Annoying Things That Folk Do in Supermarkets

Attempt to park as close to the entrance as possible.  For fuck's sake, you'll be using a trolley with wheels on - no one is asking you to scale the Himalayas with a tonne of spuds on your back.  Just bloody park would you?

Check whether their lottery ticket was a winner at the Tobacco counter.  What?  Live in a fucking bubble do you?  Have you not heard of newspapers/Teletext/the Internet? I just want some fags and you are being a NOB.

Cling onto their trolley like it contains their life savings.  Believe me Love I really do not want the contents of your fucking trolley.  If I wanted some Findus Crispy Pancakes I'll go down the frozen aisle meself.  Let go of the damn thing, it's not a magic carpet, it's not going to fly off.

Take instructions from their spouse at home over their mobile as to what they should be buying.  They're that moronic they have to listen to "no, the blue one" because they can't work out what frigging flavour of Pot Noodle they eat for lunch day in day out without being coached.

Leave a trolley right in the middle of the busiest aisle.  God almighty, how can anyone be so spacially unaware?

Spend ages staring moronically at the shelves in the wine section.  Then pick up a bottle of Blossom Hill.  You know you wanted a bottle of piss in the first place so why not just select your usual bottle of piss?

Limp.

Snap the stalks off broccoli spears so they pay less.  You tight arsed gets.

Allow their educationally sub-normal children to push the shopping trolley when the stupid thing can't see over it. 

Leave their basket in the stack at an angle so I have to tidy it up before I can get my basket in.  Selfish bastards.

Jam about twenty items into a basket and then pay for it at the Tobacco counter.  I just want some fags, you Wankers.

Don't Let the Man in your Life Hang your Mirrors if you are a Short-Arse

Witty aren't I?

"This house is full of women" Ekky sometimes complained when were still living together in Fazakerley.  Well yes, he did have a wife and three daughters.  Mind you, he did possibly have a point:  the cats and the dog were girls and as I once him mutter morosely into the fish tank as he cleaned it, "Even the bloody fish are female".

Although he taught the three us rudimentary car mechanics and basic painting & decorating skills he did still like pretend he was the alpha male in the household and performed most of the DIY tasks like hanging curtain rails or shelves.  Us Phenna females are not the tallest  in the world, not one of us is over five foot two (Middle Sis claims to be the tallest but she is telling a whopper) and Ekky wasn't massive but he was a lot taller than we were.  He hung all the mirrors in the house according to his height - as long as he could see sufficiently while using his curling tongs he was happy.  The rest of us had to develop some contortionist skills just to brush your teeth.

If you wanted to use the mirror in the downstairs bog you had to climb on the toilet seat and lean sideways across the sink.  If you were doing your make up you had to hope it was symmetrical because you could only see half your face and you just hoped you didn't look like Sunnie Mann.

The mirror in the bathroom only displayed the top of your head.  When applying your red "Glints" the only way to get a good view was go to a bedroom, pick up a chair, drag it back to the bathroom and then stand on the bloody thing.

But the best one was the one in the hall.  Fairly tall, it was the best mirror to check you had tucked your shirt in properly and you had actually remembered to put your skirt on.  However, it was hung about five foot up the wall so the only way to get a glimpse of your latest Kumar's number was to jump up and down.  One solution would have been to stand on the bottom tread of the stairs giving yourself a bit of extra height.  But no, the mirror was hung about a foot and a half to the left of the foot of the stairs so all you could see was a bit of your feet.

I don't think it ever occurred to Ekky why the four of us went through a pogo-ing ritual in the hall several times a day.  Perhaps he thought it was what women do - leap up and down before putting their coat on and going out the door.  In return we never asked him why he sometimes polyurethaned potatoes.

1970s Buffets

In the Rankin Clan (our surname is Phenna but we still think of ourselves as Rankins because the other lot are just weird) there was an unwritten buffet menu that you had to adhere to or risk family scandal.

What the ???

This was in the nutritional heyday of the 1970s when we kids drank gallons of Kia Ora, ate Vesta Chow Mein and had never seen a Kiwi fruit.

