I was at least expecting a red carpet

Toyota Carina minicabs and custard factories. Last night found us travelling in one on its way to the other. You should be able to work this one out for yourself. If you can't, I'd recommend inhaling a little less deeply in future.

As the precision Japanese engineering motored its way through the hooning rain and jubilant Birmingham City supporters (a rare 3-1 win against an apparently below-par Manchester City), we were treated to the driver's choice in music, the banging choons of Galaxy FM. Niiice.

I bet Brad and Angelina don't have this sort of experience when they get invited to film premieres.

A friend of ours, Chris, has spent much of the last twelve months or so putting together his latest epic. He's written it, produced, it, filmed it and played one of the key roles. All he needed to do was write the theme tune and sing the theme tune, and he'd be the next Dennis Waterman. Or something.

The Custard Factory in question is an arts centre in Digbeth, just outside the city centre. Amongst other spaces, it has a 100-seat cinema that can be hired out to film-makers like Chris, so they can have proper premieres. Yay!

The film itself is, Chris keenly admitted, not the important part of the deal. Just before the screening, he told us the reason he did this was about the "process rather than the product". He puts it this way on his own site:

It's not just a silly movie - it's about getting friends together, having some fun and being kids again. We don't take it too seriously and the premier nights are always a good knees up.

Which, in these cynical and fashion-conscious days, is a very appealing sentiment. The film itself was a hoot. We laughed at the antics on screen, and indeed, no-one took it too seriously. Mission very much accomplished.

An admission to you, dear reader. I used to be a little bit of a thespian but gave it up when the demands of boring normal life meant that learning great big stonking scripts for the stage got a little too much. I miss the buzz of showing off in front of audiences, if I'm honest, and events like last night brought it home to me. Will have to see if Chris has a part for a lardy bloke in his next film.

After the showing, we decamped to the oldest pub in Birmingham, the Old Crown*, which dates back to somewhere between 1450 and 1500. Or just before 3.00pm, if you like.

(*Bloody hell, Wikipedia's doing well from links tonight...)

This might be....interesting

I've deliberately not mentioned this subject recently, because (a) much of it has been up in the air, and (b) I tend not to write about work-related matters.

But Katie, or rather, the company that employs her, has been undergoing what I think can politely be called 'interesting times' in recent months. Nothing overly wrong with them as such, it's just as Spike Milligan once said, "there's a lot of it about".

So, as a result, the people who used to employ her, as of yesterday, don't. In fact, she's had a week or so of gardening leave, which we will forever more refer to as 'having tremendous lie-ins and then watching Countdown' leave.

But all of this changes soon. You see, Katie and I work in the same industry, sort of. And there were vacancies at my place. So, the people who employ me will, from Monday, also be the people who employ Katie. I should state here that I did nothing other than handing in her CV - I am but a small cog myself and any string-pulling is out of the question. Plus, she got the job on her own merits - not an easy thing to do as they are very picky (I must have slipped in under the radar).

For the sake of our own sanity (and the corporate stability of the organisation in question) we will not be working in the same building. In fact, it's highly unlikely we'll come into too much contact during the course of a normal working day. But it does mean the commute will now be a shared experience. There will be an extra hour and a half in each other's company.

Of course, I'm looking forward to this immensely. We've experienced almost 10 years of marital blitz bliss so why wouldn't I want to spend more time with my wife? There is the nagging doubt at the back of mind that the very reason for our happiness is the time spent away from each other, but I'll file that under H for 'Hoping Katie doesn't read this bit'.

It might have been quite nice, actually

There are a number of competing theories regarding the one key factor that led to the inexorable rise of the British Empire in the nineteenth century. Technology developed in the Industrial Revolution, the defeat of malaria, a strong navy and a rather casual attitude to native land claims are all contributors.

However, the Full English Breakfast must head up that list. How else would British adventurers of old been able to expand Her Majesty's horizons, were it not for a bellyful of bacon and sausages, washed down with a gallon of tea every morning?

