27th September 2014, Virgin Active, Canary Wharf, London
In another attempt to do something else with our Saturdays than drinking wine, me and Hell's Bells were off to try out VIPR. Apparently it's the new craze of the fitness world and something you must have tried.
I'm not sure our commitment to new healthy lives were overly clear when we strolled into the gym only to go and sit on the café balcony with burgers and lattes. But eventually the clouds came out, the food was eaten and we had no more excuses.
With training gear and game faces on, we headed into the VIPR studio and checked out the VIPRs with scepticism. These purple pipe shaped objects that aren't even all that heavy - how hard could it be?
As me and Hell's Bells were soon to learn - pretty damn hard. We should have known as soon as the instructor came in and was 120 pounds of pure muscle. I was not that wise and even sniggered at her when she dared suggest I'd take anything other than the heaviest weight in my first session.
I work out a lot and what I lack in flexibility and grace, I make up for in stamina. Still - I was drowning in sweat 5 minutes in with Hell's Bells giving me evil stares and hisses for dragging her there. She could have been at the pub now!
So don't be fooled by the somewhat innocent appearance of a VIPR - they are deadly. Squat 150 times whilst swinging the VIPR above your head and you'll know what I mean.
Once done with the VIPR, we were desperate for some serious relaxation and went to the swanky spa section of Virgin Active Canary Riverside where we concluded that swimming in the same pool as Daniel Craig in Skyfall basically means that we've both have gone to at least second base with him.
After a long relaxation session, we both concluded that tomorrow would be painful. And as clockwork, the text received from Scotty the next morning read:
-So I hear you broke Hell's?
Sunday 26 October 2014
212. Tour de Michelin
24th September 2014, Galvin La Chapelle, Spitalfields, London
Following my first visit to a Michelin Star restaurant, I am ready to start with the attempt to tick off yet a few of the other ones off The List.
I was starting off with the beautiful Galvin La Chapelle where I have never before eaten although a very drunken drink has been had at the bar there once before. What I mainly seem to recall from that time though is that the dining room is one of the most beautiful I've ever seen. Gorgeous high ceilings, magical light display and beautifully arched windows that allows this former parish hall to combine classical building with modern interior.
Not normally being one to oooh and aaah over architecture, I did quite enjoy taking it all in during my time in the bar waiting for Miss Ukraine with my long awaited glass of Moet.
As Miss Ukraine arrived we spent some further time in the bar chit chatting to the lovely staff about this and that and I found myself having to accept this place as an exception to my judgemental belief that all French waiters are born to be rude.
Seated at our table we enjoyed a truly amazing starter of pea veloute - in other words pea soup. But it was possible the best pea soup I've ever had with delicious truffle crème and really good dinner rolls. A restaurant can really win me over with a good bread selection.
Our main was a gorgeous girolle risotto - which may not sound like much but may be the greatest dish known to man if made in the right way. I might be biased being from a nation obsessed with chanterelles, but it was absolutely scrumptious.
At this stage we were a bottle of champagne in and not too far from finishing an additional bottle Muscadet - we decided to make best friends with our waiter. The patience of that guy needs to be commended, not everyone can handle mine and Miss Ukraine's lacking respect of boundaries.
Whilst talking to our lovely waiter I spotted one of the greatest cheese trolleys I have ever been faced with. In other words we skipped dessert and attacked the cheese selection instead.
Lord knows I love my cheese.
Following my first visit to a Michelin Star restaurant, I am ready to start with the attempt to tick off yet a few of the other ones off The List.
I was starting off with the beautiful Galvin La Chapelle where I have never before eaten although a very drunken drink has been had at the bar there once before. What I mainly seem to recall from that time though is that the dining room is one of the most beautiful I've ever seen. Gorgeous high ceilings, magical light display and beautifully arched windows that allows this former parish hall to combine classical building with modern interior.
Not normally being one to oooh and aaah over architecture, I did quite enjoy taking it all in during my time in the bar waiting for Miss Ukraine with my long awaited glass of Moet.
As Miss Ukraine arrived we spent some further time in the bar chit chatting to the lovely staff about this and that and I found myself having to accept this place as an exception to my judgemental belief that all French waiters are born to be rude.
Seated at our table we enjoyed a truly amazing starter of pea veloute - in other words pea soup. But it was possible the best pea soup I've ever had with delicious truffle crème and really good dinner rolls. A restaurant can really win me over with a good bread selection.
Our main was a gorgeous girolle risotto - which may not sound like much but may be the greatest dish known to man if made in the right way. I might be biased being from a nation obsessed with chanterelles, but it was absolutely scrumptious.
At this stage we were a bottle of champagne in and not too far from finishing an additional bottle Muscadet - we decided to make best friends with our waiter. The patience of that guy needs to be commended, not everyone can handle mine and Miss Ukraine's lacking respect of boundaries.
Whilst talking to our lovely waiter I spotted one of the greatest cheese trolleys I have ever been faced with. In other words we skipped dessert and attacked the cheese selection instead.
Lord knows I love my cheese.
 |
| Mesmerising |
 |
| Beautiful cheese trolley, harassed waiter |
211. All Clucked Up
22nd September 2014, Truman Breweries, Shoreditch, London
New job equals new lunch opportunities!
And an income, a routine and a sense of security, but let's focus on the important parts.
After spending the last few years in Canary Wharf, the lunch options have been pre wrapped sandwiches, salty soups and some soggy salads. Fish'n'chips on a Friday if you're lucky.
With a close proximity to both Shoreditch and City of London - lack of alternative is no more. I nevertheless spent the first month getting sandwiches from Pret and salads from Eat. Time to put my money where my mouth wasn't.
Outside of Truman Brewery there is this little square - parking lot is probably more accurate - where they have some of the cutest little food trucks with organic and inventive foods of different variety, obviously with some Shoreditch quirkiness added to the mix.
Once dragging some non suspecting colleagues away from the banker digs, I based my decision between the food trucks solely on the funniest name. The top two in that contest were without a doubt Mother Clucker and Meat Porn - chicken wings or pulled brisket. In all fairness, Mother Clucker is probably wittier, but a white blouse and chicken wings wasn't going to be a great combo...
My lunch buddy who did try the chicken wings though said that they were the best wings she's had outside of the States - and she as a Texan should know!
I was very happy with my brisket though, beats ready made sandwiches by miles.
New lunch hang out - found!
New job equals new lunch opportunities!
And an income, a routine and a sense of security, but let's focus on the important parts.
After spending the last few years in Canary Wharf, the lunch options have been pre wrapped sandwiches, salty soups and some soggy salads. Fish'n'chips on a Friday if you're lucky.
With a close proximity to both Shoreditch and City of London - lack of alternative is no more. I nevertheless spent the first month getting sandwiches from Pret and salads from Eat. Time to put my money where my mouth wasn't.
Outside of Truman Brewery there is this little square - parking lot is probably more accurate - where they have some of the cutest little food trucks with organic and inventive foods of different variety, obviously with some Shoreditch quirkiness added to the mix.
Once dragging some non suspecting colleagues away from the banker digs, I based my decision between the food trucks solely on the funniest name. The top two in that contest were without a doubt Mother Clucker and Meat Porn - chicken wings or pulled brisket. In all fairness, Mother Clucker is probably wittier, but a white blouse and chicken wings wasn't going to be a great combo...
My lunch buddy who did try the chicken wings though said that they were the best wings she's had outside of the States - and she as a Texan should know!
I was very happy with my brisket though, beats ready made sandwiches by miles.
New lunch hang out - found!
 |
| Bit of Shoreditch brilliance in the City |
210. French Nandos
20th September 2014, Le Secret, Canary Wharf, London
Le Secret is one of those random little places where I've been planning to go but haven't gotten around to.
It is in Canary Wharf but randomly located on the river away from the business area and away from anything else really. That and the fact that they really only serve chicken makes it weird enough for me to want to go there.
Luckily I get an invite from the Camel to a birthday dinner at "some French place in your area". Her sense of location never fails to impress!
After revisiting my old stomping grounds of the Canary Wharf shopping centre and my old gym, I made my way to the restaurant ready to eat some serious chicken.
Unsure of why the restaurant had it's name in the first place, I did the grave mistake of asking the waiter about it. Apparently it has to do with some sort of 'Secret Sauce'. That was enough to put me into the same sort of fits of laughter as being on the Piccadilly Line towards Cockfosters. Seven years on and that still isn't getting old.
