Sink or Swim

Malaysia, day twelve: Cameron Highlands

So how did I welcome in my 30th birthday in Malaysia? Cocktails and karaoke at the resort that we're currently staying at in the Cameron Highlands? Beers and the Liverpool/Barcelona game with my mates in the hotel room? An all-night party spontaneously thrown by the locals for me in honour of my sheer wonderfulness?

No.

Half an hour before, eight minutes into, three hours and ten minutes into and two further indeterminate periods after that into my birthday, I had my head stuck down an unfortunately very shallow toilet bowl, projectile vomiting the unfortunately very spicy remains of my Chinese 'steamboat' meal into it.

And no alcohol involved whatsoever.

Nor sleep, funnily enough.

Add to that the fact that we're driving around the Camerons today, whose roads wind and spiral like long loops of spaghetti, and you might understand my feeling of impending doom for the day.

Still. That was the situation from midnight here. Perhaps now that my birthday has commenced in the UK, fate will look more kindly upon me and ensure that the next 24 hours are somewhat improved.

Or at least vomit-free.

Steamboats - ugh. Never have one.

*sniffle*

Malaysia, day ten: Pangkor Island

It wasn’t a good start.

Dad, who hadn’t felt too well the day before, was now much worse. He’d had no sleep, having spent most of the night, in his words: “with some part of me hanging over the toilet.”

He wasn’t going to make the trip. Neither was mum, who didn’t want to leave him.

The rest of us were in a complete mess ever-so-slightly bleary-eyed at 8am, having passed out got to bed some time after 3am rather late, following an endless supply of jugs and jugs a few glasses of Tiger beer and, for one of us, the infamous Flaming Lamborghini.

Our driver was late.

At 9am, we set off on the “three to four hour journey" to Pangkor Island. Which took five hours. Rather bumpy ones.

At the port of Lumut, we ate an unsatisfying lunch at a little Malay restaurant, which had a filthy hole-in-the-ground toilet that swirled out half of its contents when you flushed, in an unappetizing manner.

Where we were blatantly charged double for our unsatisfying lunch, courtesy of backpacks and pale skin.

We spent 20 sweaty minutes at the jetty, edging our way through a chattering, jostling crowd of Chinese people who were out enjoying their New Year’s holiday… only to find when it came to getting on the ferry that we’d miraculously ended up at the very back of the queue again.

The ferry had plastic seats, Chinese karaoke on the TV, and flies.

We arrived on Pangkor Island and took one of the characteristic pink taxi vans with yellow roofs to Coral Bay Resort, where we checked in, changed and headed straight for the beach.

(When I say “straight” – we might have taken a detour via one of the little shops and bought two crates of Tiger beer, which we might have unloaded into the fridges in our room, and we might also have bought a few more single cans, fresh from the shop’s fridge, to take with us down to the beach...)

It was 3pm.

And then, at 3.02pm (that’s 7.02am UK time on Tuesday, in case you were wondering), there we were.

The ocean.

Sun, sand, sea, swimming, splashing, slurping, swigging, sipping and sunset.

After a long morning, a fantastic afternoon.

Malaysia, day nine, or possibly ten: KL – Ol Skool bar

I watched in uncertainty, trepidation and amused resignation as he piled the glasses up in front of me.

First, a margarita glass, upon which he balanced a small pair of tongs, like those used to transfer a lime slice into your G&T.

Then a tumbler, placed upside down on the tongs.

Then a smaller tumbler on top of that.

And another.

And, finally, a little upside-down shot glass.

A measure of some clear liquid was carefully poured into the bottom glass. I was pretty sure it wasn’t water.

He handed me a straw. “Not yet,” he said.

He picked up another glass of clear liquid. Took out a lighter. And set the liquid alight.

He poured it over the upside shot glass, creating a magnificent tower of blue flame as the liquid ran down all the glasses to collect in the margarita glass below, setting light to its contents in turn. At the same time, he poured some light green, creamy substance into the margarita glass, which swirled amidst the flame.

