The last post...of 2013

Upcoming highlights, 2014

A short break in the New Forest. The sooner the better. I like going to places well out of season. Feels all the better.

Half Man Half Biscuit.

Harlequins v Saracens at Wembley.

The Lord's Tour (already looking for the Sussex away T20 game tie-in).

The January transfer window.

The Six Nations.

The Hobbit, part 3.

More Walking Dead.

A proper day off tomorrow.

It's a brightly coloured saucer-sized plate...

...with a spiral pattern of raised spiky bits.

Genius.

Wet it, rub ginger and garlic on it.

Perfect puréed flavourings, and minimal clean up (rinse under hot water).

Fantastic.

The best laid plans...

...and all that.

Plan A was to do a couple of hours work in the morning, despite it being a day's annual leave, then have a read, walk the dogs, read some more, make some dinner, that sort of thing.

Plan B:

• The server suffers a terminal breakdown. IT John used the technical version of the f-word to describe its condition. “How's it going?” I asked. “It's f-worded” he said, “to use the technical term.” Bit of an IT nerd on the quiet, it's a term I'm familiar with.
• Perishing with the server? Four hours dictation, stored on there during Monday and Friday.
• Spend all day trying to retrieve the situation, typing up and sending in what I'd already dictated.

The Nightwatchman

Random 2013 stuff, part whatever

Best reading, sport:

The Nightwatchman

I'd always considered Wisden a bit old and creaky. Part of the establishment. Not without a sense of humour. Cricket's impossible, often, even with a well developed sense of humour. The Nightwatchman is a Wisden quarterly, full of long articles. Varied, warm and sometimes off the wall articles.

BLISS got me the catch up set of four for Christmas and I've just put issue one down.

Because I've finished it.

The Blizzard

MM to thank for this one. To football what The Nightwatchman is to cricket.

I find a lot of so-called football journalism now comprises setting out the goals and the scorers, and writing down what the managers said in their post-match press interviews. That may sell newspapers, but it's cheap and it's not really worth reading.

The Blizzard's a breath of fresh air.

Worst newspaper:

The Mail

Full of spite and hate. Shouldn't good reporting challenge what you think as often as it reinforces your opinions? Shouldn't investigative journalists hunt the difficult targets rather than bully the easy ones?

Predictable too. It'll be full of the usual shite as soon as the borders open next year.

When I see someone with the Mail on their person, I think very uncharitable thoughts.

Funniest standup:

Sean Lock

I was laughing from the first minute:

“I got criticised for celebrating Thatcher's death. It was all exaggerated. I just had a couple of quiet drinks. It doesn't actually count as a party unless the police are called. More than once, anyway.”

To the last, backwards-facing pantomime horse, bow.

Best live music:

Vivaldi Chamber Orchestra, Venice

Music can be magical. Primal. Beautiful.

Music can be a transport.

Proof that gits like Simon Cowell and their manufactured garbage epitomise men that know the price of everything and the value of nothing.

Best Christmas BLISS-ism:

(Trying on one of a set of false moustaches) “I think I quite suit a moustache”.

Walnuts and roses

Driving in the dark

It took a lot less time to get back, leaving at just after five in the morning. The roads were pretty clear and I don't mind driving in the dark. The only downside is the free laser eye surgery you get from the full beams of oncoming cars. If you really need those things, rather than allowing your eyes to adjust and slowing down a little bit on all the unlit roads, you should wait for daylight before setting off.

Newcastle 0 v 1 Arsenal

That was absolutely knackering. Watching, that is. They're a good, well-organised team, formidable at home, and that was a tight game.

We need to do a couple of things now: first, complete the job started against Chavski, Fat Sam's Boys, and the Barcodes against Cardiff on new year's day; second, make a couple or three January signings, including a striker to relieve the burden on Giroud, and some more centre-half cover.

Walnuts

They're great, apart from the dodgy packaging. Way too wiggly shells. Nice, smooth spheres. That'd be better. Taste nice, and (apparently) good for you, too. Christmas food and health food. Unusual combination.

The tin of Roses...

...was opened without my permission, and in my absence. That's what things have come to around here.

It seems this is a good thing, because DLL's scoffed all her favourite ones without any competition from me. That what she tells me, anyway.

In goal for West Ham...

...Anthony Perkins.

I bet the showers empty out when he's about:

West Ham 'keeper Adrian

Star of 'Psycho', Anthony Perkins.

Quins at Twickers

Harlequins 22 v 6 Exeter Chiefs

I drove up to meet Kiz with MM. After the first few “is that me, or you?” moments when a Blackberry chimed an incoming text message alert, I realised that he's infinitely more popular and in demand than I am, and assumed it was his phone making the noises.

