walkin' the walk

My housemate showed me this incredible picture of Obama on the campaign trail, as he talks to reporters in Providence, Rhode Island (a state which eventually went to Clinton in the primary). 

The detail of the worn-out soles of his shoes says everything really. And in the bottom right corner, you can just about make out the spine of his own book, 'The Audacity of..." 

Go now and see lots more incredible photos at Time magazine's web-site. 

Pepsi - well done, you made a funny...

                                                                                                                                                                      
 

I'm quite a fan of this Pepsi Max advert, which I found lying around the internet somewhere.

Twist, follows twist, follows twist = FUNNY. Well done Pepsi, you piqued my interest. 

BUT - let's not kid ourselves - massive stereotyping has it's place in this world. How do we differentiate between a geeky girl and a hot mama? Simple: a pair of wide-rimmed glasses and a book. Hot mama wearing the time-tested LBD - simple formulas work, as upsetting and impersonal as they may be. 

What is the gay guy wearing? A black 't', tightly fitted around the biceps and chest region (yes, I notice). Is this a formula? Yes and no. Yes because a lot of gay guys go for the black 't' look. No because if you're straight, the chances are you can't pull one off. 

Douchebag Holiday photos

Why is it the case that when people are abroad, and they see a shop with a mildly rude name - they feel the need to take a photo of it? And then show it to the world by posting it on facebook. I just don't get what their message is. 

"Here, LOOK at the name of this shop - 'KNOBS AND KNOCKERS' - honest, it's a real shop, I took a photo. Don't you get it? KNOBS as in, well you know. And KNOCKERS, as in, well you know, tits. Look, I took a photo." 

"What do they sell?" 

"Dunno. Bras and underpants I reckon."

 Just in case you thought I was kidding. 

We've probably all done it at some point in our lifetime. I remember when I was fifteen on a ski holiday to France, on the bus to Meribel, we passed the quaint little village of Pussy (there's probably a french accent somewhere on that name). Predictably, the whole coach thought the coincidence was too hilarious to miss with a camera. 

Most ridiculous are the photos of signs, restaurants or shops which have the same name as the person taking them. Or even, worse, if you see a shop called 'Doug - charcuterie' and decide that your actual friend Doug from back home would fall off his chair laughing when he finds out that there is a little ham shop on the outskirts of Marseilles named after him. Just. Not. Funny. 

"Oh look - there's a car. A car that has 'Coke' on the side. I've NEVER seen that in my life. Quick, quick, get a picture before it drives away. No, wait, get a picture with me trying to open it as if it's my coke car. Hey, shit, I just thought, "coke car" - do you think the guy is a drug dealer?"

Maybe I'm being a bit harsh here. It's only a bit of holiday harmless fun after all. Let's not take it too seriously. 

Funny story of today.

This is frickin' hilarious.

Obama and me.

I never really blogged on the US Election around the time of the 4th November. Part of the reason for this is that I was driving along in my car during the day of the election, I looked overhead to see a flock of white birds had just taken flight above me. That's nice, I thought. Freedom, liberation, purity - perhaps today will be a good day for America and the world.

As that though was passing through my mind, a huge load of bird shit landed on my windscreen, like heavy bird shit rain. White globules of "ha ha we're birds and we can shit on your car if we want to". Appropriately, I shouted "oh shit!". Then I turned on the wind-screen wipers by accident, smearing the mess all over. Then I tried to turn on the windscreen wash button, only to dilute their pasty white crap and give my windscreen a white hue as if I had smoked it out.

It occurred to me that on this momentous day in world history, when something great was happening in America, a flock of birds had decided to shit on my day, and my car.

Luckily for the world (but not for me), this was not a case of 'same shit, different day'. Obama romped to a historic victory. Did he change the world that day? Yes, I think he did. Did he change America? Time will tell.

But, let us not let thoughts of the future shit on his parade. He achieved a great and wonderful thing that day, and his honorable campaigners (and of course their generous financial backers - no shit) should receive all the plaudits.

