For Neither Love Nor Money
My! It's an expensive business this Valentine's malarky, isn't it? Treating your baby right certainly don't come cheap these days. Being and Australian I'm sure the wife would be quite content with a tin of Castlemaine and a few barbied shrimps but, as a thoroughly indoctrinated consumerist, I can only ever see the failure to spend sums approaching the GDP of a small country as some sort of dereliction of duty and possibly much akin to a kick in the teeth.
I had decided that that it might be nice to take in a show; it's bloody lucky then that I have the same zeal for economising as Elton John and the Aga Khan put together. One hundred smackers for two seats to see the Producers. Not even the best seats either, but suspended ectopically in the grand circle. No doubt I'll require the Hubble telescope and an ear trumpet to follow the action of the ants on stage.
I also had the bright idea of cooking a dinner for beforehand. I consulted Hell's Kitchen, the cookbook by Gordon Ramsey bought for me as a Christmas present. I quickly learnt leafing trough the glossy pages that the bad-boy of haute cuisine had decided not to limit the scope of his counsels to the art of stuffing a goose and the likes. Oh no, Gordon had far greater pearls of wisdom to impart than basting techniques. One of the culinary sage's little off-topic gems is that nobody ought to sleep more than 4 hours a day. Now, quite frankly, if even the remotest of possibilities exists that Ramsey's leathery fass might in some way be the result of those self-imposed deprivations of beauty sleep, then that should be suffiscient to warn even the most naif ingenu off choosing this role model. For God's sake, the the man is only 39 and yet the skin on his face looks like it wouldn't be out of place on the backside of a particularly sun-exposed rhinoceros. Forget the Grand Canyon, why not take a day trip down any one of the cavernous ravines that cover Ramsey's crumpled facha? I mean, does he really think that it's his verbal onslaughts that people are winching away from when he gets all up-close and personal? I think not.
I had decided that that it might be nice to take in a show; it's bloody lucky then that I have the same zeal for economising as Elton John and the Aga Khan put together. One hundred smackers for two seats to see the Producers. Not even the best seats either, but suspended ectopically in the grand circle. No doubt I'll require the Hubble telescope and an ear trumpet to follow the action of the ants on stage.
I also had the bright idea of cooking a dinner for beforehand. I consulted Hell's Kitchen, the cookbook by Gordon Ramsey bought for me as a Christmas present. I quickly learnt leafing trough the glossy pages that the bad-boy of haute cuisine had decided not to limit the scope of his counsels to the art of stuffing a goose and the likes. Oh no, Gordon had far greater pearls of wisdom to impart than basting techniques. One of the culinary sage's little off-topic gems is that nobody ought to sleep more than 4 hours a day. Now, quite frankly, if even the remotest of possibilities exists that Ramsey's leathery fass might in some way be the result of those self-imposed deprivations of beauty sleep, then that should be suffiscient to warn even the most naif ingenu off choosing this role model. For God's sake, the the man is only 39 and yet the skin on his face looks like it wouldn't be out of place on the backside of a particularly sun-exposed rhinoceros. Forget the Grand Canyon, why not take a day trip down any one of the cavernous ravines that cover Ramsey's crumpled facha? I mean, does he really think that it's his verbal onslaughts that people are winching away from when he gets all up-close and personal? I think not.
Thankfully his sirloin of beef with roasted charlotte potatoes and and red wine shallots looked a damn sight better than he did, and so I opted to serve that one. Still, not something for the financially light hearted with the ingredients weighing in at a lean £60. Then again, what price love, I ask you?...and as you can see love and good-will is something that I'm just bursting to give.
posted by The Venial Sinner at 3:35 pm
2 Comments:
I think we should set up a charity to fund collagen injections into GR's furrows. Does swearing cause a sort of localised hyperplasia of the face? Or is it a localised atrophy?
(Bad luck on the theftery, by the way. Hope they soon find the little gits who perpetrated same. Surprised that hoarding coppers (as Dazed and Confused put it) in your room didn't form some sort of defence...)
The criminals have probably been shot or stabbed somewhere in Peckham by now, so I would't worry about it.
Post a Comment
<< Home