It is a nice little restaurant, cute, clean and chicken loving - but to quote another party member "it's basically posh, French Nando's". I'm not sure the secret sauce made it all that special. But it did make it funnier, I'll agree with that.
Turns out that not everything French is all that fancy.
Le Secret is one of those random little places where I've been planning to go but haven't gotten around to.
It is in Canary Wharf but randomly located on the river away from the business area and away from anything else really. That and the fact that they really only serve chicken makes it weird enough for me to want to go there.
Luckily I get an invite from the Camel to a birthday dinner at "some French place in your area". Her sense of location never fails to impress!
After revisiting my old stomping grounds of the Canary Wharf shopping centre and my old gym, I made my way to the restaurant ready to eat some serious chicken.
Unsure of why the restaurant had it's name in the first place, I did the grave mistake of asking the waiter about it. Apparently it has to do with some sort of 'Secret Sauce'. That was enough to put me into the same sort of fits of laughter as being on the Piccadilly Line towards Cockfosters. Seven years on and that still isn't getting old.
It is a nice little restaurant, cute, clean and chicken loving - but to quote another party member "it's basically posh, French Nando's". I'm not sure the secret sauce made it all that special. But it did make it funnier, I'll agree with that.
Turns out that not everything French is all that fancy.
209. Four Eyes
15th September 2014, David Clulow, City of London
Not having seen properly for the past three years, it was time to give in and actually go to the optician and get my slowly approaching blindness confirmed.
She should not have given me candy first thing. Just saying. In all fairness she is not a paediatrician and may not know the tricks of the candy-as-a-reward procedure, but she'll hopefully know next time that the candy is at the final stage.
Or this will happen:
Optician lady who gave me candy (concerned): Uhm. You basically see nothing. At all.
Me (upbeat and on a sugar high): Oh. OK! Can I have more candy now?
Optician lady who gave me candy (still concerned): Do your current glasses actually make any difference?
Me (getting slightly bored): Yeah, they're Ralph Lauren.
Optician lady who gave me candy (rolling her eyes in the dark room): Right.... Do you not find yourself bumping into things a lot?
Me (hopeful): If I say yes, do I get more candy?
Optician lady who gave me candy (irritated): You must be struggling with sitting in front of a computer all day?
Me (disappointed): So no more candy then?
In the end, after making me sit still, Optician Lady confirmed what we all now - the blurriness in my eye sight is not necessarily immediately linked to the blurriness in my head. New glasses it was. Quilted leather Chanel ones even.
It's like I'm smarter already.
Not having seen properly for the past three years, it was time to give in and actually go to the optician and get my slowly approaching blindness confirmed.
She should not have given me candy first thing. Just saying. In all fairness she is not a paediatrician and may not know the tricks of the candy-as-a-reward procedure, but she'll hopefully know next time that the candy is at the final stage.
Or this will happen:
Optician lady who gave me candy (concerned): Uhm. You basically see nothing. At all.
Me (upbeat and on a sugar high): Oh. OK! Can I have more candy now?
Optician lady who gave me candy (still concerned): Do your current glasses actually make any difference?
Me (getting slightly bored): Yeah, they're Ralph Lauren.
Optician lady who gave me candy (rolling her eyes in the dark room): Right.... Do you not find yourself bumping into things a lot?
Me (hopeful): If I say yes, do I get more candy?
Optician lady who gave me candy (irritated): You must be struggling with sitting in front of a computer all day?
Me (disappointed): So no more candy then?
In the end, after making me sit still, Optician Lady confirmed what we all now - the blurriness in my eye sight is not necessarily immediately linked to the blurriness in my head. New glasses it was. Quilted leather Chanel ones even.
It's like I'm smarter already.
 |
| Look how smart I am! |
208. Cast a Vote
14th September 2014, Swedish Embassy, Marylebone, London
Most people who knows me would probably say that I'm highly opinionated. Actually, few people would probably be that polite and chose very different words to describe me and my constant debating my views on things.
Politics are no exception from me and my highly vocal (read: loud) take on the world. And you would have expected someone who has such strong opinions on every single political party and their stands to drag her ass and vote when given the chance.
Truth is, I have never voted in a general election. In fact, last time I went to vote for anything other than the X-Factor was in the Swedish elections for the Euro Zone. And age 18, I primarily voted because I had just turned 18 and I could. I also voted no solely because I thought the EUR bills were ugly. I was clearly a very mature voter.
So, having spent the last 10 years complaining about politics globally and Swedish politics more than anything, it was time to drag my ass to the embassy and actually vote.
To sum up Swedish politics in one word so that people outside Sweden can understand at which level it operates; playground. Only a bit less mature.
The ongoing war between the left and the right wing parties have gone something like this along the last few years:
Lefties: You're stupid.
Righties: Well, you're stupid-er.
Lefties: Well... Your mummy's stupid too!
Righties: Well, you... Smell.
I wish I was exaggerating.
So whilst the two biggest parties in Sweden are arguing about who is the most stupid, we've had some lovely development amongst the smaller parties.
There's the Swedish nationalist party, whose opinions I don't necessarily agree with, but they're scoring more and more votes on the fact that every other single party is terrified to even mention immigration and integration in spite of that being the biggest chink out of the Swedish national budget. People are not stupid and they will sadly support a party who stands for a rather concerning view of human beings based on the lack of options - which spreads beyond their views on immigrants (although people tend to get stuck on that bit).
And how do the other parties deal with their success? Do they listen to their voters and try to figure out why people are still sympathising with the Swedish Democrats to maybe see if there is a focus in their own politics that may be lacking. No, they instead refuse to say hi to the party members in the corridors of the parliament and exclude from the office Christmas party. Your basic school ground bullying on other words. And it's OK as per Swedish media because 'they are racist'. Apparently Swedish media missed the memo on two wrongs not making one right.
And God forbid anyone mentions that we still have communist in parliament. It's not like the commies have ever done anything to oppress people...
Whilst the racist debate is taking more and more juvenile turns, we have the Feminist Party creeping out from the ashes of a burnt bra bonfire from the 70's (let's face it, choosing to wear a bra or not is what feminism is really all about)... It doesn't sound too bad does it? Feminism is a lovely thing right?
Sadly, these are not the Emma Watson (whose UN speech I can not praise enough) type of feminist that simply believes in equal rights for all human beings - but the remains of the man haters of the last century that gave feminism a bad name to begin with. A party that informs us that all men are actually animals and needs to be re educated/programmed. Men of Sweden, I am insulted on your behalf.
Aside of these goodies, we have party leaders being attacked for having the audacity to work in politics and also be attractive, the denial that our financial minister is the greatest thing to have happened to the Swedish economy and the even harsher denial that Sweden has the social democrats to thank for the amazing social system that we do have.
Playground. Can not be said enough.
Anyway, it was time for me to go and actually vote for the least bad of the immature children running my home country, so off to Marylebone and the Swedish embassy.
I was met by two of the things I like the least: queues and admin. I'm not quite sure how many ways in which I can confirm my identity and how much arguing it is worth to go behind a curtain to put a cross in a box on a piece of paper.
In the end we got there, although I doubt I made any new friends at the embassy. That's OK, wasn't much love there to begin with.
A blank vote is still a vote right?
Most people who knows me would probably say that I'm highly opinionated. Actually, few people would probably be that polite and chose very different words to describe me and my constant debating my views on things.
Politics are no exception from me and my highly vocal (read: loud) take on the world. And you would have expected someone who has such strong opinions on every single political party and their stands to drag her ass and vote when given the chance.
Truth is, I have never voted in a general election. In fact, last time I went to vote for anything other than the X-Factor was in the Swedish elections for the Euro Zone. And age 18, I primarily voted because I had just turned 18 and I could. I also voted no solely because I thought the EUR bills were ugly. I was clearly a very mature voter.
So, having spent the last 10 years complaining about politics globally and Swedish politics more than anything, it was time to drag my ass to the embassy and actually vote.
To sum up Swedish politics in one word so that people outside Sweden can understand at which level it operates; playground. Only a bit less mature.
The ongoing war between the left and the right wing parties have gone something like this along the last few years:
Lefties: You're stupid.
Righties: Well, you're stupid-er.
Lefties: Well... Your mummy's stupid too!
Righties: Well, you... Smell.
I wish I was exaggerating.
So whilst the two biggest parties in Sweden are arguing about who is the most stupid, we've had some lovely development amongst the smaller parties.