John McCain's campaign however, well that was just a crock of shit, wasn't it? Every time I saw a clip of him on the road, Mississippi, Ohio, Florida, he was just shootin' the shit, totally directionless, without policies that affected any real change in the Obama sense of the word. Shit, he didn't stand a chance.

Well, i'm glad Americans stood their ground and went with the right man. It's a very exciting political time right now, and it can only be a good thing that millions of first-time voters are entering a political climate which engages their interest like no other before it.

Obama comes into effect 20th January.

 Something is going to hit the fan.

Let's hope my car stays in tact.

Quantum of Solace - film review

The "To Do" list is packed out at the moment, and there never seems to be enough time to do it all, or anywhere near all of it. 

Regardless of this, I took the time out to go and see the latest installment in the Bond franchise at the weekend. After the success of its predecessor had caused a Bond revolution, a major refurbishment of all that was old and tacky into all that is modern and tonic, there was quite a bit of hype surrounding its release. 

In the midst of a world recession, it is both comforting and disturbing to see that the only two things that can swing the headlines away from the credit crunch are James Bond and the X-Factor. Perhaps there is a role yet for Cheryl Cole as the next Bond crumpet?

 Or perhaps we can run a competition to find the next bond (the "OO-Factor"), in which contestants have to show they can tackle warlords and tie a bow tie? 

The thought is not as ridiculous as the latest Bond film itself, which would most definitely fail to impress Simon Cowell. The plot circles around the globe like a moth buzzing around a light, with no aim or purpose, only serving to tire itself out completely. We go from Siena (Italy), to Haiti, over to Bregenz (Austria), to London, to La Paz (Bolivia), finally settling in a remote part of the Bolivian desert. All of this without a moment's rest, not even to have a quick peek to see if Bond picks anything up at duty free. 

In my memory, a Bond film has never been so impatient. These films work in "bumps", short bursts of action, equally spaced apart to maintain inertia whilst giving the audience time to breathe. We never get this opportunity to breathe in Quantum, the action ties us down and wont let go. 

All the classic elements have been sold off in a Bond scrapyard sale. Q the gadget man has been deemed too old to be in the new films. The flirtations of girl-next-door Moneypenny have also undergone the chop. Most upsetting is the decision to absent the most famous movie song of all time, the Bond theme song. Normally played over an action scene (i.e. Pierce Brosnan devastating Moscow in an army tank - see it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WtnVPzMHdMg), in Quantum the song is wasted over the end credits. 

A word on Daniel Craig also: rage. That is the best word to describe his performance. He never lets up for a moment, even when he sits down to drink a glass of water, his veins seem to be popping with the sheer anger that he feels toward the world. Bond was never this angry, but if we are led to believe that this performance marks a sea change in our perception of Bond, then perhaps we have to accept the transformation. 

However, if this is really the case, then perhaps the producers can appease us by leaving in some of the old trademarks that we so love and enjoy. Such a radical overhaul of a british cultural institution like Bond will doubtless have its critics. We can't just go and put a yellow hat on Big Ben because Damien Hirst tells us it looks good, and nor can we go and make Bond so angry. 

Just like the BBC's recent debate between the neo-Brand-ites and the conservative Songs of Praise watchers, a film like Bond will always have its traditionalists and its modernisers. The debate between the two will rage furiously. And that is not a bad thing. What the last two films have done is open up a level of discussion, in the pubs and cinemas, about what Bond should be. That type of discourse is healthy and fantastic for the future of the cinema. 

This is by no means a bad film, and I encourage you to make the effort and go to see it. If they can afford to spend $200 million in making the film, your ticket price of £7 seems excellent value for money. There are some fantastic scenes, and as an action film, it is better than the rest. As a Bond film, it may leave you slightly perplexed. 

They predict that the number of cinema visitors will be the highest it's been since 1969. The Quantum of Solace has a lot to do with that, but we must remember that Bond can never be all things for all people. 

Quantum of Solace: 

Action: 8

Acting: 6

Eye Candy: 8

Overall: 7 

To Do: Try to be smooth like Connery, not angry like Craig. 