“Drink,” he instructed.

I hesitated. Flaming liquid through a plastic straw??

Then took the plunge.

While Gitario, Clarkey, Dewy, Cuz Jeeves, SJ, the singer, the guitarist and the rest of the bar clapped, cheered, wet themselves laughing and sang happy birthday to me.

Not that it actually was my birthday yet. But still.

Cuz Jeeves leaned forward, still laughing, and yelled over the hubbub: “I wanted to buy you a Ferrari for your birthday. But I couldn’t afford it, so I got you this instead.”

It was a Flaming Lamborghini.

Malaysia, day six: KL

So Friday was Max’s last day in Malaysia. I’m already missing her, but I’m glad that she had such a fantastic time. It’s been great to see people, places and practices through the eyes of someone else, to whom it’s all completely fresh and fascinating, and introduce a good friend to sights and experiences that I knew she’d love.

And I know she’ll be back.

Anyway, last-minute shopping was obviously on the cards for her final day, so we headed to the Chinese district to pick up a few bargains.

Jalan Petaling, or Petaling Street, is the home of KL’s original and most famous pasar malam (night market). After dusk, stall owners jostle for space, rows upon rows of their imitation designer handbags, watches, belts, perfumes and clothes lining the pavements and dividing the street in half along its length.

Crowds of shoppers slowly edge between the wares as the stall owners call out to them, reserving their greatest enthusiasm for western faces, inviting them to “Look, only look; just looking is fine, sir, miss, we give you good price.”

Tourists flick through catalogue upon catalogue of DVD sleeves, picking a selection of the latest cinema releases; the younger vendors note them down, vanish through the crowds and re-appear three minutes later clutching plastic wallets containing disks that are probably still warm from the DVD re-writer.

Tantalising aromas of the various tasty snack options easily tempt hungry shoppers, from the savoury hokkien mee (freshly fried, large, flat noodles), to the sweet apong balek (a type of pancake topped with peanuts and brown sugar).

The mellow scent of sliced ripe mango mingles with the smoky aroma of roasted chestnuts as locals indicate their selections from piles of plump, juicy fruit and fresh leafy and root vegetables.

On this day, boxes of imported sweet mandarins and the distinctive white, round moon cakes were in high demand, being part of the traditional celebratory food for the impending Chinese New Year. The street itself was already dressed for the occasion, with vibrant scarlet and gold lanterns hanging high above the road and upon each shop and stall.

Touristy it certainly is; plus, it’s advisable to keep tight hold of your bag, as pick-pocketing can be a problem in an area where poverty is a problem and an environment where jostling in a crowd of strangers is inevitable. However, Petaling Street’s pasar malam remains a colourful and sensual experience that should be seen, savoured and enjoyed.

Plus, it’s a great place to go DVD shopping.

Which is why today, having just finished watching a perfect quality, pirate version of the most excellent film Casino Royale (for £1), I’m left with an overwhelming desire for the new James Bond’s phone number. So if any of you happen to have it on you…

Ah, go on…

Malaysia, day five: Langkawi

So I guess I’m destined never to see the view from the summit of Gunung Machinchang. This was our final day on Pulau Langkawi and the cable car station was closed for maintenance. The last time I visited Langkawi, the weather was too windy for the cable car to run, and the time before that, the cable car didn’t actually exist. Maybe it’ll be fourth time lucky some day. When I’ll discover it’s actually crap.

We headed instead to the nearby Telaga Tujuh, or Seven Wells waterfall, where Max, SJ and I decided to head all the way to the top for “spectacular views”. Whilst walking up the stone staircase, a helpful sign told us that we had 367 steps to go. This was after we had already completed about 265. Mental note for the suggestions box: ’Ever thought about placing a sign indicating the number of steps at the bottom?’