There's the Swedish nationalist party, whose opinions I don't necessarily agree with, but they're scoring more and more votes on the fact that every other single party is terrified to even mention immigration and integration in spite of that being the biggest chink out of the Swedish national budget. People are not stupid and they will sadly support a party who stands for a rather concerning view of human beings based on the lack of options - which spreads beyond their views on immigrants (although people tend to get stuck on that bit).
And how do the other parties deal with their success? Do they listen to their voters and try to figure out why people are still sympathising with the Swedish Democrats to maybe see if there is a focus in their own politics that may be lacking. No, they instead refuse to say hi to the party members in the corridors of the parliament and exclude from the office Christmas party. Your basic school ground bullying on other words. And it's OK as per Swedish media because 'they are racist'. Apparently Swedish media missed the memo on two wrongs not making one right.
And God forbid anyone mentions that we still have communist in parliament. It's not like the commies have ever done anything to oppress people...
Whilst the racist debate is taking more and more juvenile turns, we have the Feminist Party creeping out from the ashes of a burnt bra bonfire from the 70's (let's face it, choosing to wear a bra or not is what feminism is really all about)... It doesn't sound too bad does it? Feminism is a lovely thing right?
Sadly, these are not the Emma Watson (whose UN speech I can not praise enough) type of feminist that simply believes in equal rights for all human beings - but the remains of the man haters of the last century that gave feminism a bad name to begin with. A party that informs us that all men are actually animals and needs to be re educated/programmed. Men of Sweden, I am insulted on your behalf.
Aside of these goodies, we have party leaders being attacked for having the audacity to work in politics and also be attractive, the denial that our financial minister is the greatest thing to have happened to the Swedish economy and the even harsher denial that Sweden has the social democrats to thank for the amazing social system that we do have.
Playground. Can not be said enough.
Anyway, it was time for me to go and actually vote for the least bad of the immature children running my home country, so off to Marylebone and the Swedish embassy.
I was met by two of the things I like the least: queues and admin. I'm not quite sure how many ways in which I can confirm my identity and how much arguing it is worth to go behind a curtain to put a cross in a box on a piece of paper.
In the end we got there, although I doubt I made any new friends at the embassy. That's OK, wasn't much love there to begin with.
A blank vote is still a vote right?
Monday 20 October 2014
207. Out of my Comfort Zone
14th September 2014, Jackson + Rye, Chiswick, London
The bad thing about living in the greatest city in the world is that you explore that city very little as you are feeling more at home in it. It doesn't help if you have a deep hatred towards public transport either.
There are a lot of areas in London that I haven't set foot in. Fact is, if it's outside of zone 1, it's a safe bet that I have most likely not ventured there before.
But as we get older and people are settling down and getting mortgages, I find myself having to travel to the more affordable areas of London - in other words, zone 3 or worse.
In my attempt to cross a few unexplored areas of The List, off to Chiswick I was to meet Hell's Bells and Princess of Persia for shopping and brunch.
And I get it. Sort of. In the almost-suburbs, there are all these trees and green stuff which people seem to be super into and like... Fresh air. Which is also this big frickin' deal as it appears. Well I like my air smelling slightly of marijuana and no trees getting in my way when I stagger home at 4 AM in my Manolos.
However, as we were walking through the cute little streets of Chiswick I had to admit that it really was a rather nice little area. We went antiquing, strolled through the park and had brunch and cocktails at the lovely Jackson + Rye. We were basically an annoyingly perfect couple in a Woody Allen film who covers up their inner dysfunctionality with a shield of faultlessness.
I would say I'll be back soon. But the tube ride is 55 minutes. I'm not a masochist.
The bad thing about living in the greatest city in the world is that you explore that city very little as you are feeling more at home in it. It doesn't help if you have a deep hatred towards public transport either.
There are a lot of areas in London that I haven't set foot in. Fact is, if it's outside of zone 1, it's a safe bet that I have most likely not ventured there before.
But as we get older and people are settling down and getting mortgages, I find myself having to travel to the more affordable areas of London - in other words, zone 3 or worse.
In my attempt to cross a few unexplored areas of The List, off to Chiswick I was to meet Hell's Bells and Princess of Persia for shopping and brunch.
And I get it. Sort of. In the almost-suburbs, there are all these trees and green stuff which people seem to be super into and like... Fresh air. Which is also this big frickin' deal as it appears. Well I like my air smelling slightly of marijuana and no trees getting in my way when I stagger home at 4 AM in my Manolos.
However, as we were walking through the cute little streets of Chiswick I had to admit that it really was a rather nice little area. We went antiquing, strolled through the park and had brunch and cocktails at the lovely Jackson + Rye. We were basically an annoyingly perfect couple in a Woody Allen film who covers up their inner dysfunctionality with a shield of faultlessness.
I would say I'll be back soon. But the tube ride is 55 minutes. I'm not a masochist.
Saturday 18 October 2014
206. The French Invasion
13th September 2014, Aubaine, Marylebone, London
I have an intense love-hate relationship with anything France.
I love the cheese, wine and macaroons but not so much the rude French waiters - which is essentially all French waiters.
I have for the latter reason been avoiding the Aubaine restaurants seemingly cropping up in every other corner of London for the past few years - but as they are said to have the best Moules Frites in town, a visit had to be paid.
On one of those beautiful, sunny, first few crisp Autumn days, I really could not think of anything better than some warm buttery mussels in Marylebone Village (which by the way is slowly becoming my favourite area in London).
Fresh from the gym, I met up with Bambi (sleepy) and Hell's Bells (hungover) on this adorable little bistro overseeing the square and trying it's best to lure you in with beautiful chocolate éclair's and mille-feuilles, a top notch wine selection and fluffy quiches galore. It was the perfect spot for a ladies lunch.
Or so I thought. We pretty much managed to cover off two weeks of Bambi on South African Safari, including flights, before a waiter bothered to come take our order. I did the mistake of ordering a Virgin Mary and was met with a look more offended and disgusted than I had expected from calling his mother fat. You can take the waiter out of France but you clearly can't take the French out of the French waiter.
After the initial annoyance with the slowness and less-than-enthusiastic attitude of the waiter, he brought out my Moules Frites and all was forgiven. How these ugly little creatures can be so delicious is beyond me, but never the less. Yummy in my Tummy.
No matter what - I can't fault the French when it comes to their food!
I have an intense love-hate relationship with anything France.
I love the cheese, wine and macaroons but not so much the rude French waiters - which is essentially all French waiters.
I have for the latter reason been avoiding the Aubaine restaurants seemingly cropping up in every other corner of London for the past few years - but as they are said to have the best Moules Frites in town, a visit had to be paid.
On one of those beautiful, sunny, first few crisp Autumn days, I really could not think of anything better than some warm buttery mussels in Marylebone Village (which by the way is slowly becoming my favourite area in London).
Fresh from the gym, I met up with Bambi (sleepy) and Hell's Bells (hungover) on this adorable little bistro overseeing the square and trying it's best to lure you in with beautiful chocolate éclair's and mille-feuilles, a top notch wine selection and fluffy quiches galore. It was the perfect spot for a ladies lunch.
Or so I thought. We pretty much managed to cover off two weeks of Bambi on South African Safari, including flights, before a waiter bothered to come take our order. I did the mistake of ordering a Virgin Mary and was met with a look more offended and disgusted than I had expected from calling his mother fat. You can take the waiter out of France but you clearly can't take the French out of the French waiter.
After the initial annoyance with the slowness and less-than-enthusiastic attitude of the waiter, he brought out my Moules Frites and all was forgiven. How these ugly little creatures can be so delicious is beyond me, but never the less. Yummy in my Tummy.
No matter what - I can't fault the French when it comes to their food!
 |
| Brilliant Lunch Companions |
 |
| Mussel Mania |
Monday 13 October 2014
204. In Vino Veritas
5th September 2014, Il Pipino Rosso, Palermo, Sicily, Italy
It's always been our thing, mine and Barbra's. The wine lunches.
In fact, I think that's how we first met. At a lunch, consisting of nothing but squashed grapes. At least it is one of your five-a-day.
After five years of friendship, I believe it's important to maintain traditions like these. You know, keep the spark going.
Now that spark would be much easier maintained had Barbra not decided to pack up and leave for flaming Israel two years ago. Since then, our wine lunches have been much less frequent.
But now it was finally time again. On a sunny day, in beautiful Palermo, wine and gossip was going to be had in abundance!