Me, half a pint of cider, a pub quiz machine. Wednesday Night.

My friends had left the pub. 

But I remained, desperate to play on the quiz machine. The evening had been a pleasant one. We had enjoyed a continental beer, a bottle of inexpensive wine, a small meal, a few more beers. A very pleasant evening indeed. But it was not enough for me. 

I had a close eye on the quiz machine all night. Desperate to ply my 50p coins into that machine in the hope that my limited knowledge might give some financial returns. But my friends had left the pub, gone home, sayonara, goodnight vienna. Was this to be the end for me? 

No, ofcourse not. I remained in the pub, determined to get on that quiz machine. A group of lads and ladettes had assembled around the machine, laughing and joking, casually punching in random suggestions. 

I went to the bar, conscious of being alone in a pub at the age of 23, but also wondering how I might go about making some friends. 

I ordered a half pint of cider. The barman looked surprised, "half a pint?". Obviously this was not a half-pint type of pub. Real men only drank full glasses of beer, and anything else was considered a little bit strange. They probably didn't even have half-measure glasses, so I buckled under the peer-pressure of a minimum wage barman, and shamefully ordered a pint. 

Next move. I wondered over to the quiz machine, lurking on the edge of the quiz group, peering over shoulders - my plan was to interject with any answers I felt confident about. If they were the right ones, maybe they would gain me 'quiz machine street cred'. Whatever that was. 

Nothing came for a long time. I even got one wrong, shouting the name of a Rolling Stones song that I clearly had no idea about. Suspicious looks were aimed in my direction and I was officially blackmarked as a potential quiz dunce. 

Finally, the team lost all of their money and the quiz machine was left empty. I got in quickly, inserted a coin and selected a game. I was playing on my own, with no audience, and no support, but was doing quite well. I answered a couple of tough questions on sports and literature, two subjects which are very much aligned in the modern quiz machine. 

By this time I had drawn a small crowd. People were impressed with my steely nerve in front of trivia questions.  I was pressing buttons all over the place, answering on a whole range of subjects with the sort of calm and panache that would have earned me a spot on Jeopardy/Mastermind. 

Then it came. The once in a lifetime question I had been waiting for. 

Q. What did German writer Goethe request on his deathbed? 

      A. More light. 

      B. More life. 

      C. More dark. 

The pub gasped. Something stirred deep inside me, a distant piece of an article I had read somewhere in some library in some past life as a student. The answer was 'A'. Somehow I knew it was right. I pressed it. A green tick emerged, and the small crowd clapped in appreciation. A faceless voice from behind shouted "Great knowledge mate. Cheers to that". 

And that was it. I had got what I'd stayed behind for - a good dose of trivia and a few cheers from a few people i'd never met (and a small cider hangover the next morning). Some people might think it's quite sad to hang around in pubs on your own, the activity of an old man perhaps. To those people, i'd say, as Goethe did, to look for more light. And more quiz machines. 

To Do: Hang around in pubs. Not too often though. 

Golf ain't so bad.

Often people ridicule me for playing golf. 

"What an old man's sport! Do you like old people? Are you, like, the age opposite to a paedophile? Are you a geriophile with your golf sticks?" say my friends. "There couldn't be a more unsexy sport in the world than golf" says my girlfriend. 

And a part of me agrees with their reason. Not the geriophile part, but they do talk some sense about golf being a lame sport, with little action, no drama or thrills to mention. These were my thoughts as I set off to play a game on Wednesday with three retirees: Dave, John and Tom. 

Dave barely possessed any teeth, had a leathery face due to excessive drinking and had already lit up a cigarette before playing his first shot. Trying to start the day off with a bit of chit chat, Dave told me that he had just retired from a business he owned which manufactured fire sprinkler systems. What a thrilling venture I thought, and then that thought finished and I went back to thinking Dave was quite an unremarkable chap. 

We plodded along in the windy conditions, walking and golfing. What was the point in all of this? At least if I had gone for a walk in a national park then I wouldn't have felt obliged to talk to fellow walkers. But somehow, because I was hitting a little white ball around, I was locked in a social nightmare of awkward chit-chat. "Nice shot John", "unlucky there Tom". My friends were right, I was a young man playing an old man's game. What was I doing?