Having dragged our weary carcasses leapt gazelle-like up the calf-crippling staircase, we eventually soon arrived at the top pouring with sweat and groaning from altitude sickness feeling invigorated, with barely a hair out of place, and were soon happily plunging our boiling heads cooling our toes in the water. A group of Malay teenage lads poked their heads out of a tent that was pitched at the top of the seven pools and laughed at us gave us a friendly wave.

And the spectacular views? Actually, they weren’t half bad…

After a suitable linger, we headed back down to join mum and cuz G at the half-way point, where you could see the main waterfall. Which looked like this:

Bearing in mind that this is the dry season in Langkawi, which usually entails around three months of no rain.

So. Another suitable linger, a bit of a paddle and a plunge, and it’s time to head back down for a spot of lunch.

And on the way back we encounter another family outing on their way to the waterfall.  Grandparents, parents, kids and even little babies, clinging to the soft fur of their mothers’ underbellies. Yes, a troupe of monkeys, ambling towards us along the path. Max and I exclaim in appropriate girly delight at the cuteness of the scenario and I reach to fish the camera out of my bag.

And then, a cry from ahead: “Get off my bag!” And, as mum shakes two little grasping paws off her handbag, we all turn to face the wrath of General Grandpops Monkey, who leaps towards us, his mouth wide open, teeth bared, hissing and growling. The rest of the clan advance menacingly, primed and ready to join the attack.

And then a wild war-cry, raucous and primeval, sending a shuddering chill down the spine of all who are within earshot. Born of pure protective instinct, it reverberates around the forest:

“GET AWAY, YOU BUGGERS!!”

Mum to the rescue.

She runs at Grandpops and wrestles him to the ground, biting and scratching in fury and simultaneously battering off the reinforcements with single blows as they rush to join the fray, finally culminating in cries of despair from the monkey brigade as mum arises from the field of battle, triumphantly wielding Grandpops’ severed head and flings it after the troops as they beat a hasty retreat into the deep forest.

Well, ok, not quite.

She runs at him, shouting, and makes as though she’s picking up a stone to throw. The monkeys beat a hasty retreat, not into the forest, but along the edges of the path, where they watch us balefully as we pass between them, wetting ourselves with nerves whistling in nonchalance.

And that’s not all. As we reach the bottom of the hill, still exclaiming at the evilness of the monkeys (“You won’t catch them making a nice cup of PG Tips”), another even larger troupe rush out of the undergrowth. No cries, no hisses; in fact, there was barely a rustle as they headed straight towards us, paws poised for bag-snatching.

General Grandpops must have got straight on the blower after we left. This was definitely a planned ambush.

The charge of the monkey brigade.

Thankfully, General Mum was now experienced in battle and made short work of the cowardly troops, who beat a hasty retreat into the bushes to await more vulnerable, unsuspecting tourists to mug.

Still, we did get the last laugh. There was something rather sweet about pulling out of the car park, doors safely locked, and waving our bags tantalisingly at the third group of monkeys who glared at us from the shade of a group of palm trees.

Let’s just hope they don’t have relatives in Sabah…

Malaysia, day five: Langkawi

Langkawi. A balmy tropical island situated in the Gulf of Thailand.

If you ever come here, definitely book in at the Bon Ton Resort. It's fabulous.

Antique wooden Malay huts, fabulously decked out in satin furnishings of hot pinks, purples, blues and burgundys, all set against pristine white sheets and dark Balinese wood.

A pool and jacuzzi in the centre of all eight huts, the temperature of a perfect warm bath. And a nearby bar that will serve you pina coladas whilst you're sat amidst the bubbles.

Gleaming white sun loungers all around the green lawn.

Affectionate little cats from the nearby animal sanctuary pad around, mewing softly and nuzzling your legs.

A pond covered in lily pads with flowers that blossom a rich pink in the evenings and early mornings, whilst forest-covered limestone hills loom a luminous deep blue in the background.

Delicious fusion food served in the restaurant which overlooks everything.

And this is just where I'm staying.