Following a failed attempt by me to find a Jewish restaurant in Palermo we instead stumbled upon a lovely little roof terrace in the middle of town and after climbing up a thousand-and-one steps of stairs, we really had earned that wine.
I had forgotten what an Italian meal entails. The starter could probably have fed a smaller African country for a week or so and by the time I had gotten to the main course I really couldn't even imagine how on Earth I would manage to physically move myself away from that terrace in the foreseeable future. An Atkins follower would probably have self destructed at the bare sight of it.
Those hours of playing catch up was way overdue and to ensure it wasn't all girlie talk about... Well, boys - Barbra was also forced to give me the Kosher for Dummies lecture. I had a notebook and everything. She will get bored with this eventually. By then I will hopefully have found myself another spare time interest. Like Greek mythology or something.
Although yummy, the meal was nothing compared to the wine. It was magic. Literally. The decanter somehow seemed to fill itself up throughout the four hours spent on that roof and when we left it had disappeared from the bill. Telling you. Magic.
There's also the fact that after having visited said restaurant, it was nowhere to be found and in spite of trying to find the name and location, it seems like it's vanished into thin air. The fact that we couldn't find it was also completely unrelated to the bottomless wine carafe we had enjoyed in the sun. Just making that clear.
Anyway, the place does exist. I found a box of matches from there when heading home from Sicily.
If you're ever in Palermo and wish to check out the magic wine - Il Pipino Rosso is your place.
It's always been our thing, mine and Barbra's. The wine lunches.
In fact, I think that's how we first met. At a lunch, consisting of nothing but squashed grapes. At least it is one of your five-a-day.
After five years of friendship, I believe it's important to maintain traditions like these. You know, keep the spark going.
Now that spark would be much easier maintained had Barbra not decided to pack up and leave for flaming Israel two years ago. Since then, our wine lunches have been much less frequent.
But now it was finally time again. On a sunny day, in beautiful Palermo, wine and gossip was going to be had in abundance!
Following a failed attempt by me to find a Jewish restaurant in Palermo we instead stumbled upon a lovely little roof terrace in the middle of town and after climbing up a thousand-and-one steps of stairs, we really had earned that wine.
I had forgotten what an Italian meal entails. The starter could probably have fed a smaller African country for a week or so and by the time I had gotten to the main course I really couldn't even imagine how on Earth I would manage to physically move myself away from that terrace in the foreseeable future. An Atkins follower would probably have self destructed at the bare sight of it.
Those hours of playing catch up was way overdue and to ensure it wasn't all girlie talk about... Well, boys - Barbra was also forced to give me the Kosher for Dummies lecture. I had a notebook and everything. She will get bored with this eventually. By then I will hopefully have found myself another spare time interest. Like Greek mythology or something.
Although yummy, the meal was nothing compared to the wine. It was magic. Literally. The decanter somehow seemed to fill itself up throughout the four hours spent on that roof and when we left it had disappeared from the bill. Telling you. Magic.
There's also the fact that after having visited said restaurant, it was nowhere to be found and in spite of trying to find the name and location, it seems like it's vanished into thin air. The fact that we couldn't find it was also completely unrelated to the bottomless wine carafe we had enjoyed in the sun. Just making that clear.
Anyway, the place does exist. I found a box of matches from there when heading home from Sicily.
If you're ever in Palermo and wish to check out the magic wine - Il Pipino Rosso is your place.
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| Only in Italy is this a starter |
Sunday 12 October 2014
205. A Camel Getting Married
6th September 2014, Masseria Susafa, Sicily, Italy
After what feels like forever the Camel and her Wiggins were finally getting married!
And not only did they invite us to witness this life changing event - they also gave us all an excuse to travel to beautiful Sicily and allow the warm up to the wedding to consist of limoncello, pasta and lazy days by the pool for us all.
Arriving at the gorgeous farm house the day before the wedding, ludicrously late - I expected the bride-to-be, to be fast asleep on a rose petal (or whatever it is brides will sleep on the night before the wedding). But this is the Camel. By the time Barbra and I arrived from Palermo, the Camel was in the bar, hair rollers and all, wine glass in hand, the life and soul of the party. We should have known better than to expect anything else really.
On the gorgeous morning of their wedding day, the Camel continued to be by far, the most chilled out bride I have ever come across. As we have just sat down for breakfast, the Camel rocks up, still in her rollers and showing no concern whatsoever with the fact that half the breakfast buffet is basically cake. Oh how I wish more of the pain-in-the-backside, high maintenance and border line anorexic brides-to-be that I've dealt with over the years would take some bridal behaviour classes with the Camel.
The day leading up to the big moment was spent soaking up the sun, sipping Prosecco, just waiting for it to get to 5 PM and for this show to hit the road.
And when it did indeed get to 5 PM, with the backdrop of gorgeous Sicilian landscapes, these two lovely people said their I do's and we said our woo hoo's and then we all moved on to the Prosecco.
We had a brilliantly bubbly reception in the sun after which we were taken to the dining room and I was once again reminded of exactly what makes an Italian meal... Well, insane. Us at the Cuba table foolishly thought that the 7 course dinner mentioned earlier was the 7 dish buffet put out for us along with a fresh round of Proseccos. That was the anti pasti starter. No one was leaving this wedding skinny. Although feeling absolutely stuffed, the dinner was brilliant from start to finish with the most beautiful, heart warming, funny and moving speeches and the happiest couple there ever was. They could almost even sell marriage to me!
Then the dancing started. And how can you anything but love two people who spend their wedding night dancing to Kool & The Gang like there is no tomorrow?
The party, the Prosecco and the dancing carried on until the early morning hours and I somehow forgot that I had a cab picking me up at 7.30 the next morning. Although I felt fine when getting in the cab, that stopped the second the car start moving and I spent 90 minutes with my head out the window like a dog. Turns out that a Prosecco hangover is as big of a bitch as all the other hangovers.
Thanks for a gorgeous weekend you guys!
After what feels like forever the Camel and her Wiggins were finally getting married!
And not only did they invite us to witness this life changing event - they also gave us all an excuse to travel to beautiful Sicily and allow the warm up to the wedding to consist of limoncello, pasta and lazy days by the pool for us all.
Arriving at the gorgeous farm house the day before the wedding, ludicrously late - I expected the bride-to-be, to be fast asleep on a rose petal (or whatever it is brides will sleep on the night before the wedding). But this is the Camel. By the time Barbra and I arrived from Palermo, the Camel was in the bar, hair rollers and all, wine glass in hand, the life and soul of the party. We should have known better than to expect anything else really.
On the gorgeous morning of their wedding day, the Camel continued to be by far, the most chilled out bride I have ever come across. As we have just sat down for breakfast, the Camel rocks up, still in her rollers and showing no concern whatsoever with the fact that half the breakfast buffet is basically cake. Oh how I wish more of the pain-in-the-backside, high maintenance and border line anorexic brides-to-be that I've dealt with over the years would take some bridal behaviour classes with the Camel.
The day leading up to the big moment was spent soaking up the sun, sipping Prosecco, just waiting for it to get to 5 PM and for this show to hit the road.
And when it did indeed get to 5 PM, with the backdrop of gorgeous Sicilian landscapes, these two lovely people said their I do's and we said our woo hoo's and then we all moved on to the Prosecco.
We had a brilliantly bubbly reception in the sun after which we were taken to the dining room and I was once again reminded of exactly what makes an Italian meal... Well, insane. Us at the Cuba table foolishly thought that the 7 course dinner mentioned earlier was the 7 dish buffet put out for us along with a fresh round of Proseccos. That was the anti pasti starter. No one was leaving this wedding skinny. Although feeling absolutely stuffed, the dinner was brilliant from start to finish with the most beautiful, heart warming, funny and moving speeches and the happiest couple there ever was. They could almost even sell marriage to me!
Then the dancing started. And how can you anything but love two people who spend their wedding night dancing to Kool & The Gang like there is no tomorrow?
The party, the Prosecco and the dancing carried on until the early morning hours and I somehow forgot that I had a cab picking me up at 7.30 the next morning. Although I felt fine when getting in the cab, that stopped the second the car start moving and I spent 90 minutes with my head out the window like a dog. Turns out that a Prosecco hangover is as big of a bitch as all the other hangovers.
Thanks for a gorgeous weekend you guys!