And then I saw something that changed it all. Playing behind us was a husband and wife, and I had noticed something peculiar about them. With every shot the woman would hand her husband a golf club, walk him over to the spot, place the ball down for him and then stand close-by. After he had hit the ball, she went back over, took his hand and then they walked onward. 

The husband was blind. He couldn't even see the golf ball or the grass in front of him. His wife was helping him to play a sport which he obviously loved playing. He couldn't even see where his shot was going, whether it was good or bad, he could only rely on the descriptions and help from his wife. 

In no other sport have I witnessed that level of compassion and desire to play. It was truly touching to see and made me look at the game in a whole new light. 

Dave smoked a lot, but he wasn't too shabby a golfer, and he seemed to be enjoying his retirement. Tom had just gone to part-time in his work as a councillor, and we had a bit of a chat about snooker. Mild-mannered John worked in the marketing department for cereal giant Kellogs, so I had a good chat with him about what brands really make the Kellogs machine turn. If you were interested, Special K, thanks to some nifty advertising, forms at least 40% of their business. John was apathetic about it thought, saying that he preferred coco pops.

So, to all those that think golf is a game for old people, you'd be dead right, it is. But there is nothing wrong with that. Just ask Dave, John and Tom - three very nice chaps who I enjoyed a good walk with on Wednesday. 

To Do: Play more golf. 

Warning: Politics may follow.

By far and away, this is the most ridiculous letter I have read in The Times: 

"Sir, Numerous interviews immediately outside of 10 Downing Street show the letterbox positioned incorrectly and contrary to listed buildings approval. The letterbox is cut horizontally into the central timber stile (upright) and above the timber rail (horizontal). 

Cutting this letterbox through the upright stile weakens the timber door dreadfully. It should, of course, be cut into the horizontal rail. 

This property is a prominent Grade 1 listed building in a conservation area which is often seen around the world. As such, will the local Westminster planning department issue the building's resident with the appropriate notice? Failing which a £5,000 fine and/or imprisonment is the appropriate penalty."

CHARLES HOLCOMBE, Brighton

The Times, 11.10.2008

I guess this chap is right in many respects, and he is probably a qualified anal retentive. But in all honesty, during a time of extreme economic hardship, where people are losing their jobs all over the country (indeed, all over the world), how does Mr Holcombe have the time and moral energy to write this diatribe on a government letter box? Surely, there are more pressing issues?

Perhaps however, the conservatives should consider this the only viable way of relinquishing Gordon Brown of his position as PM, by stitching him up for his faulty post box. And I can only imagine that the ill positioned letter box is the reason why my letters to the Prime Minister have gone astray recently.

"Dear Prime Minister, Adam Burrows here, perhaps you can stick a few of my suggestions on your 'PM's To Do List':

• - Consider promoting X Factor's Cheryl Cole to a cabinet position in the next reshuffle, or at the very least, Danni Minogue. 
  
• - Start writing a blog (perhaps call it "The PM's blog", or "Prime Blog") in which you can let the public know all about your experience as our nation's leader. 
• - Create a chocolate bar called 'Credit Crunch', to consist of milk chocolate, raisins, biscuits and gold coins to alleviate poverty and fight the recession from the front line, the candy shops. 
  
• - Whilst the world markets are shrinking, now is the time to strike, go for gold and reclaim the British Empire. Go on, no one will stop you, surely. 
• - Return the Elgin marbles to their rightful owners. 
• - Virgin Trains is no longer the virgin it used to be, nationalize it.
• - Consider a name change, Gordon is a little drab but could be saved by a more vibrantly colored surname. Try 'Orange'. 
• - Change your bloody post-box."

Sorry for the rather political blog this week. I assure you, it won't be happening again. 

To Do: Think less political. 

