I went to a surprise 60th birthday party for one of my ex girlfriend’s fathers. I have been toying with that first sentence for quite a while, because I find it a rather jarring phrase. I’m not quite sure why. Maybe it is the use of the word “girlfriend”, which feels simultaneously insipid, childish and patronising all at once, but is a word which I am bereft of any better alternatives for. Or maybe it is because it grammatically implies my ex-girlfriend actually has numerous fathers. Either way, it will have to stay as it is. You’ll just have to use both your own language preferences and common sense.
The birthday boy had been led under the premise that the family would be going for a quiet meal. But they would actually end up arriving at the darkened venue, where the assembled guests would suddenly yell “surprise” at the bewildered recipient (as is the usual protocol with surprise birthdays). The subterfuge worked like a dream. Personally, I’d have been disappointed were this party being held for me because I would have probably been looking forward to my dinner, and more pressingly, do prefer meals much more than large groups of other human beings congregated in a ‘party formation’. But he seemed genuinely appreciative of his family’s efforts in putting together such a fantastic do. I am glad of this. As far as girlfriend’s parents go, you couldn’t wish to meet warmer human beings. They are a big family with a big home, who welcomed me to co-habit with my girlfriend for a number of years. I have always felt respect for them and although I do not see them as much nowadays they are always willing to extend their warmth. A few Christmases ago, I was left alone after yet another of my relationships had collapsed. My own parents (the inevitable fallback position) were out of the country that year, so they insisted I came to their house to enjoy Christmas dinner with them. Which ironically I suppose is exactly the sort of human spirit one might witness in a Christmas film (albeit not the most riveting Christmas film - sadly I had not been considering suicide, or met with spirits from different places in a time continuum so the interest factor would have been limited). And talking of food - which I have just noticed seems to be a common theme running through these blogs (if you have never met me you may be surprised to learn that, believe it or not, I am not actually excessively overweight) –I tried, In my slightly inebriated state, to make my own contribution to this feast by offering to help lay the buffet out. My ex-girlfriend asked if I’d mind taking the wrappers of stuff. I dutifully went round taking foil and clingfilm from around the containers. And I must say, the buffet was a cut above. Maybe this was to compensate the father’s disappointment of a meal that had previously been promised then snatched away. But gone was the usual fodder of curled up cheese sandwiches, and in came piping hot pizza. The sausage rolls were replaced by samosas. And instead of mini quiches, there were these other things which I’d never seen before, but were a bit like mini-quiches that someone had taken the effort to peel all the outer pastry off and left the filling; a considerate act which made it somehow feel a bit more middle class. There were even a big range of cheeses to be enjoyed with a selection of biscuits. Although when I opened the biscuit assortment box, the top couple of layers seemed all mixed up and broken. This made me a bit paranoid that everyone would think I was responsible for their battered state. After all, I had been the last person spotted with them and it is not difficult to see how a slightly inebriated man wrestling with a box of biscuits might be incriminating, but this time it genuinely wasn’t anything to do with me.
When I left the party I felt very happy but I also felt a strange sense of melancholy. I’m not quite sure what had aroused this small fuzz of sadness. Maybe I felt nostalgia for the time I spent with living this generous family. Maybe it was the fact that ten years have passed since the parties’ guests and hosts had been a regular part of my life. Perhaps having seen how other people are getting on with their lives through all this time had given me fearful twinge that maybe good chunks of my own time has been spent inadequately. Maybe I was worried that everyone would go home and say how much they enjoyed the evening, and how it would have been perfect, were it not for the box of broken cheese biscuits that I had been co-incidentally spotted with. Maybe it bought back memories of myself from ten years ago (where like most people, I naturally presume I was a bit of a wazzock, and wish I could have behaved with the benefit of the experience I have acquired since). But let me assure you it was only a tiny fraction of my overall emotional state. First and foremost, I was happy and honoured to have been invited to these birthday celebrations. I’d had a good time, and this is a spectacularly rare occurrence as far as me and parties are concerned. And in any case, why should I feel even the slightest hint of melancholy about the past? The past, after all, is a foreign country; they do things differently there.
Do you know who said those wise words? It was Les Dennis.
Thanks for that Les.