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| Here comes the bride... |
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| Most crazily beautiful couple in the world! |
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| The 'I Do's' |
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| That kiss |
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| We knew she wouldn't be able to keep her serious bridal face on for long! |
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| I'm telling you - no party is complete without someone picking the Camel up. |
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| Greatest cake topper ever on a the greatest tiramisu cake ever. |
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| With my favourite ladies! |
203. Searching for Vito
5th September 2014, Palermo, Sicily, Italy
I've always had a fascination for Sicily.
Solely because that's where all the movie Mafioso are from. So it may not be the best of reasons... But it still stands, as the movie mafia peeps always were killer cool (quite literally) and wore awesome hats - I wanted to go to there.
Thanks to the Camel and her hubby-to-be, I was finally there. Although that nearly did not happen following a 4 AM cab ride that should have taken 45 minutes and ended up at 2 hours following road closures and fog infestation. So as per usual, my getting just about anywhere involved racing with two suitcases whilst wearing my travel pillow and eye mask.
Once I had found Barbra at the airport we made an attempt at getting clarity out of the Italian bus system so that we could actually get into Palermo which was our first destination for the weekend. And this is when I remembered that Italian five minutes are not rest-of-the-world five minutes.
After a lovely day in Palermo with Barbra and a lot of limoncello (but no mobsters), our ride to Polizzi Generoso and Masseria Susafa had arrived and we stumbled into the rental with three other wedding guests. I would like to think they enjoyed our company. Then again, when dead sober and having travelled all day, I will rarely find drunken and giggly idiots all that much fun, so most likely they did not really enjoy us that much. They did do their best to look and act like they appreciated our jokes though.
Happy days were over when we realise that the Sat Nav is out and we have absolutely no idea where the frickin' hotel is. With Barbra asleep and tucked in in the back seat and me having no sense of orientation whatsoever I'm fairly sure our drivers were wishing they had chosen other people to offer their services to.
About 5 hours after leaving Palermo, after a lot of horror movie jokes as we were driving through the Italian darkness and exactly zero Mafioso we were finally there. And the party was in full swing already to warm us up for the big day ahead. Me and Barbra picked up were we left off and proceeded to have wine whilst catching up with our favourite bride-to-be and enjoying the beautiful vineyard that would be our home for the next few days.
Following a final glass of wine, me, Barbra, Neil Patrick & David made our way down to our rooms (still no Mafioso) and somehow ended up drinking the most vile wine I have ever had whilst attaching wrong colour hair extensions backwards and later proceeding to the pool for a 3 AM dip.
The next morning, in spite of a mild wine hangover, I went outside and viewed the landscapes in daylight for the first time. And it was beautiful.
Best wedding venue ever you guys!
I've always had a fascination for Sicily.
Solely because that's where all the movie Mafioso are from. So it may not be the best of reasons... But it still stands, as the movie mafia peeps always were killer cool (quite literally) and wore awesome hats - I wanted to go to there.
Thanks to the Camel and her hubby-to-be, I was finally there. Although that nearly did not happen following a 4 AM cab ride that should have taken 45 minutes and ended up at 2 hours following road closures and fog infestation. So as per usual, my getting just about anywhere involved racing with two suitcases whilst wearing my travel pillow and eye mask.
Once I had found Barbra at the airport we made an attempt at getting clarity out of the Italian bus system so that we could actually get into Palermo which was our first destination for the weekend. And this is when I remembered that Italian five minutes are not rest-of-the-world five minutes.
After a lovely day in Palermo with Barbra and a lot of limoncello (but no mobsters), our ride to Polizzi Generoso and Masseria Susafa had arrived and we stumbled into the rental with three other wedding guests. I would like to think they enjoyed our company. Then again, when dead sober and having travelled all day, I will rarely find drunken and giggly idiots all that much fun, so most likely they did not really enjoy us that much. They did do their best to look and act like they appreciated our jokes though.
Happy days were over when we realise that the Sat Nav is out and we have absolutely no idea where the frickin' hotel is. With Barbra asleep and tucked in in the back seat and me having no sense of orientation whatsoever I'm fairly sure our drivers were wishing they had chosen other people to offer their services to.
About 5 hours after leaving Palermo, after a lot of horror movie jokes as we were driving through the Italian darkness and exactly zero Mafioso we were finally there. And the party was in full swing already to warm us up for the big day ahead. Me and Barbra picked up were we left off and proceeded to have wine whilst catching up with our favourite bride-to-be and enjoying the beautiful vineyard that would be our home for the next few days.
Following a final glass of wine, me, Barbra, Neil Patrick & David made our way down to our rooms (still no Mafioso) and somehow ended up drinking the most vile wine I have ever had whilst attaching wrong colour hair extensions backwards and later proceeding to the pool for a 3 AM dip.
The next morning, in spite of a mild wine hangover, I went outside and viewed the landscapes in daylight for the first time. And it was beautiful.
Best wedding venue ever you guys!
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| Pretty Views |
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| More pretty views |
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| Limitless pretty views as it turns out |
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| And last but not least... Pretty views. |
202. Crayfish Craze
30th August 2014, Brick Lane, London
So here's the thing; Crayfish is a big frickin' deal for us Swedes.
We throw actual parties in their honour. I kid you not. No summer can come to an end without dill and beer infused crayfish, Swedish cheese pies, vodka snaps, snaps songs, hats and lanterns!
As I haven't thrown a proper crayfish party in years, it was definitely time for one in 2014.
Thankfully, most of my London family have learned just to roll with it irrespective of the funny Swedish traditions they get dragged into. Most of them involves vodka and that is generally good enough of a reason to play game for this group of friends.
As per standard party tradition, Hell's Bells was dragged to my house 10 hours before other guest to help me out with cooking and decorating as I was in my usual fashion three hours behind my own time plan. She usually get stuck stuffing olives, but this time she had to kill sea creatures. I'm not sure she considered it a promotion. But then again, she could have been stuck killing the lobsters like me.
Throughout the crayfish massacre we did also manage to cook what felt like every Swedish dish on the planet and go way over the top on decorations. To the extent where I still find crayfish confetti in my bedroom one month on.
In the midst of making chanterelle puffs, spicy cheese quiche and mini crayfish toast we also managed to invent the cocktail that may have been responsible for a lot of events to follow throughout the night; the Pearspectacular. It had boozy pears in it. Not to mention alcohol, bubbly alcohol and pear alcohol. It was too yum for everyone's upcoming wellbeing.
Following the hours slaving by the stove and a mingling session filled with pickamix and dill crisps, it was finally time to eat!
We had outdone ourselves if I may say so myself. Everything from the crayfish lanterns and garlands to the song books to the snaps selection to the red guests of honour had turned out awesome and once the crayfish newbies had got a hang of the how to crack, suck and eat the crayfish - I'd like go say that everyone had a pretty darn awesome time!
Once the dinner had been had and the beautiful cake brought by the Nordmen enjoyed, sophistication may have come to an end with me training myself a bit to hard in Cognac drinking and a cake fight commencing right by the balcony.
And the next day I learned, nothing tells you that you've had a party like waking up to the smell of crayfish and finding chocolate cake in the curtains.
So here's the thing; Crayfish is a big frickin' deal for us Swedes.
We throw actual parties in their honour. I kid you not. No summer can come to an end without dill and beer infused crayfish, Swedish cheese pies, vodka snaps, snaps songs, hats and lanterns!
As I haven't thrown a proper crayfish party in years, it was definitely time for one in 2014.
Thankfully, most of my London family have learned just to roll with it irrespective of the funny Swedish traditions they get dragged into. Most of them involves vodka and that is generally good enough of a reason to play game for this group of friends.
As per standard party tradition, Hell's Bells was dragged to my house 10 hours before other guest to help me out with cooking and decorating as I was in my usual fashion three hours behind my own time plan. She usually get stuck stuffing olives, but this time she had to kill sea creatures. I'm not sure she considered it a promotion. But then again, she could have been stuck killing the lobsters like me.
Throughout the crayfish massacre we did also manage to cook what felt like every Swedish dish on the planet and go way over the top on decorations. To the extent where I still find crayfish confetti in my bedroom one month on.
In the midst of making chanterelle puffs, spicy cheese quiche and mini crayfish toast we also managed to invent the cocktail that may have been responsible for a lot of events to follow throughout the night; the Pearspectacular. It had boozy pears in it. Not to mention alcohol, bubbly alcohol and pear alcohol. It was too yum for everyone's upcoming wellbeing.
Following the hours slaving by the stove and a mingling session filled with pickamix and dill crisps, it was finally time to eat!