I haven't even mentioned the three hours of ultimate pampering bliss that I was treated to, courtesy of my aunt, as a birthday present at the nearby Alun-Alun spa. From lying naked in a hot tub full of rose petals and blossoms, with sweet-scented oils, through a one-hour full body massage, an hour-long facial with five different treatments, a half-hour reflexology treatment and a back-pounding rub to finish. All delivered by the most delicate, yet firm finger touches.

Or the three-hour highly entertaining, informative and gosh-darn beeyouuuutiful boat trip through the mangroves of the Kilim River, accompanied by a terribly charismatic and rather dishy gentleman.

I tend to believe in karma. Which is why I think that I must have devoted my previous life to helping the sick and needy of a small country. Because I seriously can't think of anything I've done in this life to deserve this.

PS The Orange network and Pulau Langkawi obviously don't go together. And there's no wireless internet connection either. Must be something to do with that 'get away from it all' vibe.

A belated Happy Valentine's to you.

xx

Malaysia trip, day one: KL

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Blah-de-blah-de-blah-de-blah-de the temperature outside is 32 degrees."

Fantastic

So we make our way through Kuala Lumpur airport (or KLIA, as the locals, with their infatuation with acronyms, call it), admiring its sleek, gleaming appearance, massive size and incredible quiet (built for the daily population of Gatwick, peopled by the daily population of Leeds/Bradford, or so it seems).

We pick up our luggage from the only carousel in the large hall that is operating and make our way to the direct rail link that takes us to the centre of KL.

And into the land of curry puffs.

To be continued...

Malaysia trip, day zero: Doha

So I’m only half-way through the journey and I’m ready to punch someone.

I’m in Doha airport, waiting to be joined by Max; who, after almost 20 years of us being close friends, is finally joining me on a trip to Malaysia. She’s been anticipating this trip for months with the giddy excitement of a six-year-old; it’s been both great to witness and highly contagious. Having taken separate flights to Doha, we’re now about to transfer onto the same flight to KL.

And what a flight I’ve just had.

On long-haul flights, I usually manage to slot myself into a kind of semi-aware ‘waiting mode’, where very little touches me and time moves by relatively quickly. However, this time it simply didn’t work. Too many things impinged on my consciousness for waiting mode to kick in properly. Cue loss of sense of humour and intense irritation.

1. Headphones were placed on every seat. Except for seat 23B. (Yes, mine.) When I asked for some, the steward eyed me with a suspicious “I bet you make your money by selling stolen headphones” look and said: “Are they in your bag?” Well no. Funnily enough, they are not in my bag. Go and get me a replacement, you rude $*£%”^!$
2. Qatar Airways is one of those lovely airlines which provides you with your own mini screen, so you can select your in-flight entertainment from a number of options and can start watching a new film at any time, without having to worry about falling asleep and missing the beginning. Unfortunately, seat 23B was the only seat whose personal remote control wasn’t working. Perhaps that’s why the bastards didn’t give me a set of headphones. A seven-hour flight with no entertainment. What is this, 1980?
3. Next to me was Mrs Hell Hath Frozen Over. The frostiest of tight-lipped smiles made a brief appearance as I said hi; the rest of our communication throughout the flight consisted of her deep sighs whenever I shifted slightly in my seat, combined with an ability to completely ignore anything I said as though I weren’t there. And yes, she was English, not at all deaf or dumb (well, debatable), and understood me perfectly well. Ignorant *$%!*$.
4. Of the other travellers in my vicinity, three were children. One was admittedly rather cute and limited her squalling to take-off and landing, which, given my track record with flight-induced ear-aches, I was perfectly prepared to accommodate. The other two? Satan’s own spawn. One whinging on a monotone “Wah-wah-wah-wah-wah-wah” at varying levels of volume for I swear at least ¾ of the entire flight (the kid was not a baby, by the way), while the other had an impressive vocabulary of “NO!” and “GRAAAAAARRRRRGGGHHHH!” which had to be repeated every five minutes otherwise the plane would crash. At least, I assume that was the reasoning behind why the parents didn’t clip him around the ear and tell him to shut up. Surely seven years old isn’t too old to implant a dummy in the mouth?
5. Meanwhile, the mother of the Wah girl might have gotten around to shushing her brat at some point, were she not preoccupied with the most evil form of flatulence known to man. Sometimes silent, sometimes loud, but each and every one accompanied by the same reaction: a surprised “Oooft!” and fanning of hands. Yes, mainly towards me. (Incidently, when lunch came around later on, I was so, so close to leaning across the aisle and begging her to reconsider her choice of vegetable curry…)
6. I doze off for about 10 minutes and wake up in a panic having had a, er, rather explicit dream. God knows why, as the situation I was in wasn’t exactly stimulating. But it was sufficient to panic me – Christ, I didn’t make any inappropriate noises, did I?? – and ensure that I couldn’t close my eyes for the rest of the flight
7. I won’t even go into the whole seat saga. Grrrrrrrrrr…..
8. The landing. Did anyone see the Richard Hammond video? Jeeesus.