Starving hungry, I picked up a kebab roll on the way to the bus stop. A wonderful invention, whether it derives from some authentic street food or is a recent hybrid allowing Indian takeaways to compete with kebab shops. A skewer of seasoned lamb grilled over charcoal, gets slipped inside a round roti bread. In goes some salad (see – almost health food), yoghurt and garlic and chilli sauces are liberally applied, starting off as contrasting red and white, then dripping from the wrapper a vivid pink. It gets served wrapped tightly in paper that you tear away to get at the food. Two quid. I ate it on the bus to Clapham Junction.

The un-anal bus driver, after I tried a few unsuccessful swipes of the Oyster card, said “don't worry, mate, forget it” and waved us through to our seats. Top man. The train was a de facto rugby special. 99% of the passengers were going to the game. We got there with perfect timing: just long enough to get in the queue, buy our beers, and take our seats, avoiding having to listen to some X-Factor karaoke drivel, but in time for Tom's spirited metal-backed rendition of The Mighty Quin. The sound in the stadium is superb. The stadium, as a whole, is superb, visually stunning, and we had great seats and a great view. 74,827 turned out to watch the game, including a fair few Exeter Chiefs supporters, loads of them complete with Red Indian (should that be American Indian? Native American?) headdresses. The kids in their replica shirts and Quins flags lined up to see the teams onto the pitch, the fire-flares went off, then the fireworks, and then the game kicked off, with the smoke from the fireworks still lingering in the still air enclosed by the stadium. The flares and fireworks went off to Led Zeppelin's Kashmir.

Exeter started well, keeping possession and briefly silencing the crowd, the aim of away teams early on. It wasn't long before the Quins turned over possession, and found themselves with a queue of players on the left, outnumbering the Exeter defence, and Nick Evans ran in the try and kicked the conversion. Exeter kicked a penalty to make it 7 – 3, before Hopper scored another try right in our corner, and then Care bombed through a gap from the halfway line and set up Mike Brown for a third try. His dive took him into the Quins replacements warming up behind the posts, and they picked him up and gleefully started the celebrations. 19 – 3, Exeter down to thirteen men with their wing in the sin bin.

One of the rules of watching sport was duly respected and observed: the lady sat next to Kiz went to the bar, Quins scored their second try. Kiz went to the loo just before half time to miss the long queue, Quins scored their third try. If ever your team desperately need to score, just when you can't take your eyes off the game because the tension's just unbearable, give in to your bladder. It's not infallible, but it seems to have a high success rate.

The second half was quiet in comparison. The teams exchanged penalties to finish up 22 – 6. Quins looked disappointed to not have picked up the bonus point another try would've secured. Exeter were better in the second half. Both teams used all their replacements, and the fresh legs put paid to fatigue opening up space and making scoring easier, and inevitably disrupted the game.

It's easy to forget just how huge these men are. The starting point to play in the front row is sixteen to eighteen stones, second row forwards need to be at least 6'5” to be remotely competitive. Centres are now the size that back row forwards were twenty years ago. Take into account the intensity of the game, the very, very few missed tackles, some colossal hits, and you have to respect a Quins XV that closed out the game while still looking for another try.

Even the train back was enlivened by some debate about the 2015 World Cup and New Zealand's chances when a couple of Kiwis piped up. While they're an ageing team, they do seem to have one of those conveyor belts, similar to the Aussie cricket development system, where, as greats retire, new potential greats step up to take their places.

All rounded off with a new curry: Green Masala. I think the green came from chillies as much as from the coriander.

Thanks Kiz.

Why the Mexican wave is wrong

The crowd play a part, but a peripheral, passive part, in sport. Sit down, sit still. You've paid good money to watch some of the best at what they do, do what they do best, not other people congratulate themselves on their ability to stand up with their arms in the air, then sit down again. One corner of the stadium were so perfect, me and Kiz reckoned they'd been to Mexican wave evening classes.

I can't quite express what I feel about it.

It's disrespectful, both to the competing athletes and others who want to take in every minute of the game.

It indicates that sort of pretend interest in the sport belied when the attention span can't sustain the (all too short) forty minute sessions.

It's pointless.

When it stops, and that section of the crowd get booed? Well I'm happy to be in that section copping the flack.

It's just very, very wrong.

Piers pummelled

Before knocking anyone...

...for their performances on the pitch, it's an idea to think first. Piers Morgan has blasted England cricketers, for their lack of courage. He's been unsympathetic to Jonathan Trott, who left the tour because of illness, and to Graeme Swann, without considering the surgery he went through recently to try and squeeze a few more overs from a tired body.

Even if you're not interested in cricket, this is worth watching.

Here's Piers facing a Brett Lee over. He's running in and bowling, but he's not properly fired up, not off his full run-up, he's retired from cricket, and even at his fastest, wasn't as quick as Mitchell Johnson's 92+ mph:

http://www.theguardian.com/sport/video/2013/dec/27/piers-morgan-brett-lee-over-cricket

Morgan insists he loves and regularly plays cricket. He hasn't learnt any of the humility the game supposedly teachers its players, has he. He insisted that he regularly faced guest bowlers equivalent to Brett Lee playing for the opponents his side were facing, who were not going easy on him.

