Spitfires are back, and with Finns!

Now we all know a little about spitfires don’t we?. And some of us know a little about Finns.

In my case, as a schoolboy my history project was entitled  ‘Military Aircraft of World War 2’, So that just leaves Finns. They say they are from somewhere called Finland.  I’m not sure exactly where it is but some of them are blond and I hear it’s quite cold. 

More importantly when I was a schoolboy I was so busy comparing Hurricanes to Spitfires and setting fire to the cotton wool I had stuffed into the fuselage of my Airfix model Messerschmitt ( 'BF109e’ if you are a military pedant) before hurling it into the air to watch excitedly as it crashed to the ground leaving a smoking trail so trying single handedly in my early teenage mind to recreate Douglas Bader’s legless-pipe-smoking-smoke-me a kipper-I’ll-be back-before-breakfast victories over the Hun that I simply had no idea there was to more fun to be had with them when one is a grown up. I didn’t do Finn’s then and as far as I knew they hadn’t invented any flying machine-gun-mounted-death-machines. And their military victories aren’t recorded in many places that I can find, but that may just be because they are modest, and a little like the Swiss, quite a secretive bunch.

I’ve looked them up now and the only thing I can add is that I already knew who Mika Hakkinen is (a very balanced normal Finn who drives a funny car) is that there is more than ten thousand of them in London.  And I think that’s possibly more of them than there are in Finland.  Though they are also famous for a few things, one of which may be of interest depending on how nerdy you are, which is that the coldest temperature (probably) in the whole universe was ‘made’ by a Finn, in a laboratory.  That’s obviously, as you already knew dear reader -273C The mind boggles as to what they do for fun. Though I hope it warms them up. Frottage anyone?

Personally, being grammatically challenged I wonder why if they are from ‘Finland’ why they are called ‘Finns and not just ‘Fins’without the extra ‘n’ (any ideas, please advise?) which would make more sense to me, but I suppose that every French person would just view them as, well, ‘Finished?’ Then again that might explain the military history.. Hmm, just saying?

I digress, so back to Spitfires, and real Finns. Your man is back on the trail. I know, I know! Calm down at the back, you've been patient and it’s been too long but I need to give you a long awaited “Cocktail of the Week” one of which I enjoyed tonight in the company of she who I shall just refer to as “The Finn” We shared a chatty dinner and as she is a good friend and confidant she suggested a quick snifter before home time in a bar in Angel, Islington (that’s in London for International readers) called “The Bar With No Name” or simply ‘69 Colebrooke Row’. There they served me, without any tricky prompting the nicest and best ‘Spitfire’ cocktail that has graced my lips since the fall of Pompeii, and believe me that was a hot night which I only just survived! IT was foamy, zesty, tingly, quaffable and downright lovely.. and worth the tenner of BOE funny money that isn’t related to anything anyway. You might as well pay for drinks with leaves such is the connection between our fiscal system and value these days. I’d have happily paid a wheelbarrow full and it’s February so leaves are harder to collect than you might assume.

I’ll take their recipe from a nice review of them at

http://londonforinsiders.blogspot.com/2010/10/londons-best-cocktail-bars-69_02.html

They make it as it says here from cognac, creme de peche, white wine, lemon juice and sugar. It’s beautifully executed.

The bar is nice too. Go there,  though I think you usually have to book.

As for the Finn, well she’s nice too, also foamy, zesty, tingly, quaffable and downright lovely.

All in all a good evening.

Now back to work slackers, all is safe, I’m on the case and Ian is in the Falklands causing trouble. Back soon, if you can wait.

The Gardener

http://www.69colebrookerow.com/

http://www.hakkinen.com/

This post was written with the help of  Carter The Unstoppable Sex Machine.  And their track Sheriff Fat Man. See/ hear it here http://www.nme.com/musicvideos/carter-usm-sheriff-fatman/144133

I've done your work for you. That's all you need to know today.

My God it's been a long time! Ian in the Pitcairn's


So, I've just been reminded that I've been using this Internet thing for so long some of my original posts are on parchment and kept in fusty archives. You will know of course that parchment was actually invented after an order by a King of a city called Pergamon. He did so because the Egyptians wanted to control the worlds information as they controlled the production of Papyrus, until then the only portable thing you could write / scribe on. Shades of an early SOPA law there, but as if it hasn't always been about information and the masses. No change here.. Nothing to see, keep stupid, keep poor and we will keep rich.