Sun 16th Aug 2009
I went for a meal at the Buckatree Hotel. It is quite a posh dining place. I can tell this because the food I ordered was a “Seafood-something-or-other”. I had to say, “I’ll have the seafood dish please and point in the general area of the menu where it was located, because I’d not heard the other word used in the dishes’ name before so I was paranoid about making an incorrect pronunciation that the waiter would go back into the kitchen and laugh with the other staff about. I consider myself to have a reasonable grasp of vocabulary so my ignorance seemed rather tragic. Not tragic for me, but for the restaurant itself, because as far as I can tell, a menu’s primary function is to describe the food an establishment sells, so this menu had failed its very purpose of being. The dish itself was a pot of seafood in some sort of white sauce, with two discs of pastry sitting on top. In other words, it was like a seafood pie.
So as you can see, it was all rather grandiose. The waiters did that thing where they pour a little bit of the drink in the glass for my convenience even though it was only a little bottle of Tonic Water. They draped one of those folded up tablecloths across my lap (presumably in case I become inconvenienced by a sudden erection when I saw the beautiful majesty of the food). You have to understand I am used to Sunday dinners where you have to order at the bar and go and collect your own condiments. I am used to napkins that are small squares of tissue, which if draped over your lap area, would actually draw rather than detract attention to any stirrings of the groin. Oh - and the other reason I knew this restaurant was posh was due to the weighty price of the food. Maybe that should have been the main clue.
I cannot deny, the scram was lovely. But it seems no matter how grandiose you might try to be, there are always people who want to act more grandiose than you. Take the husband and wife on the next table for instance. They were eating a traditional Sunday lunch, but they were unhappy. The roast potatoes were not to their liking. And the perceived failings of these roast potatoes was simply unacceptable, and they would call the waiter over to tell him as much.
“They’re just too soft. And potatoes shouldn’t be this sweet.” The husband snottily declared, “What sort of potato is this supposed to be anyway?”
The bewildered waiter had not expected this potato chagrin and scrambled back to the kitchen to humour the man’s carbohydrate query, returning to apologetically inform his critic, “All we know is that they’re from our supplier, ’Swallow’”
But the customer was not appeased by this in the slightest. In fact, it had enraged him into a declaration of starch warfare.
“I’d like to speak to the manager”, he demanded.
Now admittedly, I am a big fan of the roast potato, but I could not understand the level of hullaballoo. Maybe my standards are too low, but I kind of come to expect that maybe one part of an overall meal might not be prepared in a manner which suits my taste, and provided I am not poisoned or nauseated, or that loads of other stuff on my plate is also not to my satisfaction, I will generally just leave the offensive item to one side and move on. Probably to carrots or something, or maybe head straight to the meat if I really felt the need to compensate my potato disappointment. At most, I would expel any petty annoyances via a diary entry, and then just get on with my life. It is reasonable to assume I will consume plenty more roast potatoes in the future, unless my life comes to some sort of abrupt ending. But then, I imagine my last thoughts will probably be too occupied by the cause of my impending demise to lend too much concern to potatoes. Yet to his credit, the manager came down to indulge the snotty couple’s potato slating.
“This potato isn’t right” he went on again. “It’s too soft and sweet.” The manager said something quietly which I didn’t quite catch, but which had once again failed to appease the man.
“I know my potatoes!” he barked.
His wife suddenly chirped up in support of her husband: “Yes, he does know his potatoes. He’s potato mad!”
Those last three words were the most sensible thing that had been said so far. But this was sanity by luck not judgment. The wife would also prove herself unbalanced. She started wading in, trying to offer the potatoes to the manager, and even more bizarrely, when he declined, she started inviting him to their house so she could show him what a roast potato actually was. Then her husband raised the lunacy another level, by starting to question whether what they had been served was actually a potato at all! The debate was getting more and more surreal the further it went, and there was nothing the manager could do but sit their patiently and allow them to air their ridiculous proclamations. In the end, the wife requested a doggy bag, so they could take the ‘so-called potato’ home. Why they would want a momento from a meal which they hated is anyone’s guess.
Don’t get me wrong, I can understand why people might draw attention to their dissatisfaction when the waiter comes over and asks how the food is. Maybe a passing comment might even be constructive to the establishment in the long run. Personally, I’d tell the waiting staff it’s great, even if I’d previously whispered to everyone else on the table about how it tasted like gravel. But that’s just me. It is not necessarily the correct approach and maybe so much suppression is unnatural, and will eventually lead to my inevitable breakdown. But comparatively speaking, couldn’t taking a potato home in a paper bag to see whether it is actually a potato or evidence of some sort of bizarre ”potato matrix”, be seen as a bit of breakdown in itself?
