a yoghurt. But you will struggle to find a decent sweet crisp. Plantain fritters are about as close as you are going to get, and that isn't close. So, swiftly on to the cheese board. A classic Golden Wonder cheese and onion, Cheesy Wotsits and Quavers. Just about ready for a good cigar. Hey now there's an idea - tobacco flavour crisps...

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