Kim Lenaghan
Sing it, don’t say it…
- 17 Feb 08, 07:34 PM
“Picking up where my esteemed colleague Mr Bailie left off on the subject of Valentine’s Day…. Last year I got the standard bouquet of flowers and it was absolutely lovely - lilies and roses and all sorts of other blooms I can never the names of. Naturally I was delighted, particularly after several years in the romantic wildnerness. So, as I am still happily ensconced with my beloved - albeit not always necessarily in the same country - I would have to admit that when I awoke on the morning of February 14th my mood was one of optimistic expectation.
However, as the day wore on and no flowers, cards or other such gifts were being showered upon my person I did begin to panic slightly. After 3 calls to the 主播大秀 front desk to ask if anything had been delivered I realised I was starting to sound very desperate indeed. Bizzarely, when I was single none of this mattered, my expectation was zero. Now it was different, now there were no acceptable excuses.
By this stage I had taken to rehearsing in my head just how exactly I was going to enact the Valentine’s Day Massacre II – only the one victim, but a lot more blood! As you would expect I had also scripted the bitter words about “being neglected” and “unappreciated” and “I don’t care how much you think it’s just some sort of commercialised rip-off invented by greeting cards companies and florists”.
And then it happened. The little envelope popped up on my computer screen and in this electronic age I got the best, the most romantic Valentine ever. My beloved got in touch with his sentimental side, sat down at the piano and recorded, especially for me, a version of one of my all time favourite songs ‘My Funny Valentine’, written by Rodgers and Hart in 1937 and one of the most recorded of all the standards that make up the Great American Songbook.
Now obviously it helps that he’s a very talented singer songwriter and a terrific musician with a great voice – honestly I’m not being biased - but despite the fact that this has been covered by everybody from Ella Fitzgerald to Michelle Pfeiffer this is the best version I ever heard – and always will be.
It brought tears to my eyes, joy to my heart and I will treasure until the day I die. Who needs flowers now!!!!
And just in case you aren’t familiar with Mr Hart’s words here they are…
My funny Valentine
Sweet comic Valentine
You make me smile with my heart
Your looks are laughable
Unphotographable
Yet you're my favourite work of art
Is your figure less than Greek
Is your mouth a little weak
When you open it to speak
Are you smart?
But don't change a hair for me
Not if you care for me
Stay little Valentine stay
Each day is Valentine's day
Is your figure less than Greek
Is your mouth a little weak
When you open it to speak
Are you smart?
But don't you change one hair for me
Not if you care for me
Stay little Valentine stay
Each day is Valentine's day
Romantic or what? If I can find a way to let you hear Jim’s wonderful version I will definitely let you know!
Grin and Bear It
- 12 Feb 08, 08:20 PM
“Now, I was wondering if you had seen the lovely picture of the treasured doggie Ella and I in the Belfast Telegraph last Friday night. The reason for our appearance in print was to highlight the very popular ‘Days Like This’ slot on Radio Ulster which, this week, is featuring a number of the station’s presenters including me. My special memory was the day I met the puppy who would go on to become the ‘Princess of Pooches’, although I did briefly consider going with the moment when I first learned to kiss – but that is a story for another occasion…..let’s just say that realising I was supposed to breathe through my nose changed my life!! And, in case you’re wondering, I was only 14 and girls were a lot more innocent then.
Back to Ella, and along with the photograph in the paper I had to say a few words about how wonderful she is, which was all completely heartfelt, and I really wouldn’t have missed the last 12 years with her for anything.
However, old dogs are like old cars and once they start to go wrong they’ll end up costing you a fortune. Since my public declaration of canine devotion there is no going back, even if I wanted to, so at the weekend when the vet suggested a series of tests to determine the state of her health, as well as get her ears cleaned out under general anaesthetic, what could I do but agree. I love her.
Fast forward 48 hours and I have just forked out many hundreds of pounds to be told that Ella’s ears are grand and she is fit as a fiddle. Don’t get me wrong, I am absolutely delighted to hear it, don’t begrudge a penny spent, and the vet did a fine job. I just want to know why everything has to be so expensive these days. I seem to spend my life robbing Peter to pay Paul. For example….I have a cracked filling, a root canal job, and whilst it isn’t sore it is sensitive and I know it needs fixed. But it was the vet or the dentist, because there is no way any normal person could afford both in the same month. So I have to postpone getting my teeth fixed now until after Easter. To be honest, even at the best of times, you practically need a second mortgage to visit the dentist, and I’m not talking the cosmetic stuff here, this is just for the basic oral upkeep.
Remember the good old days when dentists had NHS practices and you didn’t have to save up for weeks beforehand, or pay it off on you credit card over half a year. I think there are still some NHS dentists out there, I certainly don’t have one. Indeed I’m beginning to suspect they may just be an urban myth as rare as the proverbial hen’s teeth – pardon the pun.
Also lets be honest, given what they charge, dentists and vets must be making a fortune!! Oh I so wish I’d been better at science at school.
So the conclusion of this shaggy dog story is that Ella is happy and healthy while I am broke and must avoid biting off more than I can chew. And the moral…..make sure you get pet insurance and a private dental plan and you’ll never need to worry.
‘Days Like This’ with Ella and I is on Radio Ulster at 08.55 on Saturday morning.….