Ball by ball:

1. Hit by ball while backing away to square leg. Not the bravest course of action.

2. Dumped on his arse ducking a ball that was going miles over his head in any case.

3. Hit by ball, backing away, again.

4. Hit by ball, backing away, again again.

5. Bowled, leg stump knocked over, exposed as he backed away.

6. Hit by ball...etc.

Before giving it all the “my mum could do better”, there's the need to consider just how good and how dedicated and how brave these blokes are to be doing what they're doing. Fair enough, Morgan put his money where his mouth is. But he lost the lot.

Leftover curry

I hate wasting food, but enjoy using up leftover wherever possible. I've tried various ways to make that cliché turkey curry, but this year I stumbled on a way to make a proper, hot curry sauce that, while it does not inflict pain, does leave the tongue stinging and nose running.

Gently fry a large onion, as much garlic and ginger as you think might be over the top, and then some, and nine (I dropped one, so used ten) little green chillies (cut down on these for less heat). Cook until everything's soft. As long as nothing burns and goes bitter, there's nothing to go wrong, so long and slow is the way to do it.

More leftovers: a large tomato from the salad tray, chopped, goes in.

Then your favourite curry powder or paste, whatever you prefer.

More leftovers: loads of that chicken stock next. If it goes too runny, some broken up leftover roast spuds or parsnips or carrots will bulk it back up. Too thick, more stock.

Leave it bubbling while you do other stuff. Eventually, when you remember or start getting hungry, zizz it with the hand blender thingy leaving a smooth curry sauce to bung the leftover turkey or chicken into.

Use veggie stock for a spud or mixed veg or (if you're intent on breaking the wind speed record) sprouts. Improvise a sag paneer with leftover greens and stilton.

Make lots and stick it in the fridge for laters.

That tenth chilli? May have been one too many.

Boxing Day

Boxing Day...

...(why's it called Boxing Day?) means a full card of football fixtures. We've got West Ham, at their place. Lets hope they're spitting feathers at the end, not blowing bubbles.

Boxing Day (2)...

...I've just googled “why is boxing day called boxing day”. Don't bother:

1. Inconclusive.
2. Boring.
3. Actually, very boring.

The friendly horse is back

He lives in the field adjacent to where I park my car. That's lovely in broad daylight and when my mind's in the here and now, because he's really a calm, friendly animal.

It's not so good in the dark or when my mind's elsewhere, when he sneaks up and frightens the bejesus out of me.

Boxing Day (3)...

...and the traditional test match at the Melbourne Cricket Ground. There'll be 90-odd thousand there, most of them baying for (more) English blood.

Like all right-minded folk, normally I would've been eagerly anticipating this game, but with the Ashes already gone...well...it's all a bit meh, isn't it?

Boxing Day (4)...

...means leftovers to play with:

The forgotten art of bubble and squeak.

Coronation chicken (or turkey). Or corporation chicken, the spicier, more down to earth version, without the raisins.

Vegetable stock from all the odds, ends and peelings. Chicken (or turkey) stock from the bones and carcases.

Jingle bells, jingle bells...

...jingle all the way,

Oh what fun, it is to see,

Arsenal win away, hey.

Fat Sam and the Eastenders 'aint happy. They had a good twenty minutes, then got a proper slapping.

D-the-Dog's first Christmas (with us)

D-the Dog at Christmas

I thought he'd be absolute murder. Actually he got the hang of unwrapping his presents and leaving the other stuff alone (up to a point – he's a nosy little so-and-so) pretty quickly. He had a good day. He was just a bit murder. At times.

I was wrongly accused...

...of secretly watching the Queen's speech. Quite hurtful, that.

We ran out...

...of mock Bailey's and Guinness.

We've a mountain of...

...sprouts (both BLISS and I thought we may be a bit light, and bought additional bags)...

...leftover chicken (because I didn't check the use-by date on the first one, and had to cook it on the 23^rd)...

...ready-made custard (the EU custard ocean is in our fridge)...

...cheese and cooked meats (we'were all too stuffed to eat in the evening – apart from me)...

...avocados (because I forgot to put them into the veggie starter – I always forget at least one thing, despite having a crib-list hanging up)...

...onions, which will get used...

...crisps and chocolates, which will get eaten...

...wrapping paper (used), which will get thrown away...

...love and goodwill, which will be remembered.

Good ideas included...

...going back to having some breakfast (BLISS)...

...roasting the carrots (MM)...

...including some beat the intro and club singer questions in the quiz (ME)...

...rehanging the outside lights (BLISS, despite a lot of resistance from ME (the Man City game was on at the time, I wasn't at my best))...