So anyway, arrival in Doha. Not as bad an airport as I had been led to believe, but the glaring absence of anything remotely pub-like in its grounds was undeniably painful. A fleeting thought that I could crack open the bottle of duty-free brandy which I’d bought for my cousin did cross my mind, but that was probably inspired more by rebellion after I’d been treated to a fierce glare of disdain that practically screamed “Drunken whore!” by the man handling the X-ray machine when I passed the bottle to him, rather than by any real desire to sup on cheap French brandy.  

Which brings me more or less up-to-date. Tired, frustrated (in more ways than one), nerves rattled, alcohol-less, irritated with the world and contemplating the merits of the sadly misunderstood Child-Catcher. And smelling of farts.

And then, just as I’m typing this up, a voice in front of me:

“This could be the single most exciting moment of my entire life!”

Cue instant and simultaneous return of sense of humour, departure of irritation and re-commencement of excited anticipation.

The holiday starts here…

Hurrah!!

In six hours' time my alarm will go off and I shall slowly drag my freezing whinging arse enthusiastically leap out of bed, all ready to head to the airport for my three-week trip to Malaysia.

God, I'm excited.

The last time I took a trip that lasted over a week was six years ago. And this looks like being a good one, involving lots of friends and family, and plenty of exciting stuff planned for practically every day.

(Ever had the feeling you're cursing something? No, no, banish evil thought!)

So. I've already had a shower in readiness; my bags are all packed and waiting by the door, and I've already prepared a light, healthy snack for brekkie. And I've had an early night.

Yeah right.

Actually, I've still got damp hair, courtesy of my hair-dryer exploding on me in a timely manner (extra frizz tomorrow); everything that needs packing is not in my bags, but in a heap on my bed, and brekkie? If I manage to chuck anything down my throat as I rush around in an inevitably desperately late manner, it'll probably be one of those chocolate bars that I got for my birthday earlier today.

I've also got a dead left arm, thanks to a lovely Hep A jab taken earlier today.

And I'm slugging Cava and blatantly not in bed having an early night.

But hey, what do I care? I'm off to Malaysia!

Catch ya soon.

xx

Picture a big round table surrounded by the NHS's astoundingly stupid, over-paid dickheads highly esteemed management bigwigs, all with furrowed brows as they furiously think outside of the box.

Mr Big Shot *bellows*: "So. We need to make sure that the NHS keeps people alive. How can we do that?"

Lackey 1 *offers timidly*: "Er, Invest more money?"

Mr Big Shot: "Ok. The Government has just stuck an extra pointless 'green tax' on flights, even though the extra money gained won't actually go towards funding any environmental projects, plus it's going to make sod-all difference to whether people fly or not, except just make sure it costs that little bit more, so they might be able to spare us some cash, if we come up with a really good scheme. But, which hospitals should get the money?"