Surely there’s got to be a happy medium.
So as you can see, it was all rather grandiose. The waiters did that thing where they pour a little bit of the drink in the glass for my convenience even though it was only a little bottle of Tonic Water. They draped one of those folded up tablecloths across my lap (presumably in case I become inconvenienced by a sudden erection when I saw the beautiful majesty of the food). You have to understand I am used to Sunday dinners where you have to order at the bar and go and collect your own condiments. I am used to napkins that are small squares of tissue, which if draped over your lap area, would actually draw rather than detract attention to any stirrings of the groin. Oh - and the other reason I knew this restaurant was posh was due to the weighty price of the food. Maybe that should have been the main clue.
I cannot deny, the scram was lovely. But it seems no matter how grandiose you might try to be, there are always people who want to act more grandiose than you. Take the husband and wife on the next table for instance. They were eating a traditional Sunday lunch, but they were unhappy. The roast potatoes were not to their liking. And the perceived failings of these roast potatoes was simply unacceptable, and they would call the waiter over to tell him as much.
“They’re just too soft. And potatoes shouldn’t be this sweet.” The husband snottily declared, “What sort of potato is this supposed to be anyway?”
The bewildered waiter had not expected this potato chagrin and scrambled back to the kitchen to humour the man’s carbohydrate query, returning to apologetically inform his critic, “All we know is that they’re from our supplier, ’Swallow’”
But the customer was not appeased by this in the slightest. In fact, it had enraged him into a declaration of starch warfare.
“I’d like to speak to the manager”, he demanded.
Now admittedly, I am a big fan of the roast potato, but I could not understand the level of hullaballoo. Maybe my standards are too low, but I kind of come to expect that maybe one part of an overall meal might not be prepared in a manner which suits my taste, and provided I am not poisoned or nauseated, or that loads of other stuff on my plate is also not to my satisfaction, I will generally just leave the offensive item to one side and move on. Probably to carrots or something, or maybe head straight to the meat if I really felt the need to compensate my potato disappointment. At most, I would expel any petty annoyances via a diary entry, and then just get on with my life. It is reasonable to assume I will consume plenty more roast potatoes in the future, unless my life comes to some sort of abrupt ending. But then, I imagine my last thoughts will probably be too occupied by the cause of my impending demise to lend too much concern to potatoes. Yet to his credit, the manager came down to indulge the snotty couple’s potato slating.
“This potato isn’t right” he went on again. “It’s too soft and sweet.” The manager said something quietly which I didn’t quite catch, but which had once again failed to appease the man.
“I know my potatoes!” he barked.
His wife suddenly chirped up in support of her husband: “Yes, he does know his potatoes. He’s potato mad!”
Those last three words were the most sensible thing that had been said so far. But this was sanity by luck not judgment. The wife would also prove herself unbalanced. She started wading in, trying to offer the potatoes to the manager, and even more bizarrely, when he declined, she started inviting him to their house so she could show him what a roast potato actually was. Then her husband raised the lunacy another level, by starting to question whether what they had been served was actually a potato at all! The debate was getting more and more surreal the further it went, and there was nothing the manager could do but sit their patiently and allow them to air their ridiculous proclamations. In the end, the wife requested a doggy bag, so they could take the ‘so-called potato’ home. Why they would want a momento from a meal which they hated is anyone’s guess.
Don’t get me wrong, I can understand why people might draw attention to their dissatisfaction when the waiter comes over and asks how the food is. Maybe a passing comment might even be constructive to the establishment in the long run. Personally, I’d tell the waiting staff it’s great, even if I’d previously whispered to everyone else on the table about how it tasted like gravel. But that’s just me. It is not necessarily the correct approach and maybe so much suppression is unnatural, and will eventually lead to my inevitable breakdown. But comparatively speaking, couldn’t taking a potato home in a paper bag to see whether it is actually a potato or evidence of some sort of bizarre ”potato matrix”, be seen as a bit of breakdown in itself?
Surely there’s got to be a happy medium.
Tue 4th Aug 2009
I walk past this sign everyday on the way to work and it never fails to arouse a childish snigger. The snigger is an internal one, obviously. If you have found this page by accident and do not know who I am, let me assure you I am not someone who stands in the middle of a City publically chortling at signage. If you ever see a person with such a trait and assume it is me, don’t go over and introduce yourself because you will end up looking like an idiot. And bear in mind you will be standing next to a man who laughs at informative boards, so to look comparatively idiotic would be quite an achievement.