Talking Turkey
- 9 Feb 08, 12:21 PM
“And so puppet of parody par excellence Dustin the Talking Turkey is firm favourite to represent Ireland in the Eurovision Song Contest with his song ‘Twelve Points, Deuze Poins’. But why am I surprised? He’s hardly the first turkey in the competition and one thing’s for sure, he couldn’t be a worse choice than last year’s entry which, if I remember correctly, actually came last!
Anyway, I’m rambling on when what I really wanted to talk to you about isn’t turkeys, but chickens, ?1.99 chickens to be precise.
I just cannot believe that any supermarket chain in their right mind would think of trying to offer their shoppers cheap chicken after everything that we’ve seen and read about intensive breeding. Have they not been watching Jamie Oliver and Hugh Fernley Whitingstall? Do they not realise the appalling conditions in which these poor birds live their brief lives, in pain and distress, not to mention the fact that they are being pumped full of god knows what to keep them disease free in their cramped, filthy, cages? Do they imagine that their customers are uninformed or uncaring.
I have absolutely no problem whatsoever eating meat from livestock specifically bred for the purpose (sorry vegetarians), but just because, from the moment they are born, their destiny is to end up on our plates doesn’t mean to say that their lives should be filled with unrelenting misery. Indeed, whilst I love my meat I would sooner give it up than buy into that. Surely in this day and age when we know that organic and free range is better for the animals, as well as for ourselves, we should be moving more strongly to support ethical methods of farming… and what that means is moving with our feet, our purses and our plastic to the suppliers who can deliver that promise.
Don’t get me wrong, I know that people, including myself, have budgets they need to stick to and organic or free range is going to be three times the price. The thing is, if you’re dividing that chicken up, you may get a smaller portion but it’ll taste a hell of a lot better, it’ll be healthier and you won’t have bought into the misery of intensive poultry farming. Add lots of good local veggies and spuds and after you’ve finished you can use the bones to make stock. Unless, of course, you are the mad, bad, dangerous to know, Michelin star chef Marco Pierre White who is currently to be seen advertising a well known brand of stock cubes. Mmm, you wouldn’t get that from Gordon Ramsay.
So, as you push your trolley around the supermarket today, might I suggest that the only thing worse than being offered a cheap chicken would be to actually buy one. It would certainly take a lot more than one of MPW’s stock cubes to make it palatable.
Fat Tuesday
- 5 Feb 08, 12:51 PM
“Today I have finally and fully emerged from hibernation, which is the only way I can ever get through the hideous month that is January. I’ve been living in a little ‘Groundhog Day’ cocoon with a recipe that goes something like this: work – home - eat stodgy food – do not venture out of doors – do not exercise brain or body – do not socialise – sleep a great deal. Repeat for 31 days.
In fairness, I have also had this cold/flu thing that’s been doing the rounds so that was another excuse for solitary confinement. Then, I had to pay my tax, my roof sprung a significant leak, and I’ve finally had to accept the fact that the condition of my ancient car is terminal. So if you think I’ve been avoiding you, honestly you were better off without me.
It’s amazing though how the world goes on without you. I logged on this morning to my computer for the first time in about three weeks and I had 96 messages, none of them of the slightest importance, and most of them trying to sell me something.
Of course comforting as the routine of sloth and self indulgence is, there comes a time when you get fed up even with that and you realise you just have to get up and get on with and rejoin the rest of humanity.
The turning point for me came yesterday. The first very strange occurance was when I got up and for once it wasn’t raining. I ventured gingerly outside into the garden and there, among the damp green foliage, with their brave little heads held high, were three perfect, pure white snowdrops, a sure sign of spring. I knew then it was time for me to cast off my weary, winter mantle and look forward. So, I went shopping. Horror!
The down side of human hibernation is that unlike squirrels and bears who live off their body fat while they sleep the winter away, we eat on – certainly that’s what I’ve been doing. So rather than living off my reserve inches I have been adding to them with sausages, stew, casseroles, crumbles and other such comforting dishes. I’ve also spent the month slouching round in my tracky bottoms and big jumpers and pretending not to notice that my bottom is now the size of a well filled space hopper – not to mention a similar shape. Nothing nice that I have fits! I have gone up a dress size since just before Christmas and so I vow, here and now, that I will be down two sizes by Easter. Which brings me on to my next point….
How come it’s Shrove Tuesday already? I know I said Spring is in the air, but this is ridiculous! It’s only just been haggis for Burns Night and now we’re gearing up for pancakes. I was in the supermarket earlier buying vegetables, salad and chicken (turning away from my traditional route down the sausage and bacon aisle) and it’s all Easter Eggs and chicks and bunnies and don’t forget your lemon juice for your pancakes. So how early is Easter this year? I got home, looked it up on the calendar and there are only a little over six weeks to Good Friday.
I think my hibernation may have lasted just a little longer than in should have done!
But if this is Shrove Tuesday, what that also means is that tomorrow is Ash Wednesday and the beginning of Lent, the season of denial – and I am not talking about the river in Egypt. As it turns out that sits very well with my current mood of moderation and healthy living, it sort of legitimises my quest and makes me feel that I do not suffer alone. I wish I’d realised earlier though, because of course the whole point of today is the last big blow out until Easter. Hence the whole idea of Mardi Gras – ‘fat Tuesday’, the big party, the riot of excess before the penance of abstinence. I could have had one last apple crumble and custard!