Lackey 1 *enthusiastically*: "How about those hospitals that are struggling? Some are reporting higher death rates and levels of infection than others. Perhaps we should investigate those hospitals: speak to the staff, find out what the problems are, and see if any further investment is likely to help.

"For example, they might need more staff, or better equipment. They may be in a problem area, and require more support in dealing with re-occurring cases. Or they may need an improved management structure, where managers actually encourage constructive feedback from those who do the day-to-day work 'on the floor'; those who may, given the right respect and encouragement, be willing and able to offer practical solutions to many of the basic problems that the NHS is facing."

Mr Big Shot *mumbles doubtfully*: "Hm, maybe... Does anyone else have any suggestions?"

Lackey 2 *contemptuously* : "Investing money where it's needed? That's a bit old-school, wouldn't you say?

"How about giving it to those hospitals who don't seem to need it as much, and are already coping a lot better?

"After all, if a hospital is demonstrating high death rates, that probably just means that they don't care and can't be arsed to work hard enough. Offer cash incentives for keeping people alive and they'll soon start knuckling down to work.

"It's not as though anyone is likely to be working for the NHS, in these under-highly-paid, stressful-free environments through altruistic motivations. No: they're just like us everyone else and just want the dough."

Mr Big Shot *triumphantly*: "Cracking idea! Well done chaps.

"And now that's sorted, it's on to the really important decision: where are we going for our all-expenses-paid-caviar-and-champers banquet lunch?"

Seriously. This is ridiculous.

HOSPITALS are to be given cash bonuses - for keeping people alive.

Regional health bosses are planning to try out a US system of rewarding trusts which have low death rates, levels of infection and readmissions.

It will be piloted in part of the north west from October and all the region's hospitals from next April.

MEN, today

Some things you really don't want to see.

For those who want to be really buff, a Dutch gym is introducing training sessions for nudists.

The Sunday morning sessions were added by popular demand and "anyone who shows up just to ogle will be thrown out," said gym manager Patrick de Man in the town of Heteren.

"This is a special session for naturists and we will be very strict in enforcing this," he said.

The "nudifit" sessions, which will begin on March 4, have attracted a strong response -- both negative and positive, he said.

Staff, who will remain clothed during the sessions, will pay special attention to hygiene, ensuring clients cover machinery and bikes with towels or disposable covers, he added.

Reuters, Feb 2

So I got my first official birthday pressie today.

(Well, not really the first, since I've already been given champers and a rather nice bottle of wine, but still )

Not realising that it was a birthday present, I opened it up straight away. Which means that, courtesy of my good friend Brelly - and her intended, Mr Brelly - I am currently chomping my way through this:

And that's not all. Oh no.

I also have this:

And this:

This:

And this:

But, best of all, I also have this:

Which entitles me to join the Chocolate Tasting Club at Hotel Chocolat, so that I can get a selection of such delights posted to me every single month.

So, what does turning 30 mean to me?

Well, I'm going to really enjoy getting fat.

"Hi. Do you have any of those strap-on thingies?"

*ear-drum-perforatingly deafening silence*

"Errr *nervous giggle* I mean, well, not strap-ons. Those things that, er, strap... on. To, errrrrrrrr....

*and centuries, aeons pass, as the brain struggles for the words, what the hell are the words, the most obvious words in the world laptop case - oh I know, I'll lift up the laptop case bloody thing and shake it vigorously from side to side, before realising that, if I weren't actually holding the laptop case thing, it might actually look as though I were performing some kind of vigorous horizontal wanking motion - right, stop that now and say something for feck's sake!!!*

....rrrrrrrrrrrrr, you know. Not me."

*runs from shop*

For he hath rid my laptop of all "bad clusters" that were... er... badly clustering on my computer files and making everything run hideously slowly.

And he hath installed the beauteous Firefox so that I can (hopefully) actually make use of my newly installed wireless broadband (after sodding Internet Explorer refused to work, because the computer refused to either recognise IE7 or re-install IE6 - because it said I already had IE7, even though it also said I didn't, grrrrrrr...)