...not spoiling an unbroken 55 year run of dodging the Queen's speech (ME, actually)...

He (hasn't) fallen in the water

Long walks in the woods, with the dogs...

...on my own are just that.

With BLISS and DLL they become photo opportunities or even £250 You've Been Framed cha'ching nice little earners as they eagerly await any trip, slip, slide or fall. They would, obviously, prefer a large amount of water, mud, and, apparently, air ambulance (how exciting: helicopter / doctors / medical stuff / more medical stuff) involvement.

I have (albeit on BLISS' phone) video and audio evidence: hanging onto a tree and D-the-Dog's lead and getting across a flood:

“Get ready”

Then:

“Never mind, he's made it”.

It's a football thing

You've either (so they say) got it, or you 'aint. I think that sort of refers to a good thing. It applies to the football thing, too, though.

“Raise a glass, a perfect pass

and dribble around my socks

Check my shirt and drink my shots

And squeeze me in the box”

The football thing is more like this: “I've still got it”. “Yeah. Can't get rid of it.”

More from England's Irie (the intro):

“Okay, now some of this may sound stupid to some of you guys but I want you to hear me out. Now look, you know different people think about life in different ways. Lawyers think life is a big courtroom, Doctors probably think life is like a big operation, Bus driver think life is...er...a big bus I guess. Who knows what the hell those guys think. Anyway, I've always thought of life as a big football game...”

Heh!

Anyway, yesterday, I woke before the busiest day of the month, and the first thought, in true Fever Pitch fashion, was how're we going to do against the Kings Road Chavs tonight. We needed a win to top the table over Christmas.

Eagerly anticipated, it ended 0 – 0, they somehow managed to both park the bus and, probably, produce the best chances of the game, while we did a lot of huffing and puffing and overall deserved at least a draw.

Nice to see some spite in the team's reactions to some awful Chav tackles, too, and Ozil more than ready to defend himself. Fantastic. I know nether team looked after the ball particularly well, and it was hardly the beautiful game being played out there, but it was a tough, full-blooded game, compelling and cpmpetitive.

Eddie's made the first XI

This is Eddie Izzard...

...on making the first eleven at St Bede's:

Before a Wednesday game they would read out the team in front of the whole school. "Isherwood – captain, Vincent, Askeroff, De Bruin, Izzard, Stephens, Gearing …" All these names – still remember them. "Everyone in the team, stand up, go and get your kit and meet by the minibus." And we'd stand up in front of the whole school – a God-like moment.

The full article's here:

http://www.theguardian.com/football/2013/dec/21/eddie-izzard-football-weird-magical

It's a great read. I had problems with a woman teacher and leaving her lessons early for school sport. She based her looks and personality on the deputy headmistress out of Please Sir, and left me with ongoing problems relating to middle-aged women without senses of humour. She was like a Thatcher forerunner. That sort of hair with so much whatever in it that a nuclear warhead wouldn't cause a ripple, and a permanent scowl. I had similar problems with a coffin-dodging Latin master who left me with ongoing problems with Latin and living corpses without senses of humour.

2013 list (random) (continued)

Best restaurants:

Ping Pong

It may be the recently visited thing (Monday), but the food was lovely, the service was good, and we had the film to talk about.

The One Just Over the Canal In Venice

We had a fantastic stay and our first meal and a couple of subsequent ones there, and it has to get an award for dealing with a hungry BLISS:

BLISS: Is the linguine pomodoro large?

WAITER: It's a normal portion for a pasta.

BLISS: But I'm very hungry.

WAITER: (arriving at the table with two dishes of linguine pomodoro) and which one would madam prefer?

She picked the overloaded plateful.

Best takeaway:

Coriander

Longest wait ever at a takeaway:

Coriander

Longest ever wait at a takeaway having been assured it would be ready in five minutes:

Coriander

Takeaway that rang BLISS chasing me to get there to pick up the food after playing cricket one Saturday:

Coriander

Christmas on Death Row

Christmas on Death Row

As in Death Row Records, of course. Gangsta rap Christmas covers, smooth and easy, and the proceeds from over 200,000 sales went to fund community projects. Not typical hip hop. Unless the projects were handing out firearms and drugs, and bitches and whoe's.

A seriously good Christmas compilation. There's Silver Bells, there's Frosty The Snowman, there's Silent Night. There's also: Santa Claus Goes Straight To The Ghetto, Party 4 Da Homies, and Christmas In The Ghetto. A make you smile album.

Nothing to do with this, but while on about music to smile to (sorry to trot out this link again, again, again, but if this don't make you laugh, you need to book a Dr's appointment):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eeZwbAvOTEY

“Big Louie knows what it's all about

Mowing down cops with machine gun chops”

The Sensational Alex Harvey Band's “There's No Lights On The Christmas Tree Mother, They're Burning Big Louie Tonight”.