So what have I been doing? All sorts but just an update. the deer are still here. my taste in bars clubs has become more eclectic, and I'm getting grey hair.. for Christmas. In fact I'm getting more of it every year from now.

That hasn't dimmed my spirit though. Oh no.. Time for more.

But this post I'm going to dedicate to my mate Ian who I first met in the Stanhope Tavern opposite Gloucester Road Tube station some 22 years ago. A few of you (friends) will know Ian. Yes him, the big hairy Australian with the massive vagrant-alike-beard. That Ian who spends his spare time travelling the world and returning with stories of adventure like a boys own explosion of testosterone and travel stores.

In the old days I used to get a letter or so a year.. then maybe two. Now, with phones and texts and emails we can find out where he is right now, and at 3AM this morning the text came in.

"Wake up mate it said" Are you still slaving to keep the BOE printing funny money? Thought so. I'm on Pitcairn island. Arrived a couple of days ago and all 48 of the islands population met us on the landing dock. just as we arrived the rain hit and we had 6 cm in an hour.. The weather station broke and a mud slide nearlhy wiped us and the tiny town out (check the news) Anyway, I've been staying with Steve Christian the great, great, great, great etc etc grandson of Fletcher Christian and his folks and have spent the last three days shoveling mud and drinking beer. All good. Off to Chile tomorrow and then to the Falklands the next day. Its my Ends of the Empire Mini Tour"

That woke me up. Some people just do things you don't, don't they? But the good thing about that is that they tell you.

Ian says he sent me a post card from the Pitcairn's, but it will be "inshalla" if it gets to me and he's promised to get me a pic of him and Prince William in the Falklands. I did ask him to try not to annoy the Argentinians but his response was "Why, they f*cking lost didn't they?"  Always a diplomat Ian.. And we both know he's been personally responsible for at least 3 proper wars. We don't count skirmishes.

So before you fire up your laptop or order your skinny machiwanko coffee bear in mind that some people still have proper jobs and there are bits of this planet that are being visited just in case you can't make it.

Makes the mortgage and the Quantitative Easing seem really important doesn't it?

Right scotch, Cuban cigar and then bed. I still have my standards you know.

Back soon.

The Gardener.

April 2011 - Doesn't Time Fly?


One minute there we were thinking blimey I wonder what I'll do tomorrow and suddenly you notice that six whole years have gone. Whoooa.. hang on? Not six weeks, but six years. Take a deep breath, look around. What's changed, whats the same? Everything hmm, yes, and errm nothing. Hang on! Whats that? I've got a handbag on my shoulder?!

I think we'd better sit down and start slowly at the beginning my lad, this could be an interesting trip.

TBC shortly..

2005 AD

Its hard to believe its 2005 already. I remember when I was a teenager that the year 2000 seemed a long way away, but whoosh! Here we are five years on from that already.

Its been a busy time over the holiday, Hampshire for the start of Christmas, London for the days after. The Midlands then Scotland for New Year. Slinx and I even managed to fit in a wedding. No, not ours, someone else’s.

The Wedding

The bride and groom had decided that it would be amusing to hold their wedding in Scotland, Gretna Green to be precise. They also decided that 6PM on New Years Eve would be a good test of their friend’s loyalties. It was. We went.

They were very happy we were all there, and so I would think were the hoteliers judging by the looks of horror on peoples pale staggering faces when the bar bills unrolled like party streamers at check out time on New Years Day.

Resolutions

A number of people have asked me recently what, if any New Year resolutions I would make, or what my plans for 2005 actually are. I don't normally go a bundle on resolutions but over the last few days a few have sprung to mind.

One of them involves alcohol. I resolve to drink less this year. Or at least for a while. This might be quite tough as historically drink has been an important part of my being. You regular readers of this column will know this well and might, even now be spluttering with laughter at such a thought. After all, where would we be with a blog written with the aid of a bottle of red. Or indeed the thoughts that sometimes spring to mind as I’m sighting down the barrel of that 6th can of Stella around about midnight? I've given it some thought and decided to tackle this one in stages.