Although perhaps if I had indulged myself in one or two less this wouldn’t already be a fat Tuesday in more ways than one.
Also, can anyone explain why in places like New Orleans and Rio they have riotous street parties, outrageous parades and general carousing for Mardi Gras…..while we have pancakes with butter, sugar and lemon….mmm. What does that say about us?
Mind you, I can talk! The only thing I’ll be having lemon juice on this year is my lettuce!
It’s A Cracker!
- 11 Dec 07, 08:33 PM
“Despite any seasonal stress that I might currently be experiencing, I can honestly say that I buy in wholeheartedly to all the Yule tide traditions and seasonal rituals, so you’ll hear no ‘Bah Humbug’ from me. But there are two festive favourites that I simply cannot get my head around – cards and crackers.
I long ago gave up writing Christmas cards in much the same way I stopped sending postcards. Perhaps there was a time, before the age of mass communications, when it was a way of keeping in touch with friends and family. Nowadays you can make a phone call from just about anywhere or log on and send an e-mail, and yet the tradition persists. Why, why, why? All you are doing is adding to your stress levels.
First of all you have to go out and buy them, choosing cards with illustrations and verses that are tasteful enough for you to actually consider putting your name to. You also have to decide whether you should buy charity cards, even though the picture isn’t as nice, and then wonder how much of the money you spend actually goes to good causes and not on printing, marketing and admin. Of course that’s only the beginning.
Then you have to sit down and agonise over who to send them to…if you send one to Joe & Mo Claus will you get one back, or what if the Kringles send you a card and you haven’t sent them one. So, you sort out your list, you check it twice, and once you’ve decided ‘who’ you have to decide ‘what’
Yes deciding what to write can be quite a strain because every card needs a little personalised message, otherwise it’ll look like you just don’t care! And so it goes on ….finding addresses, agonising over whether to send them first class or second class – it really isn’t worth it.
But it’s when you start getting cards sent back that the fun really begins. Putting it kindly…how can there be so many people out there with such bad taste? Worse than that, you have to display these incredibly cheesy and horrible cards in your tastefully adorned home. And how? On a string, sitting on shelves, pinned to the wall…it doesn’t matter because they will look hideous whatever you do. And rest assured that however carefully you have considered your list, the morning after the final posting date for Christmas at least one card will drop through your letter box from somebody you didn’t send one to. So, I guess this tirade has just put me off pretty much everybody’s Christmas card list…and I say GOOD!
Sticking with ugly and inappropriate ….Christmas Crackers! Yuck! Why would you choose to put gaudy, cardboard tubes like elaborate toilet roll middles on your beautifully decorated table? Why would you ruin your carefully chosen Christmas outfit and specially coifed hair by wearing a luminous yellow paper hat on your head? Would your life be less fulfilled if you did not have a plastic comb, a sewing kit, or a miniature combination lock? And finally, the answer to the question “Why does Santa have three gardens?” is “So he can ho, ho, ho!”
No, this year and every year you can keep your cards and your crackers! Bah Humbug!
Seasonal Stress – Shopping Days to Christmas
- 9 Dec 07, 01:19 AM
“I would like to ask why it is that shopping, an activity so pleasurable for the other 11 months of the year, should suddenly become so stressful in December. Of course we already know the answer to that one. Yes, the annual pressure of buying a selection of entirely inappropriate gifts for people who neither want, need or appreciate them.
It’s that awful routine of racing around the shops from morning to midnight doing your world famous impression of a headless chicken with attention deficit disorder, chucking things into baskets and repeating the seasonal mantras “That’ll do rightly…..too bad if he already has one….she can always take it back if it doesn’t fit”! Ah, the season of good will! And anyway, you just buy the same old stuff every year so it’s not like anybody is expecting anything new or novel.
To add insult to injury you find yourself in the company of thousands of other shoppers doing and saying exactly the same thing. Actually, spending a Saturday in town in the couple of weeks before Xmas should be compulsory training for all soldiers about to go into battle, and make no mistake, it is a battlefield out there and she who hesitates is lost. You’ll notice I said ‘she’ and for those men among you who are in touch with your feminine side I apologise, but, in my experience, the of the bulk of the seasonal shopping does fall to the ladies – from the gifts to the grub to the goodies it’s usually us out there on the front line.
Shoulders and elbows are my weapons of choice for fighting my way through the crowds, and you have to keep your wits about you and your reflexes razor sharp for those ‘last one left’ moments. Picture the scene… there are two of you in front of the shelf and you know the only thing standing between triumph and having to traipse around town for another two hours is her. You’ve got to be decisive, move like lightening, grab an go as fast as you can to the cash desk. Result!
Nowhere is this skill more essential than when faced with the ‘3 for 2’ scenario. You see, it is almost impossible to find a third thing you like, and the longer those offers have been on display the harder it gets. But obviously because it is a free gift, and at Christmas nothing is free, you have to find something. As you sift through the shelves you’ll need all your cunning and persistence because the good stuff goes first, but, if you’re very lucky, you may actually spot a gem of a third item. Otherwise you must invoke another one of the mantras “it’s free, she never exactly pushes the boat out for me, and if she doesn’t like it……..” You know the rest.