“They're strapping him down and shaving his hair,

Big Louie's gonna get the chair!”

2013, the random list

Film (new, cinema):

Django Unchained

This goes back to early in the year, and I've only not said The Hobbit because that's probably too fresh in the memory.

Film (old, foreign language, DVD):

Three Colours, White

Blue is everyone's favourite, probably followed by Red, and they're both absolute must-sees. But White just made me laugh out loud in places. Funny, serious and sad, a perfect film.

Loud City Song

Julia Holter – Loud City Song

I've listened to this a fair bit now. I was almost put off by the chamberpop pigeon holing, but I think it's more at home in those trippy, psychedelic-fringes where the Avey Tare / Panda Bear Animal Collective axis operate. There's a strong collection of songs. It's perfect for earphone dog walking music when there's no rush and I need to remind myself to take my time, and smell the...er...nice woodland smells. While stopping frequently, so the dogs can smell other animals' urine.

There's some avant garde and some jazzy moments, the instrumentation's never run-of-the-mill, and the voice is not over-used but dead good when it is.

Blackberries...

...as in the phones, are on the way out, the company's making huge losses and no-one wants the things, as they've been superseded by phones that have apps that allow them to make the tea and forecast the racing results accurately. With cameras and video and stuff, too.

Working on the basis that today's white elephant is tomorrow's must-have funky retro gadget-to-be-seen-with, now's the time to ditch the Blackberry and get a smartphone.

Put the Blackberry back into the box it came in, try to find the charger (probably with the Kindle or the Kobo), the usb lead and the original headphones, and stash it away for a while before sticking it on eBay for a small fortune.

There's a huge gulf...

...between viewing habits, that suggest a national obsession with food, you can't move for celeb chefs on the Sky channels on pages two to five of the menu; and the shopping habits, with the supermarkets reporting record sales of convenience Christmas dinner items. Boneless pre-stuffed turkey crowns apparently top the list.

I sort of like the traditional approach. I like having the light and dark meat and the on the bone bits, and making the roast spuds and the Yorkshires and all that.

I've noticed the emergence of pre-formed meatballs. This I find baffling. To mince, you need to add onions, garlic, chillies, herbs and spices and flavourings. Then roll them in your floured hands. I don't get buying ready-made meatballs one little bit.

So, naturally, I'm struggling with the shop-made pigs in blankets. Saves all that messing about, I guess. You know. Having to hold a sausage in one hand and wrap a rasher of streaky around it with the other. Outrageously arty and crafty stuff, that.

I realise I'm heading for my natural habitat (Jurassic Park) here, but how long before there's pre-peeled satsumas, shelled and part-chewed wallnuts (saves all that tedious mastication).

BLISS wasn't too happy at the whole smoked mackerel. She's not big on heads and tails and fins when it comes to fish “look” she said “someone's dropped a dead fish into our trolley”. In fact, she even made me cook some peas in the microwave yesterday. “A fraction of the time” she said. She didn't add “you culinary technophobe” but the look said it all.

2013 list, part one

One of those list of the year things

2013, in random fashion:

Telly:

The Walking Dead

One of the very first pub comedians I went to see started off by apologising to any sensitive souls in the audience... “but” he said “anyone who thinks they can get a laugh without swearing is a ****”.

MM was home recently. Try this without the swearing and it's not half as funny:

MM: Those slippers you're wearing? (I was wearing, much to my dismay and eternal shame, slippers).

ME: Er, yep.

MM: **** me. You are an old ****.

Equally, there's no point making telly without blood, splatter and gore when the technology exists to make telly with blood splatter and gore. A decent plot, some characters that develop over a series and from series to series, more than enough good lines and cliffhangers to keep you engrossed. With the added bonus of blood, splatter and gore.

Cookbook:

Heston Blumenthal: In Search of Perfection

A £4 charity shop purchase has given three great tips:

• Chips. When BLISS (a chip-sceptic, and when tempted, dead picky about her chips) describes what you dish up as “the best chips ever” you have to thank HB and the guys in the lab calculating the dry solid content of Maris Pipers, King Edwards, and Golden Wonders.

• Brining the chicken. Water. Salt. Leave it alone for six hours. Cook it. Okay, I've skipped the par-boil, and anything that involves goggles, gastight suits and gauntlets, but even so...

• Batter. Okay, again, I'm never going to go the whole hog. I don't have a soda syphon, and if I did, I wouldn't think about clogging it up with batter. But using cold fizzy water has improved the pakoras and tempura no end.

Book (new):

Richard House, The Kills

Long and sprawling over continents, published as four books then a single volume, with online additional material to tap into. Should've made it onto the Booker shortlist.

And:

Thomas Pychon, Bleeding Edge

No-one writes better dialogue. Long. Focused. Very, very funny. Dot.com bust and 9/11.

VLC - with a hat on...