There were frequent Clan gatherings for Christmas, New Year, birthdays, wedding anniversaries or in Ekky's case, "Look Who's Made Yet Another Miraculous Recovery" event.

You had to prepare/serve at least half a dozen of the following items or there would be raised eyebrows in the kitchen. 

Salad.  Salad in the 1970s was lettuce, cucumber and tomato.  Absolutely no deviation whatsoever, nobody had heard of rocket let alone balsamic drizzle.  Not a bit of olive oil or lemon juice either, it was Heinz Salad Cream or nothing.

Sliced bread and butter on a plate.  God forbid your guests could apply their own butter to a slice of bread. 

Celery sticks in a jug.  What the FUCK was that all about?

A tin of salmon decanted into a bowl.  Approximately five inches in width, one tin was supposed to feed about 50 kids and adults.  If you were showing off you scraped the bones out the middle first.

One packet of Cadbury's chocolate fingers arranged in a wheel shaped display.

Rank cheesey footballs.  I think they used to come in the Christmas hamper.  They were in a blue tin and tasted like they'd been stored down some old bloke's trousers for a few weeks.

Chicken legs, mountain of.  Cooked with absolutely no seasoning, not even a bit of salt or pepper.

Mini sausage rolls.  The ones with cough-inducing pastry.

Gala pie.

Ready salted crisps in a bowl.  You couldn't have cheese and onion or salt and vinegar because the al' ones didn't like them.

A Bird's trifle.  Of course, you tried to make it look posh by discarding the hundreds and thousands and used a Flake as decoration.

A frozen Black Forest Gateaux.  Still frozen in the middle.

Cheese and pineapple on cocktail sticks.  You know the thing wrapped in foil they were mounted on?  It was half a cabbage, and you probably ate it for your tea the next day with pig shanks.

Jacob's Cream Crackers.  Even the dog found them hard going.

Vol Au Vents, filled with what looked like sick.

Egg and cress sandwiches on white Mother's Pride.

Tinned ham.  Think this came in the Chrizzie hamper too, it was ringed with some absolutely vile jelly that still makes me retch when I think about it.

Pickled onions, beetroot, Piccalilli, Branston, HP Sauce.

The only way you could cope with this quantity of crap catering was to get blind drunk and then attack the buffet table.  You wouldn't eat a kebab if you were sober would you?  This was the same principal.  Neck as much Cinzano or Watney's Party Seven as you could, grab your plate and do it for Mother Ireland.

Mother gave me her own chrome/glass salad bowl with accompanying salad servers a couple of years ago.  I feel an overwhelming urge to start squirting Primula cheese onto Ritz crackers every time I look at it.

Goldfinger - yer Tight Arsed Get

I watched "Quantum of Solace" recently and I thought it was shite.  I had two problems with this film:  number one, Sean Connery is the ultimate Bond and can't be surpassed.  Number two, Daniel Craig has a Scouse background and I was anticipating him breaking into a "shortwave" accent any moment.

This put me to thinking about writing a few Bond scenes with Scouse dialogue.

To Q at the gadget laboratory as Q demonstrates a dirty bomb detonator: "Fucking hell Q, you'll 'ave someone's frigging eye out in a minute"

Charging across a burning skyscraper roof pursued by a number of balaclava-clad mercenaries brandishing various weapons: "Christ Almighty, this holster doesn't arf chafe".

Entering the bar at a Casino ("The Cazzy"?) attired in black tie -he catches the bartender's eye: "Hiya mate, 'ave youse got any Aussie Whites?".

To "M" as his licence is revoked:  "Don't be giving me down-the-banks, yer fucking al' arse"

Manfully hijacking a single decker passenger bus in the riot ridden streets of Kabul with which to pursue his nemesis he screams at the driver "Am a Twirly mate".

Encountering a voluptuous blonde as she emerges from the sea wearing a bikini the size of a bit of knotted string: "Hiya Love, fancy a fuck and a pizza?".

Confronted by an assassin wielding a gas powered harpoon:  "Ooo look a harpoon!  I wouldn't harbour one meself".

This is probably is a WIP.