At this point it’s back to the blokes, and again I hate to generalise but how often do men think they can get away with those lines like “you’re much better at all that than I am” or “I wouldn’t know what to get” and then there’s the old favourite “I’ll just give you the money.”
Now, there is a part of me that wants to scream “get your fat behind out of that chair, turn off the telly and go out and get your own presents!” But it is a truth universally acknowledged that ultimately it is less stressful to do it yourself. You know as well as I do that they’ll leave it to Christmas Eve, about an hour before the shops close, and there will be nothing left. So, if you can't change them turn this “you just get it for me” attitude to your advantage. Most men will indeed give you anything you ask for as long as they don’t have to actually go to the bother of choosing, identifying and sourcing it themselves. Indeed, you'll have their credit card details before you can say “multi-story carpark.” Talking of which….
They cost a fortune! Another reason to hate shopping at Christmas, then there’s the rain and the rotten weather…and before you start screaming at me about online shopping can I just say that’s all well and good if you know what you’re after but I never do. And to tell the truth, even though I’m moaning, Christmas wouldn’t be the same without that hustle and bustle and a bruise or two.
So let the shopping commence, let the socks, perfume and pyjamas know I’m on my way. I’ve made a list, I’ve checked it twice and I know I’ll forget to bring it like I do every year. By the way, there are 16 shopping days to Christmas.
Seasonal Stress Part 1
- 4 Dec 07, 02:44 PM
“Tis the season to be jolly”…..who on earth wrote that? Haven’t they realised that far from being jolly this is the season to be completely stressed out of your mind, spend money you don’t have, argue with all your nearest and dearest and finally console yourself with so much fat, sugar and alcohol that the very thought of it is enough to make Gillian McKeith explode like a pantomime villain – mmm, good plan!
And it’s always the same. No matter how much you tell yourself that this year it’ll be different, you’ll spend less and be really well organised, December always sneaks up on you by surprise. One minute you’re up to your neck carving pumpkin lanterns and next thing you know you’ve got your arm up to your elbow in a turkey’s backside.
Of course I am my own worst enemy. I cannot quite bring myself to consider the festive season until there is a ‘D’ in the month and by then it’s already too late – certainly if you want this year’s ‘must-have’ toy. Apparently one of the biggies for 2007 is some sort of games consul that, naturally, cannot be had for love nor money. Now, I ask you, what parent could bear to disappoint their children on Christmas morning? Can you imagine watching them excitedly unwrapping their presents, those shiny little faces eager with anticipation….and then seeing those happy smiles fade to dreadful disappointment as, with one final rip of the paper, they realise they didn’t get what they asked Santa for. What went wrong? Were they on the naughty list after all? Was another boy or girl more deserving? Honestly, you could scar a child for life with that sort of thing – Santa has a lot to answer for! I also think he should cut busy mums and dads a little slack these days.
Anyway, in an attempt to avoid this Scrooge like seasonal scenario parents will, quite literally, go to the ends of the earth to help good old Santa on his quest to find their little Brooklyns and Britneys exactly what they’ve asked for. Take my friend Noelle (a seasonal alias). After many, many weeks online, she finally acquired the aforementioned games console in Germany. So, seasonal peace and harmony will reign in her house for at least ten minutes….until her two boys start fighting over their presents and taking lumps out of one another, the dog goes mental and barks the house down, she eats the face off her husband because she has to shout at somebody and, finally, like many other housewives and mothers the length and breadth of the land she will reach for the sherry to get her through the day – and it isn’t even breakfast. Isn’t Christmas great!
Now, this is just one of the many, many trying situations to be faced over the coming weeks. So, in an attempt to keep us calm and sane, I have decided to put together a sort of advent calendar of stress as the countdown to Christmas continues. I think it could be good group therapy. You’re bound to recognise yourself and realise that however lonely it feels in this festive jungle we’re all right in there with you!
So what do you think for tomorrow – a little more shopping? Why not!
Get me out of here I'm a …..
- 20 Nov 07, 11:55 PM
What? A CELEBRITY??? Don’t make me laugh!! Clearly the makers of ITV's nightly jungle challenge did not bother themselves with such petty dictionary definitions before casting the current series. Now, I know it has never exactly attracted the cream of showbiz talent past and present – think Tony Blackburn and Kerry Katona - but this time around can Christopher Biggins really the biggest thing in the jungle? “Sa-fari so good-i”! Mmm, he is quite plump I suppose, and if I were him I would be fearful of my life, lest a series of unsuccessful Bushtucker Trials turn his fellow campers cannibal. At least that chef who loves himself, John Burton Race, would know how to cook him.
And so to the usual stereotypes....as well as former tv chef and old joke bloke, we have ex-boy band member, ex-tv soap actors – male and female, ex-tv makeover show expert, ex-reality tv show contestant, ex-pop singer – are you noticing the connection here? Some of them you’ve never heard of, others you can just about remember if you dredge the deepest recesses of your memory. Of course you can understand exactly why they’re doing it, a bit of a kick start for the old career. But a note of caution…this week’s jungle celebrity is next week’s Iceland ad!