"Credit Crunch" - The Movie

After four weeks of busting my ass for a television/film company, I was rewarded (extremely belatedly) with my first big ass paycheck. Ofcourse, I literally ran to the local HSBC to deposit that little paper slip of joy into my account. On the way, I thought of all the ridiculous things that could happen to this cheque on the journey.

A bus could fly past, travelling above the speed limit and causing G force winds to send the cheque high into the air, floating on a gust. About two hundred yards down the road, a waste disposal truck is chugging along. The cheque looks as if it is about to float down and settle on the road, allowing an easy pick-up. Instead, fate (and rubbish) is there to interject and the paper sliver falls straight into the waste truck, and nestles itself on a black bin bag.

I think quick, jump into a taxi, scream "Follow that waste disposal truck!!" to the driver. He's clearly an ex-marine turned cabbie so he puts his foot down and off we go. We come to a set of traffic lights, "Pull up alongside the truck" I shout, "I'm going to jump for it. Come and find me after, i'll pay you when I cash this cheque that I'm chasing." He agrees, caught up in the moment, he's not worried about the cab fare, he's just happy to be back amidst the sort of front-line action he saw as a marine.

There's no need to jump, the traffic light is still on red. I exit the taxi, and leisurely climb into the back of the rubbish truck just as it pulls away. I can see the cheque now, resting on refuge, so near, yet so far. The driver must know there's an intruder, he starts to swerve the dumpster truck from side to side, throwing me about in the process, dislodging the cheque.

This continues for about ten minutes before we arrive at the waste depot, and along with the rest of the rubbish, I am tipped out into a huge scrapyard, and knocked unconscious.

I open my eyes, not knowing where I am, tied to an industrial boiler with black bin bags. "Why were you in my truck?" shouts a voice from behind. A rotting lettuce, possibly iceberg, possibly romaine, is thrown at my face. "I was looking for my paycheck. It fell onto your truck." "You're lying! There are no paychecks anymore. What do you think this is? The Golden Years?" Another piece of rotting fruit hits me in the head.

Wham. Bam. Smash. Two bodies drop to the floor. Marine Cabbie comes to save the day, whacking the binmen with a spade. About fifty more binmen come flooding into the boiler room, but between us, we manage to fend them off with more waste. I grab the cheque, we exit through a window, and speed away in his taxi.

*****
Best of luck to everyone out there feeling the squeeze at the moment.

'Credit Crunch' - THE MOVIE - will be out in cinemas soon.

To Do: Cash more cheques, get more cheques. Seriously.

Girlfriends are more important than films.

An excerpt from recent Guardian article by Tom Perrotta, novelist and screenwriter:

"A few years earlier, I'd come perilously close to dumping an otherwise excellent girlfriend after she professed her admiration for An Officer and a Gentleman."

I mean, really. Come on Tom, let's set the record straight here. You're saying that you would gladly rid yourself of a perfectly good girlfriend so that you can stay indoors on a friday night watching Platoon on DVD, safe in the knowledge that no romance-loving woman is going to interrupt your party-for-one by asking to watch Richard Gere.

I'm sorry to say it Tom, but the truth is that no matter how good looking you are, the chances are that you still pale in comparison to Richard Gere. Let's face it, the guy has some swarve and panache which you can buy with a Hollywood actor's salary. You're girlfriend probably didn't admire An Officer and a Gentleman, she simply wanted to watch it for Dicky Gere.

To Do: Watch more Richard Gere movies to improve girlfriend skills. 

Kings of Leon - album review.

I was getting bored with my itunes library of music. There are only so many times you can listen to Jeff Buckley's Hallelujah. My eclectic mix of old, new and inappropriate for my age, was becoming tiresome. I needed a fresh angle, reinvigorate my interest and get me back on the pulse of modern music. Were U2 still around? 

I joke ofcourse. U2 are still around (somewhere in middle-age obscurity) and thank god for it. Whereas my music radar wasn't too far out of sync, it needed the sort of fine tuning that you can only get from buying albums, listening to them over and over, until you form an opinion of what the music does for you. The random single song downloads from itunes were not healthy, they were short-term, stop-gap solutions to a music starvation. I needed an album, shiny cover, off the-shelf, in the charts, on the ipod, listen, enjoy. And so it was: Only by the Night - Kings of Leon. 