I feel its to much to expect me to not drink when I'm out, after all there is a limit to the amount of time I wish to spend in places that don't serve drinks. And I do so adore the dreaded stuff. All flavours, colours, tastes and effects. No drink is to difficult to tackle. So, I’ve decided to see if I can cope with not drinking when I’m on my own.

Some people view the solitary drinker as a sad individual. I think these are the kind of people who were captains of school cricket teams or the types that keep plastic bags in a special tube that hangs in a cupboard lest they fill a drawer with their messiness. I on the other hand applaud the solitary drinker as someone who knows what a good time can be had even when there is nothing on the telly.

I am not averse to a glass or two of wine on arriving home a beer with dinner and a glass of brandy or a cocktail or three before bed time but as of now I'm going to go without.

This shall be known as The Gardeners last stand and I shall let you know whether it makes me miserable or not.

I’m going to have to tackle smoking as well soon. I may not like it but I know it.

Amongst my other thoughts are to buy more bookcases, learn to write better, write more and read more. Be nicer to people and be less irritable and smile more, preferably when most inappropriate.

Thank you to all of you that made 2004 such a good year and huge smile to everybody else. Even those of you I don't much like.

I’ve decided not to write about the disaster in Asia. After all, what on earth can one say. Other than the world might quite cruelly but understandably be very, very fed up with us.

Time for change, all round.

Gosh!

Gosh my writing has been a bit crap and dreary lately!.. Lets try and resume normality and struggle through. I've been getting complaints you know?

Enough, On with the blog!

Andrew Edmunds

I am assuming Andrew Edmuds is the owner, or perhaps the chef that has lent his name to this establishment in Lexington Street in Soho.

The beautiful Slinx had organised a Wednesday night treat for me. It was full of thought and kindness as she wished to take me out to somewhere new that both of us had not been to before. Now, this isn't an unusual occurrence as Slinx is very much the independent type and likes, where she can to dip her manicured hand into her varied collection of purses.

If you take the time to read the reviews that the link points you to, you will note that most patrons mention that they felt the establishment is quaintly 'cosy'. Cramped to the extreme would be a more accurate description. It reminded me of a small submarine that had been bedecked in the style of a French Bistro. I also noted that there was almost more room behind the spacious bar/ waitresses counter than there was in the dining area. I now realise that they need a decent retreat to escape the swinging punches of suffocated and angry patrons.

This, by the way was my impression of the 'upstairs' which is actually at street level. There is a rumour that there exists a downstairs which alas I did not spy, but I have to assume, judging from the upstairs, bares more than a passing resemblance to a dolls house coal hole

The restaurant was mostly empty when we arrived and the waitress checked our reservation and motioned us to a postage stamp side table nestling, in corridor style next to another postage stamp sized table occupied by two of Soho's finest, camp, chain smoking media types who were already in loud full consumption. We asked politely whether there was another table? With a nod of the head we motioned toward one in the window or one near the back. All were booked. We sat down and viewed the menu with a small measure of British humour. At least our neighbours were very thin.

On the face of it the menu had promise. Here was a restaurant that wanted to serve proper, mostly French influenced food in season. Slinx plumped for the smoked salmon followed by the shoulder of lamb. I tried the mushroom bruchetta with a poached egg and the special of the day, the braised haunch of hare with Swede mash and cabbage.

A note about the service here. Our waitress had asked us if we would like an aperitif, that of course is expected. I do wish however that she could have kept the disappointment from her face when we smiled and insisted that some still water would be fine. It was a little early really for anything else, even for me, as Slinx had been informed on booking (the only available slot) that we would have to be prompt at 7 and vacate by 9.

Voila, the food arrived. The smoked salmon appeared smoked but looked a mite limped, and my poached egg had been rushed. It ran clear as well as yellow. Now, you might not know this but I'm very partial to a poached egg and in truth, in your own kitchen on a hung-over Sunday morning the timing can be a bit tricky. it shouldn’t however be remotely tricky to Mr Edmunds or his namesake. And, if you don’t mind me ranting, my bruschetta was soggy. The mushrooms were ok though. Just as I like them. Overcooked.

