Fast
Food, Slow Cooker
By
Dominic Horton
You
have to question your sanity when you continue to do things that on
balance are not beneficial to you and all the evidence is weighted in
favour of it not being sensible to undertake the activity in
question. The Baby Faced
Assassin at the Rhareli Peking Chinese takeaway had his evil way
after I left the Flagon & Gorses on Sunday evening and as a
consequence of the oriental supper I had so much salt and Monosodium
glutamate coursing through my veins on Monday morning that I had a
Ready Brek style radiation glow. Despite the chill in the air I had
to remove my coat walking up Furnace Hill for fear of overheating; I
had no fear of overeating on Sunday night and shoveled all
of the Szechuan beef and fried rice down my gullet to
placate my dissenting stomach. I once again requested extra beef to
boost the meal’s vegetable/ meat ratio and Mr Ping the chef
fulfilled my wishes without the Assassin requiring any extra
expenditure on my part, which was gentlemanly of him.
I
ended up in the Peking in a desperate late night scramble for
sustenance as earlier in the evening I intended to stop off for a
nibble on the way to pick up Harry Gout as I thought I deserved a
treat after completing a grueling run; instead of a treat I
popped into McDonalds, the only available food stop by Gout’s
house. The fast food “restaurant” was so unexpectedly busy, with
customers frenziedly clamouring around the counter, that it looked
like the scene of a food drop from the back of a United Nations truck
to desperate, starving persons in a disaster zone, so I gave it a
skip. I fully intended to have a pork pie in the Flagon & Gorses
to compensate for my burger-less state but the events of the evening
overtook me and the thought of the pie of pork became lost in the
wilderness of beer and bonhomie.
After
a couple of hours of taking root in the bar with Gout and Chompa
Babbee, who was making a cameo appearance, in strolled a folk duo who
brazenly asked Carla Von Trow-Hell behind the bar if they could get
their instruments out: Carla was getting excited until she saw that
the men were referring to their fiddle and banjo respectively, that
were resting dormant in their cases. Carla acceded to the musicians'
request and once they had satisfied their priority of getting a drink
they struck up in no time at all, launching into a pleasant enough
rendition of the age old folk tune Marie's Wedding. Within
seconds I found my foot voluntarily tapping and it wasn't just to get
my blood circulating to ward off the onset of gout in the ball of the
toe on my right foot. I even sang along to a few lines of the song
until a disturbed Harry bade me to cease such discordant crooning
with a pleading look of disgust.
The
folk duo continued to entertain the inmates that were present within
the bar and they even played Fisherman's Blues by
the Waterboys, a favourite of mine that reminds me of my Fairfield
Drive days living with El Pistolero, when we would listen to the song
after having a sherry or two, bottles that is. Into the pub ambled
Drew Monkey, as he has a habit of doing on a Sunday evening, and he
parked himself down next to the folkies and was pally with them,
which is no surprise as Drew is a bit of a musician himself, having
more strings to his bow that Glen Campbell's twelve string guitar.
Being unable to resist the temptation, after a gargle of beer to
water his vocal chords, Drew started to warble with the duo and his
singing of The Wild Rover lead to pints being
quickly downed and punters heading for the exit and in no time at all
he had the pub cleared. Standing at the bar, Frank Henstein decided
to gallantly stick it out but at every opportunity he made the excuse
of going in the back room to collect glasses for the bar staff just
to get away from the din.
As
the evening wore on the performers played the tender and sentimental
Irish folk standard, Carrickfergus, and with me
being adequately refreshed it made me maudlin, so it was with a tear
in the eye that I departed for the Rhareli Peking, humming the
doleful song, much to the bemusement of the permanently grinning Baby
Faced Assassin.
Not
only did the Peking's finest enhance the abhorrent and wholly
unwelcome drink terrors on Monday morning but it also sucked the
majority of fluids out of my body leaving me drier the Tutankhamen’s
mummy. It was in this distinctly disagreeable state that I was faced
with a pigeon flying directly at my head whilst completing the short
stumble from the train station to my workplace. Fortunately, the
pigeon ascended just in the nick of time and flew inches over me,
which was just as well as it would have been embarrassing walking
into the Flagon & Gorses with the pigeon's beak firmly implanted
in my forehead, with me asking for a pint of bitter for me and
another one for the pigeon.
This
week has been characterised by trips to the doctors but they were not
in connection with the effects of the Sunday night supper from the
Rhareli Peking. First, it was off to the surgery Friday last to start
the ball rolling to get a bit of physiotherapy to ease the back pain
which is the product of stiffness caused by sitting immovable at a
desk for the last sixteen years of my working life. It is odd to
think that such a sedentary activity has lead to the troublesome
injury. I was assessed by a new, fresh faced doctor and he began his
deliberations, “well, at your age ….......”. Although I had
considered myself to be a relatively young man on entering the
surgery I felt ancient and infirm all of a sudden and it was a
watershed moment if ever there was one.
Second,
it was back to the doctor's on Wednesday as since I suffered from the
mild-graines before Christmas (see Lowlife No
49, Lord of the Mild-graines) I have never properly
recovered from it and things took a turn for the worse this week with
the spots in front of my eyes becoming more prominent, the tinnitus
in my ears becoming louder and me generally feeling crook, as the
Aussies say. The doc was unsure about my condition so referred me for
blood tests.
I
just wanted to read my book in the surgery waiting room but I kept
getting distracted by the bothersome television in the corner that
produced an unrelenting flow of medical information and health
advice. Television pictures seem to be piped into everywhere
nowadays, like some nightmare vision from Orwell's 1984 and
it is rare you get a minute's quietude anywhere, which is why the
Flagon & Gorses is such a welcome haven of tranquillity with its
absence of music (notwithstanding the above), gaming machines and
televisions (save a rare broadcast in the back room). One's toilet is
also a serene sanctuary but there was disaster at my Codger Mansions
bolt hole this week when the unruly toilet seat finally gave up the
ghost and re-classified itself as broke proper. I hastily purchased a
new seat (aqua coloured for a change) but the screws on the old seat
have rusted so I can't get it off, meaning that now each trip to the
karsi is so fraught with peril that I have to put the life guard on
standby when I go for a Tom Tit.
To
add to my tribulations my new (second hand) car Helen started to
rapidly lose power on the way back from the doctors and I decided to
see if I could get her to the garage before she came to a grinding
halt but as the garage is up Gorsty Hill, which is steeper than the
North side of the Himalayan mountain K2, it was not my brightest idea
and in her enfeebled condition Helen declined making the ascent,
spluttering before her wheels ceased to roll. The cost of a new
alternator was partially offset by me picking up a slow cooker for a
bargain £19.99 (reduced from £54) on an emergency trip to buy some
tomato sausages, which reminded me of the downfall of my vegetarian
days when I was living at Fairfield Drive.
I
was a fairly shoddy and indisciplined veggie but the dedicatedly
carnivorous Frymaster General had made it his business to get me back
to eating meat, so knowing I was at cracking point he cooked eight
tomato sausages, ate four and a half and pushed the plate across the
table towards me, beckoning me to sample them with by raising his
eyebrows and nodding his head. I succumbed to the porky temptation
and the sausages tasted like pure heaven, which is a lot more than
can be said for the wares of a certain local takeaway, which will
remain nameless, but which I am sure you can work out for yourself
even if you lack the powers of deduction of Inspector Poirot.
©
Dominic Horton, March 2014.
*
Email: lordhofr@gmail.com
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