We had outdone ourselves if I may say so myself. Everything from the crayfish lanterns and garlands to the song books to the snaps selection to the red guests of honour had turned out awesome and once the crayfish newbies had got a hang of the how to crack, suck and eat the crayfish - I'd like go say that everyone had a pretty darn awesome time!
Once the dinner had been had and the beautiful cake brought by the Nordmen enjoyed, sophistication may have come to an end with me training myself a bit to hard in Cognac drinking and a cake fight commencing right by the balcony.
And the next day I learned, nothing tells you that you've had a party like waking up to the smell of crayfish and finding chocolate cake in the curtains.
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| For the Crayfish Virgins |
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| The Red Gold |
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| The Crayfish Crew |
201. Working Girl
26th August 2014, City of London., London
Well I guess it had to come to an end at some stage.
After leaving a prior 80 hours work-a-week life style for a summer of travelling, daily naps, Tuesday brunching, general mischief and adventure, it was time to get back to work.
Having struggled to find appealing roles with the prospects I was after (in other words, being more motivated to bake cookies and watch Jeremy Kyle than I was to get back to work), I finally found the place. I instantly hit it off with the manager, loved the job spec and to top things off, I would be able to walk to work in 10 minutes - it was a done deal in my mind. And with that, back to work I was.
Although my outlook to getting back to work was largely positive... Damn did I not enjoy the whole getting out of bed before noon deal! That and the whole idea of putting make up on, doing my hair and not wearing my leopard sweat pants out in public. If you've ever dressed a five-year-old for a party in nice party clothes, it was about the same reaction when I got a suit on. 'But I don't want to wear these clothes, they don't feel good. You're mean mummy'!
Dragging myself to work was the worst of it. I had completely forgotten the ludicrous amount of people that will be out and about at 8 AM, all thinking that they're in the biggest hurry of all human beings in the world. I got back into habitual swearing at other Londoners and overtaking slow walkers in about 10 minutes. Like riding a bike.
Once there, I quite liked getting into this thing I used to call routine. Getting my morning coffee before 2 PM, trying to find the best spot for lunch, organising my stationary and getting reacquainted with my beloved Excel. It was all rather enjoyable surprisingly enough.
Me and my pencil skirt are officially back in the game!
Thursday 9 October 2014
200. Chicken Jerky
24th August 2014, Notting Hill Carnival, Notting Hill, London
So apparently the must-have-tried of Caribbean food is jerked chicken.
Ideally this obviously would have been something to try when actually being in the Caribbean earlier this year. But let's face it, amongst the frozen margaritas and the salad bar, the Caribbean cuisine was not exactly a big priority at that American infested resort. So we had to settle for the next place closest to a Caribbean experience - the London Carnival.
I'll happily admit that I didn't know what the deal with jerked chicken was. I figured it would be like beef jerky. Only with chicken. Which sounds a lot like Fridge Raiders and that idea did not appeal to me at all.
Although, after a diet consisting of Red Stripe and a banana throughout the day, I was looking forward to getting some food though - even if I was sceptical about the name and origin and what exactly made the chicken jerked.
You can imagine my disappointment when I realise that it's basically just grilled chicken. That's it. Grilled chicken. Maybe with a side of beany rice, but still... Grilled chicken is what it is.
Next time I'll just go to Nandos.
So apparently the must-have-tried of Caribbean food is jerked chicken.
Ideally this obviously would have been something to try when actually being in the Caribbean earlier this year. But let's face it, amongst the frozen margaritas and the salad bar, the Caribbean cuisine was not exactly a big priority at that American infested resort. So we had to settle for the next place closest to a Caribbean experience - the London Carnival.
I'll happily admit that I didn't know what the deal with jerked chicken was. I figured it would be like beef jerky. Only with chicken. Which sounds a lot like Fridge Raiders and that idea did not appeal to me at all.
Although, after a diet consisting of Red Stripe and a banana throughout the day, I was looking forward to getting some food though - even if I was sceptical about the name and origin and what exactly made the chicken jerked.
You can imagine my disappointment when I realise that it's basically just grilled chicken. That's it. Grilled chicken. Maybe with a side of beany rice, but still... Grilled chicken is what it is.
Next time I'll just go to Nandos.
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| Overly hyped grilled chicken. |
Wednesday 8 October 2014
199. Porta-No-Way
24th August 2014, Notting Hill Carnival, Notting Hill, London
Some people have put it down to me being bit of a princess.
They may have a point, but no matter how you twist and turn it, the very idea of a toilet that is portable and non flushing and has no hand soap or L'Occitane moisturizer is just plain wrong.
And due to my refusal to ever use a portaloo I have never attended festivals or any other outdoors activity requiring the occasional bathroom break without proper facilities. There was even a summer when I, aged 14, refused the beach for six weeks whilst the changing rooms were being refurbished and portaloos were put out in their place.
Eventually I might want to go to Glastonbury though. Like when Dave Grohl is there next. And by then I need to have prepared myself for all the circumstances that might crop up at a festival. Apart from the tent sleeping. A girl has got to draw the line somewhere.
After queuing up to pay money to go pee at someone's house and not being able to face the queue, we had to resort to the portaloos. I would have happily postponed my portaloo experience for another 10 years - and for good reason as it turns out.
In the queue with Crazy Canadian, I already start to panic. Like hyper ventilating, cleaning invisible germs away from my hands with invisible antibacterial wipes and loudly exclaiming every 30 seconds or so exactly how incredibly vile I am finding the whole concept. But I am ready. But only after tying my hair back, clinging on to any piece of clothing that may end up touching the walls otherwise and handing my Marc Jacobs bag over to Hell's Bells to look after whilst I was gone. I may have said a rather intense, dramatic and heart felt goodbye to the bag. It may have embarrassed the people around me.
Once inside this disgusting box of dread, I actually want to get physically sick. The smell, the confined space, the general lack of... clean. And where the eff is my L'Occitane?!?!
I wish I could say I got over it.
Instead I run out of that god awful invention as soon as it was humanly possible, desperately trying to get my hands on some hand sanitizer to rub exactly everywhere including my hair, but for the first time in the history of our friendship, Hell's Bells was not carrying her trusted tube of alcogel. It was actually worse of a betrayal than if she had sold my Marc Jacob's bag to the enemy for chocolate.
In the end I resorted to scrub my hands with vodka. Well worth the 10 pounds.
Some people have put it down to me being bit of a princess.
They may have a point, but no matter how you twist and turn it, the very idea of a toilet that is portable and non flushing and has no hand soap or L'Occitane moisturizer is just plain wrong.
And due to my refusal to ever use a portaloo I have never attended festivals or any other outdoors activity requiring the occasional bathroom break without proper facilities. There was even a summer when I, aged 14, refused the beach for six weeks whilst the changing rooms were being refurbished and portaloos were put out in their place.
Eventually I might want to go to Glastonbury though. Like when Dave Grohl is there next. And by then I need to have prepared myself for all the circumstances that might crop up at a festival. Apart from the tent sleeping. A girl has got to draw the line somewhere.
After queuing up to pay money to go pee at someone's house and not being able to face the queue, we had to resort to the portaloos. I would have happily postponed my portaloo experience for another 10 years - and for good reason as it turns out.
In the queue with Crazy Canadian, I already start to panic. Like hyper ventilating, cleaning invisible germs away from my hands with invisible antibacterial wipes and loudly exclaiming every 30 seconds or so exactly how incredibly vile I am finding the whole concept. But I am ready. But only after tying my hair back, clinging on to any piece of clothing that may end up touching the walls otherwise and handing my Marc Jacobs bag over to Hell's Bells to look after whilst I was gone. I may have said a rather intense, dramatic and heart felt goodbye to the bag. It may have embarrassed the people around me.
Once inside this disgusting box of dread, I actually want to get physically sick. The smell, the confined space, the general lack of... clean. And where the eff is my L'Occitane?!?!
I wish I could say I got over it.
Instead I run out of that god awful invention as soon as it was humanly possible, desperately trying to get my hands on some hand sanitizer to rub exactly everywhere including my hair, but for the first time in the history of our friendship, Hell's Bells was not carrying her trusted tube of alcogel. It was actually worse of a betrayal than if she had sold my Marc Jacob's bag to the enemy for chocolate.
In the end I resorted to scrub my hands with vodka. Well worth the 10 pounds.
198. From Rio to London
24th August 2014, Notting Hill Carnival, Notting Hill, London
Oh there are so many reasons why Notting Hill Carnival is clearly not for me.
