Left Hastings after lunch in a very odd hotel on Coombe Beach. The diners on average were generally over 80. The waiters on average were generally under 20 and all Polish. Trying to get our drink order right needed slight maneuvering and a lot of translation.
A very hefty polish woman ran off suddenly as Ashok was telling her something about what my great aunts would drink. The great aunts and co. hadn’t arrived yet as anyone eligible for a free bus pass had gone in one car that had got a bit fuddled and lost along the way.
The hefty woman came back equally abruptly with a pad and began to scribble stuff down furiously.
After watching Gordon Ramsay nearly all this month I feel I know a lot about cooking. Sure, I burn stuff, I set fire to woks, I eat from the microwave but still, I like to imagine that due to the wonder of TV I know a lot about cooking now.
The starter at this place in Bexhill, land of the aged, was a hollowed out melon with mango sorbet and strawberry sauce. Why in a hollowed melon?? Why? And why strawberry sauce? Why a pudding as a starter? I don’t get it.
I was fortunate enough not to order the melon. Duck pate with cranberry’s was my choice. It was a giant slab of duck pate and only 3 small round crackers. Ladling out the pate onto the crackers required military precision. At some point all the kids decided to swap starters and ladled out Cyrus’s chicken soup in 2 empty melon husks.
After that pseudo posh starter we then had to stand in a que like good school children for our mains, lining up behind a large table of pensioners. I mixed up all my sauces and meats just because I could. Beef with cranberry sauce, horseradish with carrots.
Took the early train back and Onnalin called to tell me to come to Gordon’s Wine bar near Charing Cross. Conveniently my train ended at Charing Cross so in part the decision was already made for me, encouraged as well, by a very relaxing yet rather dull weekend of mostly drinking hot chocolate, re-reading ‘The Secret Garden’ and arguing with the oldies about why gay adoption isn’t wrong.
Onnalin picked me up from Ch. X, looking very stylish but staring up in the air in a vaguely wasted way (and she was). We sat in Gordon’s ‘outside area’ designated for all the evil smokers to be cordoned off in (anti-smoking wankers. I hate them all, twats).
There were 3 other Thai girls and one Thai boy called Bier drinking wine only joking and talking in Thai. Kurt and I sat there like lemons, but smoking in a very cool and nonchalant manner as all smokers do.
Anna mentioned that since her boyfriend is trying to quit he’s come to realize that no non smoker has done any thing worthwhile or creative. Winston Churchill – smoker, Rolling Stones – smokers, Beatles – big time smokers, The Rat Pack – Smokers.
Then you look at Donny Osmond, he doesn’t smoke. Thats what I’d ask anyone who doesn’t smoke. Do you want to grow up like Donny Osmond? Well? Do you?? Even kids must have the question put to them: Children you never ever should want to grow up into an Osmond. Here have a fag. You’ll be a lot less cranky before bedtime.
Most of the conversation for the next hour was largely in Thai, with a lot of Thai slurring from Onnalin and Jha who kept saying “Cheers!” every 5 minutes and refilling everyones glasses. Jha had just come over from Thailand with Onnalin’s brother and didn’t drink much. So naturally, Onnalin started breaking her in promptly.
By the end on an hour and after only 3 glasses of wine, Jha had passed out in her chair looking quite content, woke up suddenly when the chair started to tip over, then was joyfully sick. We decided taking her to the Blues Bar would be useless and took a cab back to Brixton instead. Onnalin insisted we go to another bar, must against my will and wallet I was coerced into agreeing.
We finally get back to Brixton after Onnalin gives me a long speech on how she admires the surrealists so much because they all got wasted so much but produced so much work. All we do nowadays is get wasted and create nothing.
I begged to differ. I do plenty of things aside from being wasted.
Jha has to go home and be put to bed. We forget about the other bar and Kurt and I take a bus home once we find its closed.
I’d rather drink at home anyway. At least I can smoke. Fucking wanks.
Got home to find roses, lilies and a sunflower on my window sill and my room tidied, bed made, floor hoovered all by the ex, with a spare set of flat keys tied with a ribbon on my bed. I was surprised and pleased (esp. about the cleaning) and scared shitless simultaneously.
Being a true anti-social I decided to go online and hope someone to talk to would be there instead of having the balls to call anyone.
The ex who was hiding in Monty’s room came out of gingerly to face me and we had a nice talk finally. Kiss and made up etc. etc. you know the drill.
Sunday ended quite well for the most part.
Aside from the non smoking. Fucking wanks. I’m going to smoke more now just as a point of principle. It also gives me great consolation to think of all the parents who would have gone out to a pub to smoke are now forced to smoke at home, inflicting it on their troupe of shat out children (vile people)
So stick that in your ass government! Ha HAH!!