Kitchen Confidential by Anthony Bourdain.
This is fun.
I’m debating whether or not to let Amy read it as she is considering a career in catering. She might change her mind if she reads this.
Apologies my dear reader, for my absence from the ether for some time. I have been, to put it politely, up to my knackers in it of late and whilst this is no excuse I will point to the fact that I’ve been installing not one, but two brand new computers to our domain as evidence for reduced blogging activity. However they are both now in operation. My Acer Aspire sits proudly atop my desk with matching flatscreen. I feel like the secretary in some Holywood movie office.
“Ooooh look at you with your fancy-dan flatscreen” they shout.
But would you not be tempted at the offer of both computer and screen for not much more than £400? If you are, then ebuyer surely is the finest place in the land for such purchases. My HP laptop with Windows XP (keep well clear of Vista for now most folk say – even though it’s all you can buy in the High Street) preinstalled at £430 or so is magnificent and would have been well over a grand a few years ago. Also from ebuyer
The real problem with the machine is that I hadn’t installed my Canon EOS software, so couldn’t download photos like these direct onto my computer. Transferring pictures therefore involved the elaborate use of memory sticks.
However I have resolved all that as of this morning and it’s been worth it. I have a fine record of my day out with Tony Harding at Kelso on Monday while you lot all sweated away in your workplaces. Picture the scene. Tony and me in the front of his BMW. As if David Lynch had opted for a remake of Thelma and Louise but the local dwarf community had blackballed him and so he had to look elsewhere to cast his oddballs.
A far finer figure was cut in the pre-parade ring by our horse, Boris the Spider, who went off at a healthy 20/1. (Hardly surprising since he broke his leg last time out.)
And the proud owner stands aside a fine filly (Boris is, of course, a colt!) Arf arf.
Look at the fear in Boris’ eyes in the picture below though. You just know what he’s thinking…
“Feck me I thought Wilson Renwick was the jockey, nobody told me it was Tony Fecking Harding, and since when were our racing colours a dark blue Adidasesque tracky?”
“If he gets a place make sure you get to the winners enclosure after the race” said Tony, brashly, “We’ll have a celebratory drink.” He opined.
“Although I don’t think he will.” he darkly muttered with the foresight of a Russel Grant figure. (Indeed with the figure of a Russel Grant foresight.)
And so, at last, our journey’s end. Here he is on the track galloping strongly on to the finish, not another horse to be seen.
That is because, my friend, every other horse was safely tucked up in its box half way down the A1 to Middleham et al whilst we have pulled up, whilst in last place, and only now were we ” finding our rhythm”.
Still, he came back in one piece and that’s important. We live to fight another day. Nonetheless, a whole £2.50 each way down the drain!