Linux v Windows

Windows Media Player is almost unusable. It wants to delve into the depths of your hard drives, only plays a limited range of formats, and is, generally, awful.

VLC is free, runs on Linux (most importantly) and on Mac and Windows, too. It plays just about any audio and video format out of the box and anything totally left-field after you find the right codec.

The icons look like this, for the standard player and the stream player:

Until Christmas, when the traffic cone gets a hat:

I know it's only about six lines of code. Check the date, change the icon if... but that's Linux class and quality and care. A nice touch. Why? Because they can.

Eating my words

I've looked. The best I could do was:

Amazon / Men's Jumpers, Novelty / Christmas

5XL: ziltch.

4XL: just the one, grey and white (i.e. tasteful, i.e. not really Christmassy) and £55. Fifty five quid for a jumper that's going to be covered in gravy and red wine before the Queen's Speech. That's about a tenner an hour before it's ruined.

Nothing over XXL on eBay, although I did like the “Merry Christmas, You Filthy Animal” and “Chillin' With My Snowmies” sweatshirts.

In any case, jumpers need to be a bit loose and roomy. In my case, these days (known as the 'biscuit' days, as in “give me a biscuit and I'll top 20 stone days”; or, more seasonally correct, “give me a mince pie and I'll top twenty stone”) that means a minimum of 6XL, or mobilising a legion of grannies with knitting needles and miles of yarn.

Maybe the apron's a better idea after all.

Christmas jumper, moi?

More Christmas jumper exclusion

Can you believe this?

DLL: You've got an apron.

[Does this not imply that I should know my place? In the kitchen, looking after everyone's face-feeding needs?]

BLISS: Yeah. You've got a Christmas apron.

[I'd wager neither of them could put their hands on said apron. Not in a hurry, anyway.]

DLL: (raising the condescension bar a few inches) Yeah. No-one else has got a Christmas apron.

That'd be because no-one else needs or wants a Christmas apron.

I demand my jumper. One like this, maybe just less green and more red:

Louis Armstrong and Friends

Just sometimes legends deserve their status. This is wonderful.

I love Christmas In New Orleans and 'Zat You, Santa Claus.

A victim of size-ism

Can you have Christmas...

...without Phil Spector?

Probably not. The annual Internet sniff and search for some new Christmas collections is on, with the usual mixed results. I've ben having some indie Christmas times with these three:

Oy! Where's my Christmas jumper?

I'm being excluded.

Here's the proof:

BLISS – Christmas jumper? Check.

DLL – Christmas jumper? Check.

KIZ – Christmas jumper? Check.

MM – Christmas jumper (in reindeer sweatshirt form)? Check.

Me?

“They don't do them in your size”.

Size-ism, that is. I'm a victim of size-ism.

The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug

The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug

Not just The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug, but, thanks to DLL, in 3D at the IMAX. The biggest screen in the UK. The only UK cinema screen housed in a cylinder on a Waterloo roundabout.

I've an admission to make: I preferred The Hobbit to Lord of the Rings. Probably because I read the Hobbit at the right age, an age at which I struggled with the daunting size and scope, and the endless campfire songs and digressions of the three-part masterpiece. The right age was older for Ulysses. Several aborted attempts, and I was over forty when I got through what is now a favourite novel that I've since reread. Same with In Search of Lost Time and the Beckett novels.

The opposite with, say Graham Greene, an author I found easy to devour in late teens and early twenties, but one I've found it impossible to revisit since.

Another admission: I don't see any problem with a film maker taking nine hours over a book that, while much shorter than a singe volume of Lord of the Rings, still isn't pamphlet-thin and must take more than nine hours to read.

We found some things out on the way. When you have tickets for something, or somewhere to get to other than work, trains are delayed. Sevenoaks station is so badly signposted it must be almost a state secret. If ever you need to beg, the car park is full of people generous with their change, however, the car park is even more secret than the station. When you're crunching painkillers to calm an ankle down, there's not going to be a seat on the train.

The film's great. I don't know how critics manage to write about movies without giving too much away. Martin Freeman's Bilbo is much less overwrought than Elijah Wood's Frodo. Dwarves have more natural comic potential than elves. The skin-changer's cool. Smaug's got a lot to say, but he is a huge fire-breathing dragon so probably didn't get told to shut up enough when he was a whelp or a fledgeling. He looks spectacular, briefly, in gold. Laketown's a Dickensian rookery on sea, you can almost smell the fish oil and tar, ruled by Stephen Fry, yomping about being a sort of Tolkeinesque Boris Johnson. We noticed some evolution (maybe reverse, as this is a prequel): dwarves' hands are getting proportionately larger, as are hobbits' feet (and harier, too). Legolas' eyes are getting bluer.

The theme parks will soon have dwarf barrel falls and Lonely Mountain mines rollercoaster rides.