I don't like crowds. Or dancing. Or crowds. Or Red Stripe. Or crowds. Yes, crowds is probably the biggest reason I am not feeling any excitement towards Carnival.
Nevertheless it is one of those things you have to have done as a Londoner, right? And seven years on, it seemed like I couldn't postpone it much longer.
Following an extensive gym session and a quick drink at Hell's Bells house, we were off to Notting Hill to get this whole Carnival thing out of the way. That however turned out to be easier said than done.
After getting on the bus in Willesden Green with about a 1000 other people we spent exactly three minutes on said bus to then be dumped before we had even reached Kensal Rise. So with our fellow 1000 passengers and another gazillion Carnival goers we started our trek to where the party was allegedly at. And with that a 40 minute walk that turned into a 2 hour one.
Finally there and finally having found Crazy Canadian and Co I actually started to enjoy myself. Between the awesome vibe, beautiful people and great music I almost managed to block out the groping and the fact that the only alcohol available was out of a white can with a red stripe on it. And the groping. Did not enjoy the groping much. News flash - Swedes are evidently less liberated than Caribbeans! I however did find it surprisingly fun to dance along to the floats whilst pretending that my shoes weren't getting ruined and hoping that the smell of marijuana would not stick to my clothes.
Then we decided to go into an alley way. With a DJ in it. DJ or no DJ - alley ways are generally a bad idea. This time was no exception. However, instead of being robbed or assaulted like in the predictable American soap that is not our lives - we landed ourselves in a stampede. I am not the least claustrophobic and was never the less in panic being in the midst of that makeshift dance floor in the alley and not being able to get out. The more the DJ shouted at people to stop pushing, the more they seemed to push and the less space there seemed to be to move or even breath.
Once we finally made it out of there, one girl had gone missing and that didn't exactly lessen the panic feel along with not getting through to her phone or seeing her anywhere in the crowd. Yes, we may have acted like drama queens and perhaps there wasn't an actual need for me to climb up a lamp post to try and spot her. But oh well, fifteen minutes on she appears, wondering what all the fuss is about.
After all this drama I can definitely establish that Carnival was not my cup of tea.
I really don't like crowds. Or Red Stripe.
Oh there are so many reasons why Notting Hill Carnival is clearly not for me.
I don't like crowds. Or dancing. Or crowds. Or Red Stripe. Or crowds. Yes, crowds is probably the biggest reason I am not feeling any excitement towards Carnival.
Nevertheless it is one of those things you have to have done as a Londoner, right? And seven years on, it seemed like I couldn't postpone it much longer.
Following an extensive gym session and a quick drink at Hell's Bells house, we were off to Notting Hill to get this whole Carnival thing out of the way. That however turned out to be easier said than done.
After getting on the bus in Willesden Green with about a 1000 other people we spent exactly three minutes on said bus to then be dumped before we had even reached Kensal Rise. So with our fellow 1000 passengers and another gazillion Carnival goers we started our trek to where the party was allegedly at. And with that a 40 minute walk that turned into a 2 hour one.
Finally there and finally having found Crazy Canadian and Co I actually started to enjoy myself. Between the awesome vibe, beautiful people and great music I almost managed to block out the groping and the fact that the only alcohol available was out of a white can with a red stripe on it. And the groping. Did not enjoy the groping much. News flash - Swedes are evidently less liberated than Caribbeans! I however did find it surprisingly fun to dance along to the floats whilst pretending that my shoes weren't getting ruined and hoping that the smell of marijuana would not stick to my clothes.
Then we decided to go into an alley way. With a DJ in it. DJ or no DJ - alley ways are generally a bad idea. This time was no exception. However, instead of being robbed or assaulted like in the predictable American soap that is not our lives - we landed ourselves in a stampede. I am not the least claustrophobic and was never the less in panic being in the midst of that makeshift dance floor in the alley and not being able to get out. The more the DJ shouted at people to stop pushing, the more they seemed to push and the less space there seemed to be to move or even breath.
Once we finally made it out of there, one girl had gone missing and that didn't exactly lessen the panic feel along with not getting through to her phone or seeing her anywhere in the crowd. Yes, we may have acted like drama queens and perhaps there wasn't an actual need for me to climb up a lamp post to try and spot her. But oh well, fifteen minutes on she appears, wondering what all the fuss is about.
After all this drama I can definitely establish that Carnival was not my cup of tea.
I really don't like crowds. Or Red Stripe.
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| Crowds. |
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| Red Stripe. |
Sunday 5 October 2014
197. A Sucky Werewolf in the Eighties
30th August 2014, Brick Lane, London
I am sad to say that on The List I had for some God forsaken reason put down An American Werewolf in London as a must-see.
I regret it. This is by far the most awful movie that I have ever put myself through. And that includes Friday the 13th Part 8, where Jason takes Manhattan and the prop guy used white plastic tubes for intestines.
I mean, I get that it was the 80's and that I shouldn't expect the special effects to be all that fantastic and that it's the rather vague genre of horror-comedy which means I shouldn't expect any Oscar performances. But come the eff on!
There is nothing about this movie that is in any way, shape or form good. Exactly nothing at all. The plot, the make up, the special effects, the frickin' credits are all shit. Had it not been for Scotty and Flatmate attacking each other (and Hell's Bells) with cupcakes, it would have been a complete waste of 97 minutes that could have been used in oh so many better ways.
The one, and only thing I'll take away from this film is the realisation that werewolf is not spelt with and 'H' and that I've been writing it wrong for 20+ years.
I thought I was over my upset of the holy crapness that is this film. But as I write this I realise that is not the case. I need a Valium.
I am sad to say that on The List I had for some God forsaken reason put down An American Werewolf in London as a must-see.
I regret it. This is by far the most awful movie that I have ever put myself through. And that includes Friday the 13th Part 8, where Jason takes Manhattan and the prop guy used white plastic tubes for intestines.
I mean, I get that it was the 80's and that I shouldn't expect the special effects to be all that fantastic and that it's the rather vague genre of horror-comedy which means I shouldn't expect any Oscar performances. But come the eff on!
There is nothing about this movie that is in any way, shape or form good. Exactly nothing at all. The plot, the make up, the special effects, the frickin' credits are all shit. Had it not been for Scotty and Flatmate attacking each other (and Hell's Bells) with cupcakes, it would have been a complete waste of 97 minutes that could have been used in oh so many better ways.
The one, and only thing I'll take away from this film is the realisation that werewolf is not spelt with and 'H' and that I've been writing it wrong for 20+ years.
I thought I was over my upset of the holy crapness that is this film. But as I write this I realise that is not the case. I need a Valium.
 |
| Probably the worst movie made in the history of man. |
196. Trekking on the Thames
30th August 2014, Thames Path, London
Bank holidays.
Those beautiful weekends of getting to wake up hungover three days in a row rather than two. Or perhaps not this time!
For the first time in history, me and Hell's Bells had decided that spending 72 hours in and out of the pub was no good anymore. Instead, we were going to do something reasonable and actually healthy. Which prompted someone (blonde, not brunette) to suggest walking the Thames Path.
Somewhere along the way we cut down on the ambition level and agreed that maybe doing the full 8 hour walk between Kingston and Greenwich along the Thames may be a bit too big of a task.
Every occasion in a girl's life requires an appropriate outfit. People don't seem to get that. In this case the theme was Girls in the 90's who do sport. In other words, a pink floral trucker cap was the perfect choice to go with and damn it, I stand by that. Plus the cap matched my new hiking boots. They're also pink. They're not comfortable.
Starting off the walk there we were simply beaming with positive spirits and bundles of energy. That lasted for about 10 minutes before pee break number one and blisters one through to four. Well at least those hiking boots were cute.
Another three hours in we decided we could get away with stopping at the river side pub and get ourselves lunch and ice for my blisters. And of course to charge our phones - you obviously can not go for a trek without measuring out the distance and provide evidence that you've had a non alcohol fuelled Saturday out.
We haven't quite established if having chips and dessert with our lunch may have defeated the purpose of walking a million miles. But it was crazy yummy. It was also amazing to sit down for a bit, admire the views and check out the plastic raft pirates. Apparently these things happen outside of Shoreditch too,
Somehow we managed to leave the pub in the end and keep on walking, although the second half was much tougher than the first. The ice cold rain did not help and at another loo and water pit stop in Battersea Park, we caved after walking for about 5 hours.