And various other technical things which I didn't have a bloody clue what he was talking about bits and bobs that needed cleaning up.

It's taken him all day.

Methinks a bottle of wine could be accompanying me into work tomorrow.

In fact, while I think about it, I might bring one for him, too...

So I’m arranging to meet an old friend next month, probably on one of those wine evenings when we can sample a few cheeky bowlfuls snifters at the little café that is oh-so-handily placed round the corner from where I live.

This is someone who I was incredibly close to during my university years. We spent a lot of time together, sharing countless laughs and numerous confidences.

A few memories leap to mind:

• Big knob sandman and beer mat postcards from Scarborough
• “Poo”
• Community relations via Caffreys and Guinness in The Spread Eagle
• “’Elp me…”
• Super-Suspenders Alert and Richter-Scale Row (don’t ask)
• “What the hell are you two doing in bed with me??!”

He demonstrated much-appreciated compassion and understanding at a difficult time for me, even managing to bravely overcome that virulent male malaise of Crying Female Alert, Cue Panicked Rabbit-in-Headlight Eyes and Sprint Like Hell For The Hills Disease.

And he’s also someone who I’ve never, ever, remotely fancied, and who has never, ever, remotely fancied me.

A surrogate brother, if you like.

And then, a few years after uni, I made the fatal mistake of moving in with him.

Obviously, I didn’t realise it was a fatal mistake at the time. In fact, I’d lived with him before, over the course of a year that proved relatively problem-free (well, apart from the re-occurring mouldy plates under the sofa phenomenon).

However. That was before the infamous Psycho Bird.

But anyway. Ups and downs and merry-go-rounds, the usual ridiculously petty misunderstandings, tied-up-in-unyielding-knot-like frustrations and mountainous ranges of complications as far as the eye could see all ensued. And eventually took us up to that day when I left to go travelling for a year and didn’t say goodbye.

Five years later, thanks to lashings and lashings of the miracle cure-all juice that is booze chucked down the gullet until 7am a drink or two, our reunion at a New Year’s Eve party goes so smoothly that it’s impossible for us to believe that we were ever not friends.

So. Today we’re exchanging emails and discussing potential dates, and I’m really looking forward to spending time with him again.

But I’m also really looking forward to something else.

You see, I have this furiously ragingly burning mild curiosity surrounding a certain question which really really needs to be answered.

Is it about what he thinks went wrong between us?
Is it about what happened to Psycho Bird?
Is it about whether or not he still cultivates a mould factory under the sofa?

No. It’s this.

On that day when I shut the door of our house behind me on my way to infinity and beyond (or, as it’s more generally known, San Francisco), Mr Lumbardo was gainfully employed testing the chemical make-up of the by-products in a certain factory. A sewage factory, in fact.

In other words, he analysed shit.

On the night when we renewed our deepest most drunken vows of true love friendship, I discovered that he is now gainfully employed sampling some of the finest beverages on God’s earth, created from the fruit of the genus vitus.

In other words, he’s a wine taster.

Just back up a minute...

Back at uni, whilst many a drink did indeed pass Lumbardo’s lips, most were of the stout, bitter, lager or (ahem) tequila persuasion. True, the odd glass of Soave did make an appearance, but mainly to impress "the laydeeez".

Whilst I swigged and slurped sipped my way through crates bottles of merlot, shiraz, cabernet, sauvignon blanc, pinot noir, pinot gris, barbera, chianti, chardonnay, rioja, dolcetto, montepulciano, riesling, verdelho, tarrango, viogner, prosecco and Muscat de Beaumes de Venise, without so much as a sniff of a job offer coming my way from bloody Oddbins. (Well, other than a part-time job on the till.)

So how exactly has this turn of events (er) turned?