In you have to move with the times corner: 3D is now mature. Less wow, perhaps, but less seasick inducing and impossible to follow (see Spiderman). Less of a new toy, more of an enhancement.

One thing is absolutely for sure, when she watches this, BLISS is definitely not going to be happy about the ending. Not one little bit.

American and Australian Horror Stories

American Horror Story: Asylum

I've been watching American Horror Story season two. There's nods to a lot of horror films that even I've picked up on. They must be pretty blatant, because I'm rubbish at noticing things like that usually. Pistache-blindness, I'll call it. There's some Texas Chainsaw Massacre with the masks and the brutal attacks. Not strictly horror, but there's a Nurse Ratched-alike running the place. There's some alien abductions going on (yes, there's the probes, alien abduction and probes go together like horse and carriage, you can play that b*llsh*t bingo game watching any interview with someone claiming to be an alien abductee, and 'probe', and probably 'anal-probe' is going to be one of the first cross-offs, and yes, the women come back pregnant). There's the Nazi death camp doctor hiding out continuing his experimentation. There's more than a passing nod to The Exorcist. There's more nuns than you can shake a roman candle at.

All in all, its a great, gothic asylum story, with the occasional proper shock in there, and enough gore for even...well...even for me.

Australian Horror Story: The Ashes

No matter how bad it gets, there's some fun stuff going on:

1. Over here, the Bob Willis on the Ashes Verdict. Every night after a day's play, at nine o'clock on Sky Sports, you can watch uncle Bob become increasingly apoplectic in his condemnation of England's performances. Considering that he starts off at searingly incandescent and escalates from there, its pretty damn amusing, unless you're a medic on standby nearby. In which case I'd park as near to the studio as possible.

2. Over there, on the Test Match Special close of play podcast, there's Boycott. Who is equally incandescent, but has a more amusing turn of phrase. “Well he's just stupid. There's more brains in a pork pie, int' there?” “That were like my other hanging out the washing, if I were you back in England I'd go to sleep” (way to sell the show Geoff!). Of Alistair Cook's dismissal, bowled: “he played down Piccadilly, and it went down Bakerloo”. I know he trots this out a lot, but it is a favourite of mine: me mum could've played that bowling with a stick of rhubarb.”

3. The apparently 'shocking' level of on-pitch aggression the teams are showing. A level that, were you not to exceed it by an order of magnitude playing for the local football or rugby vets team in the annual super-friendly knock-about fixture, you'd be laughed off the park in the first ten minutes.

4. Whenever there's international cricket, there's a chance to listen to Bumble. As down to earth as Boycott, but a frustrated stand-up comedian, and certifiably mental in that Matthew Hoggard way.

If there's any doubt in anyone's mind just how much sport actually matters compared to the other rubbish people find to fret about, check out the viewing and listening figures for a series that's just about at the most ridiculously difficult hours possible.

I've developed a coping mechanism. The laptop is on the Sky Sports coverage all night, with headphones plugged in, so that if I wake up for any reason, I can take in half an hour or so live before dozing back off. The netbook is on the bedside cabinet, with Test Match Special on the other headphones, should the need for an emergency update occur. It's been compelling. Like all good horror stories.

A birthday

I've had to get the abacus out

Birthday. Yes, another one. Thanks everyone for the kind wishes and cards and phone calls and diner and I'm off to the IMAX for part two of The Hobbit on Monday and a first look at the new Wembley for the Quins at Saracens in March.

Now. I knew I'm over 50 because I've had a 50^th birthday, and I knew must be an odd-number birthday, and I knew it wasn't or 59. So while I couldn't reel it straight off, it didn't take so much narrowing down.

How I spent my summer vacation

The original title was Get The Gringo. I've realised that DLL is probably too young to have seen, or know of the existence of, the Max Max films, and maybe even the Lethal Weapons. That's a six-film project, right there. (Were there three Lethal Weapon films?) Edit: That's a seven-film project right there.

Anyway, I know Mel Gibson's had no end of ups and downs recently, expressed some dodgy opinions and stuff, but I'm not on any boycott or anything and How I Spent My Summer Vacation was a good watch.

It also kept BLISS happy: it was set in a prison. It wasn't set in space. It had an ending without too many loose ends. It was set in a Mexican prison. Fro hell.

It kept DLL happy: it was in colour.

It kept them both happy: it moved along quickly (I remain baffled that they'll tolerate scrub-room sink medical melodramas, but found Killing Them Slowly unfolded at too slow a pace – but then again, 99% of television leaves me baffled, from Ant and Dec through to the X-Factor (I tried, but could only come up with Z Cars to take me through to the end of the alphabet)).

Not only did I not get a card...

...postmarked The Emirates and signed “looking forward to unlocking the wallet again in January, we need reinforcements to remain competitive on all fronts”, we lost. Ok, it was away at Citeh, where they look very different to when they travel away from the Middle Eastlands, but shipping six goals 'aint pretty.