Then there are the variables, the quirky eccentrics, the kind of characters that make you wonder what on earth they were thinking of to sign up to something so undignified. In the role of big mouthed, bolshy American who’s had far too much cosmetic surgery, a role previously filled by David Guest, we now have Janice Dickinson. Who indeed? Apparently, according to Janice, she was the world’s first supermodel and has dated everybody from Jack Nicholson to Warren Beatty – not that much of a recommendation given their respective score cards…female with a pulse being sufficient criteria, and a faint pulse at that.
In the barking mad, mouthy, late middle aged lady corner, formerly occupied by Janet Street Porter, Jan Leeming and Carol Thatcher, we now have one time pr guru now feminist earth mother Lynne Franks. This is the woman who, speculation has it, was at least part of the inspiration for the character of Edina in Ab Fab. Enough said!
Finally, as the camp’s resident Mr Grumpy, very much in the style of Del Boy meets Victor Meldrew, we have former soccer star, playboy and very good buddy of our own George Best, Mr Rodney Marsh. Could it be he needs the money after all that high living? What else could lure him into a pantomime like this at his age. Indeed, tonight he fell and hurt his knee, hitting the deck very much in the style of one of those Football Italia players, years of practice I suppose. But somebody really does need to tell him to be careful - it’s a jungle out there.
Of course, people being people, after a week they’ve fallen into little groups, all bitching and back biting about one another, with stand up rows and threats of physical violence. There are rats, spiders, scorpions, more maggots than you could shake a stick at, so many creepy crawlies you want to retch…but most stomach churning of all has to be the very man made jungle romance between the bloke who used to be on Eastenders forever ago and one time sweetheart of the valleys, Cerys from Catatonia – more like catatonic. If anybody watching that gets sick don’t blame it on the bush tucker!
There are times when the whole show gets so cringe makingly awful that I really do want to scream at Ant and Dec, whom I love, “I’m an audience, get me out of here!” But I can’t. This is car crash television. I’m transfixed. I’m fascinated. I’m hooked. Tomorrow night is the first eviction and, whilst I hate to disillusion you all, over the next 24 hours this will be the chief topic of conversation among me, my friends and colleagues.
The power of television is a wonderful thing. A week ago I neither knew nor cared who these people were. A week after the series is over I will feel exactly the same way. They may not be celebrities but for now, at least, bring on the cockroaches and entertain me!
Boys to Men
- 12 Oct 07, 01:44 PM
As Take That take to the stage of the Odyssey Arena it’s great to know that not only have they re-lit the fire under their own careers but rekindled the girlhood memories of thirty something (and older!) women everywhere.
I won’t get a chance to see them this time round, but I did go to the gig they played in Belfast last year and they were fantastic….and that was in the early days of their comeback. I have some friends who were at last night’s concert and today, despite being hoarse and hungover, they were like trilling teenagers, hormones racing – either that or they were having hot flushes, at our age it’s hard to tell the difference.
As for the lads themselves, they may be more of a middle aged man band than a boy band these days but, by all accounts, they still have all the moves. Indeed someone I know very well, whose anonymity I am going to preserve here for the sake of her professional reputation and describe her simply as “sources close to Take That” was very “phwoarrrrrr!” about how they were looking backstage, particularly Gary Barlow. To quote my source “Small, but perfectly formed and very well toned!”
And better yet, no longer is this just any old former boy band – it’s an M&S former boy band. Yes, Take That are the male equivalent of Twiggy, Erin O’Connor and co, modelling this season’s new look. Now, I can see why Marks & Spencer would want them and why they would want to do it, but I’m still not entirely convinced that it isn’t rather ‘uncool’. Let’s be honest, love him or hate him, you can’t ever imagine Robbie modelling a ‘Marksy’s’ cardie.
They do look very mean, moody, sexy and unshaven in the big in-store displays though, and the reality of whether they’re still cool and desirable or not will be if those posters start to go missing. I can see it all now…. dozens of women of ‘a certain age’ wandering out into Donegall Place with strange, rectangularly shaped hips because they have Take That posters shoved down their knickers. God help the store detectives.
PS: Would somebody please nick me a Howard!
Off the Menu
- 13 Sep 07, 01:45 AM
It’s enough to give you indigestion! What I’m referring to is that nightly serving of culinary chaos from the latest series of tv’s Hell’s Kitchen. In terms of the recipe nothing much appears to have changed, but the quality of the ingredients has definitely gone from gourmet to garbage.
The so-called ‘celebrity’ chefs include one time pop star Paul Young – ah, remember the 80’s; Big Brother winner Brian Dowling – to remind you, he was the gay, Irish one; Anneka Rice – who has obviously realised she’s too old to jump out of jeeps and helicopters but still wants to be on telly; and then there are a couple of those ‘Heat’ magazine type girls who are ‘wags’ or appear on tv soaps or something – I have no idea who they are. Even less believable, former world champion and local hero Barry McGuigan has swapped boxing gloves for oven gloves (but is still lovely); and then there is ‘comic’ – I use the term loosely – Jim Davidson, and more of him in a moment.