Instead begun the fun task of trying to get home from the TFL no man's land that is the area around Battersea to civilization in Shoreditch where dinner and movie night awaited us.
Next time: Battersea Park to Greenwhich.
Bank holidays.
Those beautiful weekends of getting to wake up hungover three days in a row rather than two. Or perhaps not this time!
For the first time in history, me and Hell's Bells had decided that spending 72 hours in and out of the pub was no good anymore. Instead, we were going to do something reasonable and actually healthy. Which prompted someone (blonde, not brunette) to suggest walking the Thames Path.
Somewhere along the way we cut down on the ambition level and agreed that maybe doing the full 8 hour walk between Kingston and Greenwich along the Thames may be a bit too big of a task.
Every occasion in a girl's life requires an appropriate outfit. People don't seem to get that. In this case the theme was Girls in the 90's who do sport. In other words, a pink floral trucker cap was the perfect choice to go with and damn it, I stand by that. Plus the cap matched my new hiking boots. They're also pink. They're not comfortable.
Starting off the walk there we were simply beaming with positive spirits and bundles of energy. That lasted for about 10 minutes before pee break number one and blisters one through to four. Well at least those hiking boots were cute.
Another three hours in we decided we could get away with stopping at the river side pub and get ourselves lunch and ice for my blisters. And of course to charge our phones - you obviously can not go for a trek without measuring out the distance and provide evidence that you've had a non alcohol fuelled Saturday out.
We haven't quite established if having chips and dessert with our lunch may have defeated the purpose of walking a million miles. But it was crazy yummy. It was also amazing to sit down for a bit, admire the views and check out the plastic raft pirates. Apparently these things happen outside of Shoreditch too,
Somehow we managed to leave the pub in the end and keep on walking, although the second half was much tougher than the first. The ice cold rain did not help and at another loo and water pit stop in Battersea Park, we caved after walking for about 5 hours.
Instead begun the fun task of trying to get home from the TFL no man's land that is the area around Battersea to civilization in Shoreditch where dinner and movie night awaited us.
Next time: Battersea Park to Greenwhich.
 |
| High spirits pre walk! |
195. Vaporized
17th August 2014, Vape Lab, Shoreditch, London
I must admit that I don't quite get this whole e-cigarette craze spreading across London at the moment. But then again I don't get smoking in the first place.
Although I may not get it, I am quite intrigued. It basically looks like you're walking around puffing away on teeny tiny bong which looks all so... Amsterdam.
Following the e-cigarette and vaporizer trend, there is obviously a café devoted to this new hipster activity and obviously that café is in Shoreditch where all silly trends tend to start. Give it a few months and you'll even have them in Fulham and by then, the 'Ditch will already have moved on to greater things.
Said café is Vape on Shoreditch High Street. And after a much needed greasy lunch at the Crown & Shuttle with Miss Ukraine, this was about the most strenuous activity on The List that I could cope with in my very hungover state.
Or so I thought. Once in there, the only thing I managed was a skinny latte and smoking anything was not on the map. Learning how to work the gizmos, even less so. Miss Ukraine however was in full blown business mode and started to organize work shops for PR campaign. I was just in full blown napping mode.
Although opposed to the idea in principle, it was a very cool place and they didn't take the lab theme completely overboard. Although there were some very snazzy doctor's coats there that I have every intention trying on next time I'm tipsy on the high street.
More bongs for the people!
I must admit that I don't quite get this whole e-cigarette craze spreading across London at the moment. But then again I don't get smoking in the first place.
Although I may not get it, I am quite intrigued. It basically looks like you're walking around puffing away on teeny tiny bong which looks all so... Amsterdam.
Following the e-cigarette and vaporizer trend, there is obviously a café devoted to this new hipster activity and obviously that café is in Shoreditch where all silly trends tend to start. Give it a few months and you'll even have them in Fulham and by then, the 'Ditch will already have moved on to greater things.
Said café is Vape on Shoreditch High Street. And after a much needed greasy lunch at the Crown & Shuttle with Miss Ukraine, this was about the most strenuous activity on The List that I could cope with in my very hungover state.
Or so I thought. Once in there, the only thing I managed was a skinny latte and smoking anything was not on the map. Learning how to work the gizmos, even less so. Miss Ukraine however was in full blown business mode and started to organize work shops for PR campaign. I was just in full blown napping mode.
Although opposed to the idea in principle, it was a very cool place and they didn't take the lab theme completely overboard. Although there were some very snazzy doctor's coats there that I have every intention trying on next time I'm tipsy on the high street.
More bongs for the people!
 |
| Men at work! |
 |
| The Lab, clearly |
 |
| A tidy little bong selection |
 |
| Does what it says on the box I guess |
Saturday 4 October 2014
194. Bunga Bunga For Real
16th August 2014, Bunga Bunga, Battersea, London
We had reached out final destination of the day. Finally we were at Bunga Bunga. It went much better than last time I tried going there.
When in the past I've tried to describe the concept of Bunga Bunga to people, I've usually started with asking the people in question if they know Silvio Berlusconi. This is when I normally get the first odd look from whoever I'm explaining this concept to. I usually follow up with asking if they know about his silicon and limoncello infested sex parties. This normally causes a look of regret for even requesting the explanation in the first place. When I then proceed to tell them that Bunga Bunga is the term used to describe said parties, they usually take a step back in disgust thinking I am suggesting they should attend a swingers club.
I really need to stop telling people about Bunga Bunga.
Basically, it's tacky gone posh. It is in West London after all (said in glottal Chelsea accent). Think pizza and champagne, karaoke and Prada bag, trucker caps and Ferraris.
It was also the perfect venue for Camel's hen do. Kicking things off with table length pizza and bellinis, proudly wearing our yellow Bunga Bunga caps and singing karaoke may not sound fancy. But it was fabulous. And nothing but.
Most importantly, the future bride seemed to have had a great time. That adorable Camel laugh could easily be heard over the karaoke noise and that was during the dinner alone. By the time we brought out the cake, she reached whole new levels of finding things hilarious. Never have a girl been that excited to eat something in the shape of her own face before.
Following cake, and of course more wine, there was the dancing. In our own little corner of the club there was dancing like never before and there was no amount of sweat, blood or tears to end it. Although eventually they had to close. And we left, under silent protest.
Following what may just have been the most fun night of 2014, I landed myself in a cab home with Barbra and the Camel. Then I realised I don't live in West London. Oh well. Off to Camel and Bicycle Man's for some sleep it was. And possible the worst pasta I have ever eaten.
Now. Just bring on Sicily!
We had reached out final destination of the day. Finally we were at Bunga Bunga. It went much better than last time I tried going there.
When in the past I've tried to describe the concept of Bunga Bunga to people, I've usually started with asking the people in question if they know Silvio Berlusconi. This is when I normally get the first odd look from whoever I'm explaining this concept to. I usually follow up with asking if they know about his silicon and limoncello infested sex parties. This normally causes a look of regret for even requesting the explanation in the first place. When I then proceed to tell them that Bunga Bunga is the term used to describe said parties, they usually take a step back in disgust thinking I am suggesting they should attend a swingers club.
I really need to stop telling people about Bunga Bunga.
Basically, it's tacky gone posh. It is in West London after all (said in glottal Chelsea accent). Think pizza and champagne, karaoke and Prada bag, trucker caps and Ferraris.
It was also the perfect venue for Camel's hen do. Kicking things off with table length pizza and bellinis, proudly wearing our yellow Bunga Bunga caps and singing karaoke may not sound fancy. But it was fabulous. And nothing but.
Most importantly, the future bride seemed to have had a great time. That adorable Camel laugh could easily be heard over the karaoke noise and that was during the dinner alone. By the time we brought out the cake, she reached whole new levels of finding things hilarious. Never have a girl been that excited to eat something in the shape of her own face before.
Following cake, and of course more wine, there was the dancing. In our own little corner of the club there was dancing like never before and there was no amount of sweat, blood or tears to end it. Although eventually they had to close. And we left, under silent protest.
Following what may just have been the most fun night of 2014, I landed myself in a cab home with Barbra and the Camel. Then I realised I don't live in West London. Oh well. Off to Camel and Bicycle Man's for some sleep it was. And possible the worst pasta I have ever eaten.
Now. Just bring on Sicily!
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| Possibly the greatest cake ever! |
 |
| Possibly the greatest apron ever. |
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| Possibly the only time of the day I saw the bride sit still for a second or two. |
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| Possibly the most important part of any party - the picking up the Camel. |
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