Now this isn't a random purchase. It comes from many years of loving and listening to the Kings of Leon, and seeing them in concert twice. I own their first three albums so it was a sequential purchase to add the fourth to that collection. 

I've got to take my hat off to them for a whole bag of reasons. Their music, constantly evolving and instilled with a commitment to producing music (four albums in five years), is consistently good. Nay, consistently better. 

With this latest album they have decided to raise the bar significantly. There are songs in life that seem to be pitched to their audience at a slightly higher level, somehow rising a bit above the normal chart song mould. They go from being catchy tunes with memorable beats to sprawling and compact musical manifestos. The type of song I'm talking about seems to jump out at you and change your perspective on something, whenever you hear it, no matter how many times. 

It may seem like i'm talking nonsense, and quite possibly sounding like the type of douchebag that would hold up a lighter at a concert and sway side to side with his eyes shut, whilst neglecting the person he's just set alight next to him. In truth, for everyone, there is a song like this, that speaks out to you and probably causes you to act like douchebag lighter dude. 

For me, that song used to be Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley. Now I think i've found a few more in the new Kings of Leon album. 

To Do: Buy more interesting music. 

A night in the Premier Inn.

My new vocation as a travelling video-journalist took me to the heady heights of Watford North on Thursday, to the nations favorite budget hotel, the
 Premier Inn.

I was excited. A night in a hotel, hand over the company credit card, grab a full english breakfast in the morning - how was this not going to be at least a satisfactory Thursday night? My anticipation reached its zenith as we pulled into the car park to discover the hotel was nestled inbetween a TGI Friday's AND a MacDonalds. We were here at last, with everything on our hotel doorstep. The Premier Inn logo is a gentle, luminescent moon which looked near perfect when set against the bright yellow of the famous golden arches, both stood side by side, the big sleep meets the big mac. 

We checked in. There was no need for a concierge at this hotel, I thought of asking where the nearest McDonalds was, but considered that it might be a level of sarcasm too testing for this receptionist. The cameraman (Sayed) was currently in fasting mode during the month of Ramadan, and requested a wake-up call at 4am for when he was due to break his fast. The receptionist eyed him suspiciously and said "Oh, yes, 4am sir, I'm sure...". Clearly she suspected him of requesting a 4am call so that he could wake up and take care of some personal business, of a strictly non-religious nature. We had a little laugh and then went our separate ways. 

The hotel room was uniform, clean and empty. If you're already getting the sense that my enthusiasm was starting to ebb, then you're exactly right. Staying in a hotel room on

 your own just doesn't hold the same appeal. I unpacked my toothbrush and it looked odd on its own in a glass next to the sink. The TV was small, and an abundance of mirrors gave the room a slightly creepy expansion. Pulling back the sheets and getting into bed, I decided to retrieve the toothbrush from the bathroom to save it from its lonely existence in there. 

I'm quite positive that staying in this hotel room with another person (I have someone in mind, no, not CR) would have been a genuinely fun experience. The bed was comfortable, the space was a large one, but all of these details dwarfed me when I was left on my own. 

I struggled to get to sleep, clutching my toothbrush, one eye on the door, half-expecting a raid. 

It never came though, the night passed without event and the morning came once more. My attention had now turned to the breakfast. They had informed me at check-in that breakfast (all you can eat buffet = heavenly words) was served in TGI Fridays. And it was actually Friday. What a stroke of luck. The excitement had returned to this event once again. In the wake of the previous night's disappointment, I didn't want to rush things again like a child on christmas morning, excitedly unwrapping his presents at 6am only to be left bored by 10am. So I took a shower, lay on the bed for a while, watched an early morning episode of Frasier. 