More to the point, if you're waking up in a London hotel with a trip to Harrods and the return journey to Birmingham ahead of you, the F.E.B. is really the only way to go. Katie was with me on this point. Mike made some vague noises about having tried out the hotel gym that morning, but really I could see, deep in his eyes, a longing for carbs and fat. Strike one for the Commonwealth.

There's probably some etiquette about hotel breakfast buffets. About how you shouldn't pile your plate up high with even more dead farmyard animal than is absolutely necessary. And how you really don't need enough fried bread to sink a Dreadnaught.

As the great philosopher Homer once said: "Meh."

Returning to our table with heavily-laden plates, we sought that elusive creature, the hotel breakfast room waiter, for tea, coffee, toast, etc. Because clearly there wasn't going to be sufficient conspicuous consumption without a little help from the staff.

Finding one with a passing knowledge of the English language, we managed through a series of gestures and pictograms to place an order. He came back a few minutes later, with all the charm of the third Reich on manoeuvres, doling out coffee and a brownish liquid that was almost, but not quite, entirely unlike tea (thank you Douglas Adams). Various shades of toast followed, not necessarily delivered with the syncopation of a Busby Berkeley number, I have to say.

"Can we have something for this toast?" we asked, expecting some more of the little glass pots of jam, marmalade and the like. Small glass pots duly followed. Quite a few glass pots, actually. Oh blimey, we've got a lot of pots now, sunshine. Mr Ambassador, you're quite spoiling us.

Enough. With. The. Pots. Already.

"Is it me," asked Mike, "or has he just given us a load of pots containing almost nothing but tomato ketchup and brown sauce?"

Clearly someone had been out to lunch during the "How to identify suitable toppings for toast" lesson. But as I glanced around the room, I got ever so slightly worried. We were surrounded by foreign tourists, after all. A veritable United Nations of languages and accents rang out. What if they all actually thought this was what you're supposed to put on your toast as part of your F.E.B? When in Rome, and all that. After all, we Brits do eat some very odd things.

And in other news - I would just like to say here and now, for the record, that the Dodi and Diana Memorial in Harrods is the new International Benchmark for Tat. It's a photo of Dodi and Di. And people are queuing up to take pictures of it. Taking pictures of pictures. I ask you.

It's just a flesh wound

Some lessons I have learned. Put together a heartfelt, well-worded post and a couple of people might glance at it. Stick some photos up here and I get loads of comments.

Unfortunately, I am not very good at taking photos. Therefore, I must give credit to the afore-mentioned Mike (he of the Birthday) for the pictures. He is rapidly becoming the de-facto Make Lard History official photographer. Partly this is due to the him being better at taking pictures, but mainly it's because he has a nicer camera, one the size of a helium atom but with quite a few of those pixel thingies crammed into it.

In addition, he can take pictures while we are travelling- belting, in fact - down the M40. I can't, being somewhat engaged with the whole "trying not to crash" thing:

The dodgy sunglasses hide the fact that I'm fast asleep. Best not to worry the passengers, I always think. And for those of you who are interested, that's a small bit of Oxfordshire in the background. Stunning, isn't it?

The M40 becomes the A40 when it comes to London - one of the main arterial routes into the capital. Of course the authorities do all they can to keep it flowing smoothly:

The more sharp-sighted amongst you will notice the yellow sign on the right, which basically means, "For your safety and convenience we're reducing the capacity of this road by 66%. Bet you wish you'd taken the train. Have a nice day."

Suitably ensconced in our hotel, we then set out to grab a bite to eat. I don't know London at all well, especially not this part, so there was a degree of aimless wandering until we found the Offside Bar. A lucky find, as in amongst the photos of Tour de France winners there were home-made burgers of herculean proportions.