Perhaps there was a rush on downstairs? As I said I hadn't seen it, there could have been a party of 20 demanding dwarves down there creating havoc with an impromptu game of skittles and I would have been none the wiser.

A slightly mis-timed starter can be forgiven. It would be cruel of me to dwell on a review so long if that were all. Oh, if only that were all..

Slinx and I soldiered on. By this time we were leaning across the table to kissing distance. Sadly this was not as we overcome by romance but to try and hear, as the Christmas party of five was seated next to us.

What with the camp brothers on one side and the loud but very dull departmental bash on the other it was like a high pitch, incessant cacophony.

Dunkirk spirit kept us going. Now dear reader I know that you can't hold a restaurant to trial for the behaviour of its patrons, especially if that behaviour is displayed in its glory in the festive season, but in my humble opinion you can make your floor space deal with the problem. In short either lose a table or two or price it out and improve the food so that if you are forcing your customers to taste each others perfume, at least their the kind of neighbours you might enjoy getting to know.

The main courses had arrived by now. When we had ordered Slinx was warned her lamb would be served pink. "Good" she'd said dreaming of some proper blood to eat. It was pink, but barely, oh.. and grey.

It tasted ok though.

I on the other hand had ordered the 'special' The waitress had said to me when I'd ordered it and commented that I'd not had hare before. "It has a game taste, very gamey in fact" Id been a bit worried about this as some game can be very gamey indeed. Often even crawling and I didn't fancy that. I needn’t have worried. The waitress had declined to mention that what little game it had left had been well beaten out of it. This may have been because the poor hare had been braised to well beyond an inch of its death and was as tough as old boots. When I did manage to cut into it, a not insignificant effort, I found what was left inside to be as dry as old Mother Hubbard’s shoes. The chef also showed his sense of humour at this point. He served the hare in a large bowl on top of a foundation of Swede mash and cabbage with sauce. This of course meant that you couldn’t hold it steady as you attempted to break through the leather exterior to expose the dainty wood pulp beneath.

We smiled allot. Well we couldn’t hear so we had to. Slinx was mortified, I was happy and truly very grateful. I'd finally found motivation to review somewhere again.

The false smiley voiced waitress tried to tempt us with desserts. I think we'd had enough. The camp boys had left and were replaced by a Russian billionaire with his escort. We went and had a quick glass of champagne at Kettners and shot off home.

A vodka and tonic on the sofa was a lovely, quiet end to the evening.

Footnote: Incidentally, there was a table on its own by the window. It stayed empty all the time we were there. That ones obviously the venus fly trap table to lure you in. If you really want a decent French restaurant then go to Mon Plaisir in Monmouth Street, Covent Garden.

Its The Darkness

No, not the band who I predict will drift into obscurity after their early summer fanfare. No, its the light, or to be more accurate, the lack of it. At this time of year many of us resemble packs of uniterested zombies. I just came home on the tube and in the harsh lights surrounded by dozing people clutching early bought bundles of Christmas wrapping paper, and others clutching half finished cans of Stella Artois (The experts choice) I felt like I was on one of the last boats out from some dying civilization. Its citizens too exhausted to feel relieved. Or was that just me?. And this was only in the evening.

Pale skin, lank air and bad attitudes marked the journey. Every natural being on the planet slows down and cosec up in its den when the sun goes in. I suggest that we should to.

On a lighter note.

Ernie?

Oh yes!

Jerry Sadowitz was good. Judging by his stage persona I reckon he misses the sunshine to.

Now... Where's my drink?

Bus Fares, What Bus Fares?

On the way to a meeting the other day I had to get to Waterloo station. I hopped on a bus. Or at least I would have if there were still any proper Routmaster buses left.

We have a new type of bus in London now which we call the 'bendy bus' This name makes it sound sort of well, cute, like a child's toy. It's not. Its a giant articulated monstrosity that can barely fit through the streets.

It also explains to me why 'Transport for London is swallowing public funding quicker than you can count the cash.

You see, the bendy bus has 3 lots of doors and there is only a driver and no conductor anymore. So everyone just gets on and sits down.

In short, bus travel in London is now free.

Has anyone been told?