Happy Birthday Ekky

10th April - not a good day for me, I'm struggling to function.  Dorothy Parker sums it all up here in an extract from her short story "The Lovely Leave".

"She sat down on the sofa.  She wanted to cry: not silently with slow crystal tears, but with wide mouth and smeared face.  She wanted to throw herself stomach-down on the floor, and kick and scream, and go limp if anyone tried to lift her."

I'd better get dressed.

Make it Your Bloody Self #2: Cheese Scones

Scones straight out of the oven are to die for.  If I make a batch of these there will be a family scrum on the kitchen floor.

The key to good scones is MANKY MILK.  Fresh milk is no good for scones, you need either:

• Milk that has gone off and which makes you snap your head back when you sniff it.

• Buttermilk - you can buy this now in supermarkets.  Looks a bit like yogurt.

• Or make your own manky milk - squeeze a couple of teaspoons of lemon juice into it and leave it for five minutes or so.

Kit

A decent set of scales.  This is chemistry so make sure your scales are accurate. 

A mixing bowl.  A proper mixing bowl, not the thing you eat your bran flakes out of.  It needs to be at least 2 pints in capacity so you can get your elbows in.

A measuring jug.

A dinner knife.

A tablespoon (these are bigger than the ones you eat your breakfast with... but 2 x dessert spoons = 1 tablespoon).

A teaspoon.

A baking tray.

Fluted cutters or a glass tumbler.

A rolling pin or a wine bottle (empty it first).

A pastry brush or the tip of a finger.

An oven.


Ingredients

8oz self raising flour.
 
2oz butter at room temperature (don't use Stork - it's rank).
 
Pinch of sea salt.
 
1/4 pint of manky milk or around 3 tablespoons of buttermilk.
 
2oz grated really cheesey cheese - Cheddar usually or Lancashire.
 
1 teaspoon wholegrain mustard (entirely optional but I really like it)


Method

Put your oven on and move the shelf up high.  I usually do scones at gas mark 7 or 8.

Tip your flour into a bowl and add just a pinch of sea salt.  With your dinner knife cut your butter into wee chunks and add to the flour.  Now you need to "rub in" the butter, I can't explain how to do this (I've been doing it since I was about six) so if it is a mystery perhaps look here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LW6H_SL_TJo

Once your butter is deconstructed into bread crumbs tip in your cheese and swirl it in with your butter knife (can you tell I hate washing up?).

Now you have to decide whether you are using manky milk or buttermilk.  I prefer buttermilk so I will put around three tablespoons in a little bowl and stir in my wholegrain mustard.  If you are using manky milk measure your 1/4 pint (complete with lumps) into a measuring jug and stir your mustard in.

Pour your liquid into your mixing bowl and take your increasingly mucky butter knife and use it to bring most of the mixture together.  Discard knife and get your hands in, you need to bring the mixture together in a ball.  If it feels a little dry add just a touch more liquid.  If it's too wet you'll need to add a fistful more flour or so, but it should be fairly pliable.

Give your hands a wash (or wipe them on the back of your jeans like I do) and clear an area for rolling out the dough.  Don't attempt to roll out on a piece of clingfilm - it will  land up wrapped around your head.  Flour the surface and flour your rolling pin or wine bottle.

Lightly spread out the dough - be gentle with it (you can even just pat it out with your hands) until it's around half an inch thick.  Cut out your rounds with either a fluted cutter or a tumbler - how wide you want them depends on you but I like them fairly small (which facilitates shoving them in your gob whole) and usually get about half a dozen in a batch.

Scatter just a little flour on your baking tray.  Place the rounds on spacing them nicely although they should go "up" and not "across".  Brush a little milk across the top of each one with either a pastry brush or your finger.

Bang the baking sheet in the oven and leave for about 10 minutes.  How long you need to cook them really depends on how your oven performs but 10 minutes minimum.  Stick your head in and have a look at them...  

If you want to know if a scone is cooked through pick one up and look at the bottom - is it nice and brown?  If not put them back in the oven for another 2/3 minutes.

When they're done you can either put them on a cooling rack that you don't own or stick them on a plate.