Dodgy doggy bagging

We've had the worst doggy bagging service ever. Everything not to be mixed up was mixed up. The onion bhajees made the nan bread soggy. DLL was the only one to get away with it, her three spoons of prawn korma all alone in a ten-gallon container.

They got flowers. A rose each, a nice touch. However, another example of sexism raising its head, as the blokes get naff all. I suppose the assumption is that we've already had our own weight in lime pickle and papadums so any further treats are redundant. Small bottle of Cobra or Kingfisher wouldn't go amiss, if we're not stopping at the mock after eights and mint imperials.

Prince of Darkness Christmas Special

Prince of Darkness Christmas Special

Peter Mandelson, Prince of Darkness, sits in a large, overstuffed leather chair, his head tilted backwards. There is a slice of cucumber on each eye, avocado spread over his face, and something white and glossy over his lips. Terry enters the room, and does a double-take.

TERRY: Blimey, boss, I didn't know you were such a messy eater!

MANDELSON: [Speaking with minimal lip movement so as not to disturb the face-pack] Ver funigh Terrah. I'm preping for the photo.

TERRY: Photo, boss?

MANDELSON: Yegh, ve Christmas card...

TERRY: Boss! You 'aint, are you.

MANDELSON: [Giving up on the face-pack preservation speak] Yes, actually, Terry. I very much am. I need to project myself back into the limelight, my natural habitat.

TERRY: You sure it 'aint the planet Zog?

MANDELSON: What?

TERRY: Your natural habitat. Little green men from the planet Zog.

MANDELSON: What's the time?

TERRY: Half one.

MANDELSON: [Wiping his face with a towel] That's me done then. Time to freshen up and get the togs on.

TERRY: Do what?

MANDELSON: The photographer's here at three.

TERRY: But that's and hour and a...

MANDELSON: One has to look one's best...

TERRY: Yeah. Never mind.

Three o'clock. The doorbells rings, then rings again, then again.

MANDELSON: Terry. Terry! TERRY. TERRY!!! THE PHOTOGRAPHER'S HERE, CAN YOU LET HIM IN. TERRRRRYYYYYYY.

Terry, headphones on, is in the kitchen watching the highlights of the second test match, while listening to The Beastie Boys' Paul's Boutique.

TERRY: Eh? [Takes off the headphones] Did you say something, boss?

MANDELSON: [From the wings] Too late, I'll get it.

Enter Mandelson. He is wearing a red hat with white fur trim, a very tight red shirt, skimpy red shorts, knee-length patent boots, and is carrying the world's dinkiest sack over his shoulder.

TERRY: Boss. You've got to be joking.

MANDELSON: [Opening the door] No, Terry, I'm...

GARY: [The photographer] You've got to be joking. This is a set up right?

MANDELSON: [Getting angry] Look, my legs are one of my best features, and...

GARY: [On his mobile phone] Ron, you playing practical jokes again? A bit of festive spoofing going on, or what? Not this time mate...

TERRY: Mate [to Gary] it think he's for real.

MANDELSON: Of course this is for real. I need to get people's attention...

TERRY: There's every chance of that, Jesus...

GARY: [Hanging up, holding onto Terry for support as his knees start to buckle with laughter] Do you really...

MANDELSON: [Becoming emotional] Yes I really, really...

TERRY: Boss, you are 'avin a tin bath...

MANDELSON:...really hate you! [He turns and runs from the room]

GARY: [Wiping the tears from his eyes] Is he always...

TERRY: Yes mate, always.

GARY: Blimey.

TERRY: Fancy a lager? The cricket's on, he'll be a while calming down.

GARY: Yeah, cheers. Got a smoke?

TERRY: Yeah, come on, in the kitchen.

GARY: Not going too well, is it?

TERRY: The photo shoot?

GARY: The cricket.

TERRY: Nah, nah, it 'aint.

GARY: What'll he wear next.

TERRY: I don't want to think about it.

Exit Terry and Gary, helpless with laughter.

Pick a card, not just any old card...

Who sends Christmas cards...

...with photos of themselves on? What's wrong with robins and trees and comedy Santas stuck down chimneys? How much of an ego-manic must you be to send something like this:

Thanks, Ed. Great. A photo of your ugly mug and you mongy kids to stick on the mantlepiece. Or use to start the fire with. Yeah, appreciate it. (No, I didn't get one).

Didn't get one of these, either:

Er, thanks Dave. Similar thoughts to Ed's, really. Ugly mugs and a mongy kid. Where's the snow on the trees and the star and the chestnuts roasting on an open fire?

Then there's this:

No mongy kids. Might explain the u-turn on the tuition fees. No personal interest.

I did a quick google on who sends cards with photos of themselves on. “People in love with themselves” was the answer. If you want the personal touch, why not get the mongs to get their crayons out and issue some of their Christmas-themed artwork?