How is the ex-beer-guzzler-and-hideous-cocktail-concocter extraordinaire now taking three-month "business" trips to South Australia, swirling heaven’s own ruby nectar in a fine-stemmed crystal glass whilst bathed head to toe in the glorious Aussie sun and resting his eyes in contented contemplation of the lush green Barossa Valley?

Whilst I……………Oh God. Let’s not even go there.

So. From shit to champers. It can be done.

I must and shall have answers…

Unless you really want to pay the penalty...

Guess where they'll be buying the booze for next year's fresher's parties?

Students will be able to pay towards their university fees using points on Tesco Clubcards.

The Open University has teamed up with the supermarket giant to offer money off its undergraduate tuition fees in exchange for loyalty card vouchers.

For every £10 worth of Clubcard vouchers, students will receive £40 towards the cost of their course.

To receive this £40 fees discount, students would need to have spent £1,000 in the store.

BBC, today

 

It's not that you're over-tired. Or having relationship problems. Or unlucky in love. Or impotent. Or ugly. Or smell. 

You're just not eating enough beef.

It’s official - we’re overworked and under sexed! Not only do the English work the longest hours in Europe but statistics show romance is at an all time low with couples putting jobs before their sex lives. It seems partners are suffering from a growing ‘Work Widow/Widower’ trend where loved ones are arriving home late and exhausted, frustrating their partners, providing a recipe for relationship catastrophe!

Aiming to combat this ‘Work Widow/Widower’ trend and get love back on the agenda for February, the English Beef & Lamb Executive (EBLEX) has set up the website www.itsonthetable.co.uk. Full of ideas to spice up your relationship, the site also has delicious, seductive Quality Standard beef and lamb recipes to cook for your loved one to entice them home on time this Valentine’s Day.

Top Behavioural Psychologist Donna Dawson says: "“There is hope and help at hand: romance and food have always been inextricably linked, and so what better way to show a partner that you care, than to cook him/her a delicious meal and to have it waiting for them when they return from work this cold February?"

Choose to entice your partner home with a saucy email message, tempting them with a taste of what’s to come. Messages can be personalised by firstly adding your message, fun image and chosen seductive recipe to get their mouth-watering. Also try out the ‘Steak Personality Guide’ to find out what your partners steak choice says about them, as written by Donna Dawson.

Donna continues: “And for the partner doing the cooking, there is no better meal to cook than Quality Standard beef steak, because it is quick, easy, healthy and tasty. As an added bonus, the protein in steak revives flagging energy levels, making us more alert and responsive: we are now open to more evening ‘options’ than just sitting slumped in front of the TV!

"A steak is also a gateway to the senses: the aroma and the sound of it as it sizzles and cooks; the sight of it on the plate in a variety of cuts and sauces; the texture and taste as you eat it. After the meal, depending upon what kind of ‘steak personality’ you are, the rest of the evening holds a variety of amorous possibilities!”

Steak - for all your sexual frustration needs.

Alternatively, you could just go home and have sex on the table.

PS I feel great pride in having managed not to lower myself to an immensely crude level by mentioning something about hot beef injections...

Anyway.

Here's a press release:

With most modern cars having passenger side airbags it is not always possible to place rear facing baby seats on the front passenger seat. The Easy-View from Sunshine Kids is the first back seat mirror that rotates 360 degrees and pivots on a ball and socket to provide the perfect angle for viewing an infant in the rear of the car.

Easy-View attaches to the centre of the rear headrest, which means that it maintains unobstructed rear visibility for the driver. The convex mirror surface offers the largest reflection of any back seat mirror.

Easily fitted in seconds, the secure attachment adjusts easily allowing the mirror to be adjusted for different drives or for the passenger to have a view of the back seat passenger using the vanity mirror. The mirror has a strong lightweight construction and has a child safe plastic mirror.

Now, is it just me, or do I sense a whole new as-yet-untapped market of drivers of a certain gender wishing to use these mirrors in order to get a better view down their back seat passengers' tops...?

Oh yes, it really really was.