Now, get a big packet of Irish butter open and a clean knife ready.  When the scones are no longer like molten lava split one and place a slice of butter on each side.  Eat.

Oh God Love Him - He's Awful Thin...

This is my Father mugging people for their trifle

This was a frequent statement made about my Daddy.  He was thin, very thin. My parents' wedding photos look like Mother has just married the Invisible Man - she's posing with her bouquet in her lace dress next to an empty army uniform.  But he ate like a navvy; despite that 28 inch waist exterior the man was eating for Wales.

If I went up for the weekend to the St Tropez of the North I would spend two days in the kitchen churning out snack after snack.  I didn't see daylight until I left unless I was allowed out to Morrisons to stock up again.

His daily menu (when I was there) went a bit like this...

I'd go in to his bedroom with a cup of tea when he woke.  "Want some breakfast Ekky?".  "Oh, I'll just have a bit of toast love, my chest isn't great and I'm a bit off".

Two bits of toast done.

Then after he'd washed and dressed (sometimes pausing to carefully tong his hair - honest) he'd wander into the kitchen and say something like "I could go a bit of bacon  maybe.  And an egg. Those sausages look nice".  Breakfast part two morphed into an epic fry-up.

Around 11:  "Any biscuits or cake to go with this tea?"

Lunch had to be a knife and fork affair at the table.  No sandwiches balanced on a bit of kitchen roll.  So I'd be plating up pork pies, cold meats, salads and bread & butter.

Four o'clock would find me knocking up some scones or an egg custard.  Once that was despatched to Ekky's armchair I could focus on dinner.  He loved trying new foods and would try anything I put in front him - poncy London food like pesto, things drizzled with balsamic, spicy curries, lemon grass - he'd give it all a go.

After dinner I'm flagging but his metabolism is still going and by eight I'm making rounds of toasted cheese or ham sandwiches.

Bed time found him tucked up in bed with another cup of tea and yes, more biscuits.

Even when he was really poorly he still ate on and on.  I remember Ekky being in hospital but him telephoning me from the ward while I was at Mother's flat:  "Are you  cooking Sunday lunch then?".   So an hour later I've improvised a plate out of a cornflake packet and some tin foil and am delivering a full roast dinner to Ward 9.  And then he moaned about there being no gravy.

And he was the most terrible LIAR about food.  If Ekky had eaten lunch at home and then went to visit friends or family if they asked if he eaten he'd say "no" and get a  second round of scoff.

When people are in hospital you see their relatives bringing bottles of squash or bits of fruit and biscuits.  The Phennas arrived in a film unit catering lorry and were hauling hampers of food into the lift.  And that's after he'd eaten the hospital food - he thought hospital food was marvellous, like being back at a school canteen.

His nutritionist at the hospital pissed me off.  She was a fucking MOOSE.  A Ginger MOOSE with a face like a slapped arse.  She was such a MOOSE she had to drive with her head out of the window because her antlers didn't fit in the cab.  She caught me on the ward one day as I was heading out, "We're very concerned about your Father, he's very thin."  I looked at her and thought "People have been saying that since 1955, what do you want - a fucking medal? We know he's thin.  He's just THIN".

Somehow we ended up in a consultation with said MOOSE who wants us to keep a food diary of everything he eats in a week.  "Jesus H Christ" I thought, "We're going to have to staple a few books together".  So she droned on about what to detail about lunch blah, blah, blah.  "So for example Mr Phenna can you tell me what you had for  lunch on Friday?".  Ekky looks at me - "What did I have love?".  "Hot smoked salmon fillet with wilted peashoots and a melange of spiced couscous" (or whatever poncy  stuff I'd knocked up that day) I replied, "Followed by trifle*".

"Oh" the Ginger Moose replies taken aback, "He eats quite well then".  Like he wasn't even in the room.

On the way out I hiss into her ear, "Look bitch, just because he's from a council estate it doesn't mean we feed him on Findus Crispy Pancakes and oven chips.  Now back off".

I bet she hadn't had a shag since 1998, the ugly Ginger MOOSE.

*Please see other trifle stories on this blog to appreciate the significance.