But should the sign does catch me unawares one time and I do end up openly tittering in the street, then I should probably explain that it is the name “Top Nosh” which I find so amusing. Of course, here in Wolverhampton, it simply means food. But it is a word which seems to have a vast regional variation in its definition. Particularly Up North, where it is understood as a euphemism for phallic oral sex. Fertile ground for a terrible faux pas learned the hard way whilst working in Liverpool, after asking my hungry work colleagues if they were ready for their ‘nosh’. I still recall the whole office falling deathly silent as its Scouse inhabitants contemplated how without any prior warning, the new ‘brummie’ lad had seemingly tried to ingratiate himself to his colleagues by offering to suck them off. As you might imagine, this is not the kind of mistake you make twice, but it is one you frequently find yourself consequently being reminded of. It tends to leave a sour after-taste.
So if you are from the Midlands and are planning a trip up north, please do heed my warning and spare yourself the same humiliation that I suffered. Similarly, if you are from up north looking for a salacious thrill in the Midlands, do not go into the shop expecting any gratification beyond a fried breakfast. Don’t start thinking that Wolverhampton is the new Amsterdam. I can appreciate how seeing the words “Baps” and “Hot Pork” might appear to be further encouragement. But let me assure you that although “Jacke Pots” may involve a generous filling and a high constitution of starch, it is certainly not the name of a willing recipient for your grubby little Northern phalluses. For that sort of thing you’ll need to go to Greggs.
But should the sign does catch me unawares one time and I do end up openly tittering in the street, then I should probably explain that it is the name “Top Nosh” which I find so amusing. Of course, here in Wolverhampton, it simply means food. But it is a word which seems to have a vast regional variation in its definition. Particularly Up North, where it is understood as a euphemism for phallic oral sex. Fertile ground for a terrible faux pas learned the hard way whilst working in Liverpool, after asking my hungry work colleagues if they were ready for their ‘nosh’. I still recall the whole office falling deathly silent as its Scouse inhabitants contemplated how without any prior warning, the new ‘brummie’ lad had seemingly tried to ingratiate himself to his colleagues by offering to suck them off. As you might imagine, this is not the kind of mistake you make twice, but it is one you frequently find yourself consequently being reminded of. It tends to leave a sour after-taste.
So if you are from the Midlands and are planning a trip up north, please do heed my warning and spare yourself the same humiliation that I suffered. Similarly, if you are from up north looking for a salacious thrill in the Midlands, do not go into the shop expecting any gratification beyond a fried breakfast. Don’t start thinking that Wolverhampton is the new Amsterdam. I can appreciate how seeing the words “Baps” and “Hot Pork” might appear to be further encouragement. But let me assure you that although “Jacke Pots” may involve a generous filling and a high constitution of starch, it is certainly not the name of a willing recipient for your grubby little Northern phalluses. For that sort of thing you’ll need to go to Greggs.
Sat 1st Aug 2009
Been feeling a sorry for myself of late. I do not like myself very much for this because I generally appreciate being me, which contrary to popular belief, seems rather lucky when one considers how remote the evolutionary chances of life are in the first place. Sure – I may be spending my time precariously peering into the ever-threatening ravine of my impending midlife crisis, but at least it is a human life (who ‘d fancy being a shit-eating fly?). And secondly to be born human in a part of the world which is neither war-torn, famine-stricken or comparatively too oppressive to one’s civil liberties, is luckier still. I suppose the odd bit of melancholy is a naturally human trait but even so, how could someone in my fortunate position possibly have the audacity to grumble without feeling guilty?
It’s a funny thing when you hit that level of depression. Well.. maybe funny is the wrong word, but you get what I mean. It’s weird how you can knowingly realise how irrational and wasteful your mood might be in a greater context, and yet precious little can lift it. I did try. I went to the gym in an attempt to get active and feel better about myself. But even this didn’t work. I felt just as miserable. Only now I had added fatigue to the misery too. And this did not leave me well equipped to attend the party I had been invited to in the evening. I couldn’t have felt more party-phobic if I tried. I could not even use my usual tactic of burying melancholy under a river of alcohol because I was driving. And prior to my arrival there were many things about the party which I did not relish the thought of. The main ones being...