As an aside, I absolutely love Frasier. I think it's hilarious and witty. But I declare this love whilst realising that it is part of a series of middle-age sitcoms that reveal I watch the sort of television only someone in their middle fifties might watch. Others watch Family Guy and laugh out loud, I just don't get it. Some watch hip and trendy shows like Arrested Development, but I miss the youthful humour. You could surmise that the type of sitcom you watch reveals a lot about the type of person you are. If this is true, what do Frasier, Will and Grace, and Friends reveal about me?

After a morning of middle-age television, I arrived at TGI Fridays, ready for my breakfast and full of friday feeling. 

The simple and crushing fact is this: TGI Friday's is not a good place to eat at 8am. Even on a Friday. It has nothing of the joy that you might find of an evening time. There are no silly waiters whisking around with a hundred badges attached to their braces - how stupid they look, but also how cool. Around the walls, in block hollywood font there are quotes like "It's always Friday at Fridays",  and "Live the dream." American dream memorabilia lines the walls, brazenly stuck on as ornaments - extremely tacky, but once again, so very cool. The drinks are "botomless" at TGI Fridays, allowing you to request as many drinks as you want. All of this joy, all of these wonderful attributes, they all disappear at 8am. 

I quickly finished a bowl of cereal, and the waitress (devoid of badges) came over to take my order. I asked for a full english breakfast. It came too quickly, leading me to believe that someone must have ordered and left, allowing me to have their unwanted breakfast. Not that I wanted it either, the eggs were rock hard, the sausages tasted funny and the beans already had a crust. I cried out for a burger, some friday fries and a botomless diet coke. 

None of these things were forthcoming. The hotel stay-over had been a disaster. Better luck next time I thought, a lesson learnt. Rather upsettingly, I shall never view TGI Friday's in the same light ever again. 

To Do: Give TGI Friday's a grace period, to allow it and me to overcome our difficult experience together. 

I am well-read. In Menus.

Going for a drink with a friend recently to a local bar/restaurant, I was perusing a rather interesting menu. I'm not going to lie, menu reading (regardless of purchase) is one of my favorite self-amusements. People often throw around this term 'well read'. "Are you well read?" they ask. And I answer "Yes, I am well read. In Menus." 

There's just something about reading a menu that gets you straight to the core of what that restaurant is all about. It's an opportunity for them to show a bit of personality, not just in the dishes they serve. The presentation of the menu should mimic the dining experience. 

Modern bistronomoque translates to high quality thick card, with a matt finish, bold black print on a white background. The wording of the dish descriptions in a modern restaurant is normally always a little creative, trendy and a little try-hard. My favorite example of this is what one restaurant referred to as 'Tempura codfish, chips and Manchester Caviar', which was in fact Fish, chips and mushy peas.

Handwritten menus can be a greasy breakfast cafe or a cool, hip place that cares more about its food than its printed menus (which one depends entirely on the style of the penmanship). Really upper class fancy joints tend to leave off the currency signs from their prices, assuming that their punters know enough about money to presume that they would pay £9 for a foie gras starter and not 9 of any old random currency. 

Yes, a menu really is the key to understanding what you're dealing with when you sit down at that table. It's a chance to impress and of course it's the main way of getting a punter to order a dish. I love the sound of "Pan Fried Sea Bass with Fennel and Potato Dauphinois & Honey and Soy dressing", but i'd be less inclined to order it if I saw it scribbled on a post-it note. 

Menu speak is something we're all familiar with, but often overlook how annoying it is. When a restaurant advertises a £16.00 steak as part of its main courses, but requests a £2.00 supplement on that dish, I wonder if they could not have factored that into the original price. I often wonder if I could request a steak without a supplement, perhaps they could cook it a bit less and save on some gas. 

Please notify staff if you have any nut/other allergies is another favorite of mine. "Excuse me waiter, I have a nut allergy." "Very good sir, i'll just go and remove the nuts from our satay chicken and pecan pie."

A little bit of humour goes a long way in a Menu, and helps ease the process of reading and selecting, which is particularly important for those of us that are 'well-read' and read often. Even though I was only there for the bar part of the bar/restaurant, I couldn't help but have a glance, and this was certainly a restaurant which mixed comedy with food. It's policy on vegetarians was particularly liberal: "We have a great selection of vegetarian dishes. They go very well with our steaks." 