They are all chopping, sweating and sautéing under the watchful eye of another reputedly bad boy chef, Marco Pierre White. But if you were expecting fireworks from him forget it! This is a man who has clearly had a charisma bypass, apparently almost never swears in the kitchen and doesn’t seem to have raised his voice once. God, it really is like watching cream curdle. Oh how I long for Gordon Ramsay’s foul mouthed outbursts! As for sex appeal, well, MPW wears a napkin as a sweat band round his head and has this kind of Worsel Gummage straw stuff poking out underneath – I can only assume it’s too many years set at gas mark 7.
But let me return to Jim Davidson who now, thankfully, has left the kitchen which had clearly gotten way too hot for him. Misogynistic, homophobic, sexist, control freak – and those are just his better qualities – he made Jade Goody look like Mother Theresa. And talking of irredeemably unpleasant men, one of the only truly entertaining moments to date was when MPW sent the odious John McCrirrick packing for daring to send back his soup – ok, so Marco isn’t all bad.
Actually, I generally find the most enjoyable part of the programme to be Angus Deayton’s ascerbic asides. I have no idea whether he scripts then himself or some clever scribe does it for him, either way, his delivery and timing are impeccable and he has just the right amount of smugness. So saying all of that, isn’t it time that Angus was finally allowed a passport back from television Siberia - I can’t even remember any more what the scandal was that froze him out in the first place, some sexual indiscretion I think, but whatever the crime he’s done the time and ‘Have I Got News For You’ was never the same without him.
Now, talking of doing time ….I happily would to remove Nigella Lawson from our television screens. I was never a big fan anyway, frankly I don’t think she can actually cook and her recipes are rubbish, but the latest series ‘Nigella Express’ is even more appalling than usual. It is nothing more than the daily diary of some posh, rich, Chelsea housewife who manages to fit in a spot of cooking in her busy social calendar. Now, Nigella is a beautiful and glamorous woman, of that there is no doubt, but she really has become a complete parody of herself. All that “oh this chocy mousse is just sooooo delectably scrummy” stuff as she suggestively licks her fingers – not for nothing was the phrase ‘food porn’ coined for Nigella – or the Ab Fab style “sweetie, darling this whole fabulous feast only took me 15 minutes to cook from scratch” as some middle aged, slightly portly and very rich dinner guest replies sympathetically “Oh darling how do you manage it all after a hard day’s work!” Don’t make me laugh!
Do you know, when I watched the programme a couple of nights ago I actually kept expecting impressionist Ronni Ancona to pop out from under a Nigella mask. Talking of faking it – that kitchen she uses isn’t even hers, apparently it’s some sort of tv set in a unit on an industrial estate. Hardly surprising really as her multi, multi, multi millionaire husband Charles Saatchi probably has Tracey Emin’s unmade bed next to the cooker at home – now that really would be Hell’s Kitchen! So, Nigella - phoney and sloaney – a fatal combination.
But if you do want wonderful recipes for fine food to cook at home then look no further than Radio Ulster. Each week on the Saturday Magazine Paula McIntyre delivers delectable dishes with equal portions of humour and down to earth know how. I’d love to see her in Hell’s Kitchen – Marco Pierre White wouldn’t know what had hit him!
Sunny by name….
- 15 Aug 07, 06:20 PM
Every now and again you turn on the radio and hear a story that makes you gasp with horror, moves you to tears one minute, has you laughing the next and ultimately leaves you feeling uplifted and inspired. That was certainly the case with my guest on This New Day last Sunday morning (12th).
Sunny Jacobs spent 17 years in a Florida prison, five of them on death row, and all because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. When she and her partner Jesse accepted a lift from a casual acquaintance with a shady and dangerous past she had no idea it would lead to a shootout during the road trip that would leave them wrongly accused of the double murder of two policemen.
The five years she spent on death row were in solitary confinement because she was the only woman in the state under threat of execution. Her cell was 6 paces long and if she reached out with her arms she could touch both walls. She was only allowed to leave it twice a week for a shower and 30 mins in the exercise yard - alone. Yet she survived, wrote her thoughts down in a journal and stayed mentally strong through a series of little tricks including her five minute rule – she would never allow herself to stay angry for one second longer than 5 minutes, as she said “it could have been my last day on this earth and I wasn’t going to waste it being mad at something or someone stupid.” She also never gave up hope, believing that if you really are innocent surely “the truth will set you free.” Her chief horror was that anyone could believe her capable of such a crime. “I was a vegetarian, I wouldn’t have killed a fly. How could they think I would kill a man!”
Sunny was finally exonerated in 1992 when the evidence that convicted her was discredited, but unfortunately that was too late for her partner Jesse. He had been executed two years earlier in the most horrific way when the electric chair malfunctioned and it took over 13 minutes for him to die. She had been separated from her 9 year old son and ten month old daughter after her arrest and, in another tragic twist of fate, her parents had been killed in a plane crash ten years earlier. Now, as a 45 year old woman she had lost her partner, her family, she had nowhere to go and all the contents of her life were contained in a cardboard box.