1) Dancing. Being invited to dance was the last thing I wanted to happen to me. I mean, when have you ever seen anything as absurd as a depressed man with the sudden urge to burst into dance (Robbie Williams aside, obviously).
2) Other people having a bloody good time - which just makes you feel more incongruous in your environment, continually emphasising just how out of place you feel, like a kindly village Vicar stumbling in to a particularly racy Ann Summers party.
3) Getting your ears assaulted by ‘cheery’ party music so horribly idioglossic it almost makes you temporarily jealous of the shit-eating fly, because at least the shit-eating fly can simply sneak out the window unnoticed and escape this aural hell.
4) Being obliged into small talk, where the simple question “How are you?” becomes a moral scruple, as you deny your unfettered misery just to keep the cheery atmosphere flowing, whilst another little piece inside of your soul dies, ebbed away by the lies that your mouth is forced to tell to people you like and who don’t deserve to be lied to because they are nice enough to bother enquiring about your welfare in the first place.
In fact I could only think of one thing about the party that seemed remotely compatible with my gloomy mindset, and that was the inevitable big plate of sausage rolls on the buffet table. The little mashed pig-deaths wrapped in coats of pastry seemed poetically resonant to my dour mood and equally as attractive to my mouth and belly. But the short, mild thrill of sausage rolls seemed of inconsequential compensational value when compared to the hours ahead spent trying to force a demeanour of polite bonhomie through a heavy-hearted mood of self-loathing.
But of course, as is so often the case with these things, the party was absolutely fine. Sure, I spent the first obligatory hour hanging round looking a bit awkward, but this is pretty much par for the course and overall I am glad I made the effort to oblige the invitation I was honoured to have received. Everyone was really nice. And possibly as a result of my mental fragility, I even experienced strange new emotional responses to things. For instance, buying people drinks became a genuine pleasure rather than a polite gesture done with a hidden and repressed chagrin.
It’s a funny thing when you hit that level of depression. Well.. maybe funny is the wrong word, but you get what I mean. It’s weird how you can knowingly realise how irrational and wasteful your mood might be in a greater context, and yet precious little can lift it. I did try. I went to the gym in an attempt to get active and feel better about myself. But even this didn’t work. I felt just as miserable. Only now I had added fatigue to the misery too. And this did not leave me well equipped to attend the party I had been invited to in the evening. I couldn’t have felt more party-phobic if I tried. I could not even use my usual tactic of burying melancholy under a river of alcohol because I was driving. And prior to my arrival there were many things about the party which I did not relish the thought of. The main ones being...
1) Dancing. Being invited to dance was the last thing I wanted to happen to me. I mean, when have you ever seen anything as absurd as a depressed man with the sudden urge to burst into dance (Robbie Williams aside, obviously).
2) Other people having a bloody good time - which just makes you feel more incongruous in your environment, continually emphasising just how out of place you feel, like a kindly village Vicar stumbling in to a particularly racy Ann Summers party.
3) Getting your ears assaulted by ‘cheery’ party music so horribly idioglossic it almost makes you temporarily jealous of the shit-eating fly, because at least the shit-eating fly can simply sneak out the window unnoticed and escape this aural hell.
4) Being obliged into small talk, where the simple question “How are you?” becomes a moral scruple, as you deny your unfettered misery just to keep the cheery atmosphere flowing, whilst another little piece inside of your soul dies, ebbed away by the lies that your mouth is forced to tell to people you like and who don’t deserve to be lied to because they are nice enough to bother enquiring about your welfare in the first place.
In fact I could only think of one thing about the party that seemed remotely compatible with my gloomy mindset, and that was the inevitable big plate of sausage rolls on the buffet table. The little mashed pig-deaths wrapped in coats of pastry seemed poetically resonant to my dour mood and equally as attractive to my mouth and belly. But the short, mild thrill of sausage rolls seemed of inconsequential compensational value when compared to the hours ahead spent trying to force a demeanour of polite bonhomie through a heavy-hearted mood of self-loathing.
But of course, as is so often the case with these things, the party was absolutely fine. Sure, I spent the first obligatory hour hanging round looking a bit awkward, but this is pretty much par for the course and overall I am glad I made the effort to oblige the invitation I was honoured to have received. Everyone was really nice. And possibly as a result of my mental fragility, I even experienced strange new emotional responses to things. For instance, buying people drinks became a genuine pleasure rather than a polite gesture done with a hidden and repressed chagrin.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)