Over lunch, Mike's wife Emma, a qualified clinical psychologist and therefore the Official Responsible Adult of the group, started to talk about the latest exciting discoveries in cognitive therapy:

(Sorry Em, couldn't resist).

Back to the hotel to change, then a taxi to the West End. The show was a late matinee 5.15pm start, so we had some time to mooch around. I can mooch for England when the need arises, however I wasn't aware how close the theatre and shopping districts were. Katie and Emma found their latest church:

I believe I've mentioned this before, but I belong firmly to the "Shopping Is Not A Sport" camp. Unfortunately I appear to be pretty much alone in this belief.

Is that the time? Sorry, dear, we've got to get back to the theatre:


The show itself was a work of pure genius. Our seats were pretty much up in the gods, so much so that I was clinging onto the aisle handrail for much of the first act, a rictus of panic painted on my face. But I was soon distracted by all of the silliness. At one point in the second act, in the song "You Won't Succeed.." I think I may have broken something from laughing. If you've seen the show, you'll know.

Leaving the theatre into darkened West End streets, we ended up in an Italian restaurant where I self-consciously ate my spaghetti like a true Anglo-Saxon (knife, fork, cut it into chunks) under the bemused gaze of the Italian family on the next table. Scusi.

Wandering the streets saw us taking a wrong turn, and it wasn't until I saw the signs for Mr Raymond's erm..specialist venue for adult entertainment that I realised we were heading for Soho. Perhaps not. As per all good tabloid journalists, we made our excuses and exited stage left.

Did I mention that we were in the presence of at least one responsible adult? If that was the case, then I'm struggling to explain this:

Three rather drunk people in a lift? Check.
Large wall wide mirror? Check.
Camera? Check.

Taking our photo by reflection seemed like a wise idea. Until, that is, the lift doors opened. Because then we had to deal with a complete stranger (visible over Mike's shoulder) wondering what the three giggly people were getting up to with a camera.

It does seem to be a man thing. Ladies, when faced with a camera, simply smile and enjoy themselves:

Men, however, take a different approach. No matter how grown-up, sophisticated and responsible we may be otherwise, if we get a camera pointed at us we have to behave like arses. Just smiling and being normal is not allowed. We have to act up. It is a law:


There is no hope.

Great Friday

So tomorrow, being a Bank Holiday, means no work for Katie and me. In order to mark this, it is required that we do certain things.

In the morning we're getting in a car with two close friends and belting down the M40 to London. The "belting" is a bit ambitious, I'll admit. It's Easter weekend, after all. We will, without doubt, be stuck behind Polish lorries and people pulling caravans behind Volvos. Probably whilst wearing hats.

The caravan pullers, not us.

When we eventually reach our blessed capital, we'll be parking up at a very nice hotel. And then, in the early evening, we're going to see Spamalot. Because if I'm going to experience silliness, it must be raised to the level of an art form.

The default beer and unhealthy food shall follow.

That is all.

Par. Tay.

My friend Mike - star of stage, screen and IT helpdesk - is now 34. This is worth celebrating. Seriously, it is. I knew him back in the day when his driving style owed quite a bit to Mario Andretti crossed with Ray Charles. Now he's mellowed, we look back on those "let's-get-eight-people-into-a-Ford-Escort" days with a mixture of affection and horror.

It would seem to be the easiest thing in the world to gather up a whole bunch of people to join in these celebrations, get them plied with booze and see what happens. So that, essentially, is what we did, via Jongleurs Comedy Club in Birmingham.

So what do the events of last night have to tell us?

We could have eaten at the club. However, Jongleurs is to fine dining what Hogarths is to comedy, so we instead met up at the Figure of Eight pub on Broad Street. Right in the middle of the critical Wales v France rugby Six Nations Championship decider.

Apparently there are quite a few Welsh people in Birmingham. That must be the city's famed Lace Embroidered Hat Quarter, then.