The thought made me chuckle. A menu should be entertaining, unique and not just conform to standard expectations. It mattered not that the disclaimer could be taken as offensive from some the perspective of some vegetarians. I could hardly imagine that vegetarians picketed outside the restaurants, boycotting the Fruit Fascist restaurant. In my own carnivorous opinion, the words perched beautifully on the fence between confrontational and self-deprecating. It told me that this restaurant didn't take itself or its food too seriously. It hoped that the food was good, and the customers would like it, but it was prepared to laugh about it all. All of this I had gathered from just one line on a menu. And there was no £2.00 supplement on the steak. 

To Do: Read more menus. 

Food cycles

There seems to be a lot on the "To Do" list at the moment. Most pressing seems to be the need to stop eating fast food so regularly, for the typical health/feel better/look like a model reasons. It has often been a personal myth of my own that if a person goes through a surge of eating fast food, peaking in a session which includes a particularly greasy specimen, they will have reached the temporary point of no-return, the crest of the hamburger hill. On the other side is a gentle downhill stroll, full of yoghurt and fresh fruit, good times and model looks, right before you reach the bottom of the valley where another great hamburger hill is now in front of you. The appetite grows once again, the fast food makes a comeback to the diet, and you can't help but draw the conclusion that eating is a cyclical process. 

But this is nothing new. Eating has always been a cyclical process, wherever you live. In America, the Turkey trolley is rolled out but once a year. Thanks are given for its arrival, and then the annual feast begins. In England, it is tradition to eat Toffee covered apples on Fireworks Night. If ever there was a novel way of finding your five a day fruit and vegetables by covering its entire surface area with teeth-rotting glucose, then it was the Toffee Apple, but thank god and Guy Fawkes that it only arrives every November. 

In Spain, custom dictates that when the clock strikes midnight on 31st December, everyone must rapidly consume 12 grapes, one for each chime of the clock. The habit began in 1909 when grape growers from Alicante considered it a good way to offloade surplus production for that year. Seedless to nay, ever since Spaniards have loved the custom (Mexicans also jumping on the bandwagon), and so have the grape growers. 

A bible could be written about religious eating cycles. Christians indulge in a bit of bread and wine every Sunday, which is certainly not sustainable for the low-carb Atkins Christians. Unless of course the bread was to be wholegrain, but then how can we honestly consider the body of Jesus Christ to be wholegrain? In France, do they break the brioche and drink the wine on a Sunday? Aside from this weekly binge, one festival stands out in particular: Shrove Tuesday. 

This particular gem of a religious holiday (my favorite, let it be known) works on the wonderful premise of using up all of the plainest foodstuffs in the cupboard, rich ingredients like eggs, milk and sugar go into the pancake recipe to prepare for the Lent fast. A useful way of getting rid of those high-carb food bombs that you wont need for this 40-day fast you're about to embark upon. All of this sounds great in theory. In practice, this yearly food cycle sees Christians and non-christians alike out in the supermarkets, stocking up on chocolate dipping sauce, maple syrup, lemon juice, blueberries and ice cream. All of this is piled aplenty onto their pre-fast pancake drive, and the surplus is left to rot in the cupboard, possibly for an entire year until the cycle repeats itself. 

But my own eating patterns don't possess the same historico-religious importance, and they certainly aren't high-brow enough to use phrases such as 'historico-religious'. No, I started by saying that this week's "To Do" list was a busy one, but the main task is to beat the bulge of the fast food enticement. Currently, I have a craving. Even after coming off the worse in a greasy battle between myself and a Sausage Egg McMuffin last Sunday, I still craved a quarter pounder on Tuesday, and gleefully ate one. But this has got to stop, pancake day is only six months away, and I shall have to start stocking up on Nutella any day now. Not to mention the twelve grapes at new years, both Novemeber and December turkeys, and all of that bread and wine in the meantime. Yes, if there is anything "To Do" this week, it's to make sure that my diary knows of the important food cycles. 

To Do: Eat less fast food.