But Sunny Jacobs is a survivor, not a victim. She re-built her relationship with her children, got work as a yoga teacher, became passionately involved in campaigning against the death penalty and, against all the odds, has a story with a happy ending. On a trip to Dublin she met Peter Pringle, another exonerated death-row inmate, and the two now live happily together in the West of Ireland. He’s a giant of a man with a shock of white hair, while Sunny is a tiny slip of a woman, but they are clearly a perfect match in every way, very much in love and very contented. But that’s the most striking thing of all. Sunny Jacobs isn’t bitter. She doesn’t feel sorry for herself or wallow in the past. She is the most positive, optimistic person I have ever met. She describes herself as “lucky” and her life as “magical”, indeed she told me she thought she had the best life of anyone she knows.
I felt humbled in her presence and vowed never to grumble about the petty things in my life again. Naturally, being me, that lasted about four hours, but I will never forget Sunny, a woman so aptly named, and the effect meeting her had on me.
And I’m not alone. Many of you listening on Sunday morning have called to ask for details about her and her recently published book. Based on her prison letters and journals it’s called ‘Stolen Time’ by Sunny Jacobs and is published by Doubleday. And while you’re on the website you can also listen to that interview with Sunny again on ‘This New Day’.
Post Parisian Holiday Blues
- 10 Aug 07, 11:24 AM
Forgive me readers for I have sinned. It has been one month since my last blog. The reason, of course, is that I have been on holiday. But while I’m in a confessional mood I should come clean and admit that I’ve actually been back now for over a week. The problem is I’ve been just too damned depressed to do anything about it. I think this must be ‘blogger’s block’! I haven’t written anything, haven’t gone anywhere – for goodness sake I only finished unpacking my case last night! And that’s the whole problem with holidays. They’re fantastic to look forward to, even better when you’re actually on them, but just awful once they’re over.
I suppose in some ways you could compare it to eating a family size bag of Revels. You carefully plan that sofa moment, relish each of the sweets (except for the orange ones) as you’re stuffing them in, but then you feel really sick when the bag’s finished ….and you’ve consumed thousands of needless calories into the bargain. Mind you, at least you don’t end up with a ton of dirty washing and a credit card bill the length of the Mississippi. That’s because my favourite phrase when I’m away, whether it’s ordering coffees at a fiver a go or drinking pink champagne in the afternoon, is “sure I’m on my holidays!” Of course it was worth it in every way and my love affair with Paris grows deeper every day.
It’s a bit like that old song ‘How you gonna keep ‘em down on the farm, now that they’ve seen Paris.’ In the last month I’ve admired the Mona Lisa, wept at Edith Piaf’s grave, stood in awe in Marie Antoinette’s bedroom, spent late nights in smoky jazz clubs and early mornings watching the sun rise over the seine. Whatever time of the day or night I’ll never get tired looking at the Eiffel Tower, or fail to gasp when the Sacre Coeur comes into view. Like Cole Porter “I love Paris in the summer when it sizzles” and I had one unforgettable, ridiculously romantic afternoon with my beloved in the Bois de Vincennes watching Randy Crawford sing as part of the Paris jazz festival.
Now do you see why I’ve been down in the dumps this week!
If you’ve already had your holidays then you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about, and if you haven’t……you are so lucky!
Life’s a Snore
- 7 Jul 07, 09:32 AM
Hands up all of you who snore. I must confess that I too have my hand in the air. Yes, I’m Kim and I’m a snorer. Indeed, according to my other half I snore like a ten ton truck with a dodgy exhaust. Trust a man to put it so tactfully and delicately. Particularly when he too could raise the roof with his noisy nocturnal snorting – but I’m not bitter. Actually it doesn’t really bother me because, to be honest, the Grimethorpe Colliery brass band could be playing in the room and I would sleep through it, euphoniums and all. But it does bother my delicate little flower – ha - and it has caused more than its fair share of grumpy morning moaning. I wish I could say that he’s exaggerating, but I know there are times when I’ve been snoring so loud I’ve actually wakened myself up – I can’t believe I just admitted that in public. And you know it’s always at its worse when you’ve eaten late, had a few drinks and you’ve rolled onto your back – which is pretty much all the time I’m in Paris, where, I fully admit, I am Snorzilla. What I hate most of all, and why I think I’m so touchy about the subject, is that it seems so unlady like - surprising when you consider that 1 in 10 women are big time snore hounds. But ultimately it’s still the kind of thing you associate with big, hairy rugby players rather than the refined fairer sex. Yes, when it comes to sleepy time I’m definitely more Brian O’Driscoll than Nicole Kidman.
Why I mention all this stuff about snoring now is that I read one of those surveys during the week giving all the usual facts and figures but with one notable addition…our snoring pets. Indeed 32% of the people surveyed said it was a huge annoyance – certainly gives a whole new meaning to the words ‘cat nap’. Although in my case I’m quite comforted by the fact that Ella, my canine counterpart in the snooze stakes, and I can snore contentedly together with no sniping comments from certain – people who snore in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones – quarters.
Actually I have now come up with a solution for that particular problem - I got him ear plugs, told him to dry his lamps and he is NEVER allowed to utter the ‘s’ word to me again. I’m off to Paris shortly so let’s see how long the snore truce lasts!