Suitably replete, we walked the rainy streets to the club:

Live comedy is always a thrill for me. And in smaller venues like this, it's even more fun. Maybe it's the knife-edge nature of the comedy. Perhaps it's down to the intimacy of the proceedings. Or is it just the concern that the comic will pick on those of you at the front of the audience.

Guess where we were sitting?

Anyway. It's fair to say that this featured quite heavily in the evening's proceedings:


And so it goes.

There's always one pillock who'll do the whole "look at me, pretending I'm drinking straight from the pitcher" routine, isn't there?

It is a tradition. The Catalogue Pose shall be struck.

Oh God. The carnage. Don't you just know that at some point, someone's going to say "I lurve you, you're my besht pal..."

And here, gentle reader, we get to see the three stages of inebriation on display. From left to right; hysteria, middle-distance staring, barely-waking coma.

Today, it's fair to say, has been one of quiet reflection.

Wafer thin mint, anyone?

Those of you that have been reading this from the beginning (bless you but really, what are you, suckers for punishment?) will know that the original reason for the blog, and its really quite poor name, was to journal my sponsored weight loss over a three month period last year.

The "eat less walk more" programme was partly successful. Well, the "eat less" bit, anyway. And it's something I've tried to keep going. I've kept the food and drink reasonably modest since then, not at all like the bad old days. So last night was a bit of a trip back in time.

Hogarths is a splendid place. It's a hotel and restaurant in Dorridge, and is gloriously non-corporate. It's called Hogarths because that's the owner's name. Katie and I have been there before, in our "eat anything that's not nailed down" days. Some friends told us they were having a gourmet evening there. Would we like to go?

They emailed us the menu. Five courses, each with matched wine. We deliberated for, ooh, about 0.2 of a second.

I realise that there are a few foodies out there that read this. The following is for you. Those of you not into your food - never mind, there'll probably be something along soon enough about ducks that play lacrosse.

Pressed Worchester pork belly and Savoy cabbage terrine, apple puree, quince dressing
Accompanied by a Chablis, Domaine Laroche 2005

Having been ushered into a dimly-lit dining room, James, the restaurant manager, talked us through each course. I'm not normally a big terrine fan, if I'm honest. It's a small leap from terrine to meatloaf in my opinion. But this was a revelation - the cabbage giving a nice tang to the whole affair. And the wine. I don't go in for these descriptions the wine experts give - you know, "I'm getting limes with an undercut of flint." I tend to find that most wine tastes of, well, wine. But this tasted like very nice wine. The Laroches clearly know their onions. Or grapes.

Pan fried fillet of halibut, scallop, creamed leeks and truffle oil
Accompanied by Les Nuages, Loire Valley, Sauvignon Blanc 2006.

Why doesn't every meal have its own fish course? That way, you can choose whatever you want for your main and not feel like you've missed out. I used to dislike fish, but after a halibut epiphany last year I'm now a fan. And Katie would sell your granny into slavery for scallops. You've been warned.

Gin, pink grapefruit and parsley sorbet, confit lemon

Yum.

Seared fillet of Cumbrian beef, braised belly of Veal, baby leek and pommery mustard ravioli, royal potato, truffle jus
Accompanied by Maestro Sangiovese by Robin Tedder MW 2003

It was at this point that I was working out how I could get the chef to marry me. I was looking forwards to a mutually-respectful and long-standing relationship based on this dish being prepared on a regular basis. And the wine was like angels crying on my tongue.

Strawberry and milk chocolate truffle cheesecake, strawberry tuille, balsamic syrup
Accompanied by Veuve Clicqout ‘Demi-sec’ Champagne

Oh. So that's what a tuille is. And I can heartily recommend demi-sec champagne, darling. From now on I shall drink nothing else.

Cheese and ruby port.

I've said it before and I'll say it again. Yum.

Finishing off the evening over a 12-year-old Dalwhinnie single malt, I reflected over the preceding three hours. There are people who dine like this all the time. Would it get boring?

It's got to be worth finding out.