Sorry Spice
- 29 Jun 07, 01:10 AM
It was a sad and sorry sight to behold. Five women, fast approaching middle age, dressed like your next door neighbour’s teenage daughter on the pull. Obviously I am referring to the much anticipated, at least by the tabloids, reunion of the Spice Girls. Yes, ‘girl power’ is back in business and the ‘girls’, I use the term advisedly, are back on the road, ‘zig a zig ah’-ing their way across the globe on a 25 date tour reportedly worth millions. Of course if, in addition to the money, you also factor in the conspicuous lack of success of their individual solo careers it’s easy to see why those wannabes par excellence wanna give it one last go.
So here they are once more, about to commit mass murder on music and even worse crimes against fashion. Indeed, looking at today’s photocall the style police must already be getting out their handcuffs.
Let’s start with Mel B, the one time ‘Scary Spice’ who now has a daughter with movie star Eddie Murphy – it’s ok to talk about it now, it was all sorted out in court. She obviously decided to opt for the ever popular Parisian streetwalker look – tight red satin skirt, black bustier, acres of cleavage – very classy. One thing, she has clearly lost all her baby bulges because not even ‘magic knickers’ could conjure up that shape. This is in direct contrast to ‘Baby Spice’ herself, little Emma B, who still has a baby onboard and no doubt with the prospect of a tour looming, will have her personal trainer and dietician with her in the delivery room. ‘Sporty Spice’ Mel C was always the least attractive one, proving that the world of pop is just like school. Pretty girls always have one plain friend to act as a foil, remind them how lucky they are, and prove to the world that they aren’t ‘looksist’! Actually I thought she’d improved significantly with age, but then how could she not when she used to wear nylon shell suits and have a pony tail!!
Ginger Geri has swapped her famous Union Jack mini for a floaty, Flake ad maxi dress. Honestly, I kept on expecting her to break into song with “Only, the crumbliest, flakiest chocolate….”. But naturally I have saved the lousiest to last! Oh, Victoria, Victoria how could you ever have been known as ‘Posh Spice’ – isn’t irony a wonderful thing – and is that why you are frequently being hailed by Heat and OK and Closer as some kind of fashion icon. Do the editors of these so-called celebrity magazines need to borrow David Blunkett’s guide dog, or are they blinded by the bull about ‘brand Beckham’. VB may think she has an individual style, which no doubt her best friends D&G (Dolce and Gabbana) and D&E (David and Elton) like to encourage her with, but there can be no excuse for going out in public in black sequinned trousers sprayed on to her stick thin legs and a strapless black top that only just remains within the bounds of decency – talk about baps out! Oh her poor sons! I also defy any woman that thin, she’s got to be at most a size zero, to tell me that those boobs are not surgically enhanced! Forget M&S, Derren Brown couldn’t create an illusion that good, and you could practically see the outline of the silicone. Best of all, and ever the eager self publicist, Posh managed to have several shots of herself draped in the ‘stars and stripes’, an excellent career move when you’re just about to relocate to the USA and have your sights set on Holywood.
Still, I suppose if it’s what they really, really want then they might as well get on with it… it's just that we’re all going to be so sick of seeing them by the time they get to their next acrimonious split. Bring it on I say!
Oh, and before I finish my rant, I would just like to move effortlessly from pop to politics and say to Sarah Brown, wife of new PM Gordon, bin the cream and red suit. I know I implied that the Spice Girls had a touch of the slutty mutton about their reunion wardrobe, but it’s just as bad to be prematurely mumsy and middle aged. Remember, fashion faux pas are just as easy to commit at number 10 as they are at number 1…just ask Cherie or Cher, both fine examples.
A Lame Eggscuse
- 22 Jun 07, 09:21 AM
I was barely out of nappies when that late, great, grumpy, genius Tony Hancock exhorted the nation to ‘Go to work on an egg’. Despite being but a tiny tot I still have an extremely clear recollection of that cleverly conceived slogan by novelist Fay Weldon, herself but a cub copywriter for a London ad agency. Indeed I can hear it now, with its catchy little tune, playing in my head….”Go to work on an egg”….
So here we are forty odd years on and, nostalgia being the wonderful thing that it is, The Egg Information Service had wanted to screen the fondly remembered ad celebrating the finest hour of the oeuf, to mark its 50th birthday. That was until the Broadcast Advertising Clearance Centre, which regulates advertising standards and practice, blocked it on the grounds that it did not comply with Ofcom rules about promoting a varied diet. I say what a pile of chicken pooh.
I will admit that as nutritional awareness has developed over the last half century the humble egg has fallen in and out of favour, depending on which research study you read. However, what cannot be disputed is that an egg is completely natural. It has no preservatives, or added salt and sugar. It comes out of the rear end of a chicken and goes straight into the pot with very little interference in between. Indeed these days, because we are so aware of the shocking treatment of battery hens, we’re even eating organic free range eggs. And while we’re on the subject of chickens….you can turn on your tv at any hour of the day and night and see ads for every kind of processed, preservative laden, potentially life threateningly unhealthy (see Morgan Spurlock’s ‘Supersize Me’) fast food. Whilst it doesn’t actually say in the voice over “eat me every day” the implication is clear. Or what about breakfast cereal, which is often loaded with salt. Logic would dictate that if we eat breakfast daily then manufacturers spending millions on advertising would like us to start every morning with their particular bowl of goodness. So why not say “Go to work on an egg”. What’s the difference?
I could go on and on, but really the point I’m making is this. None of these things are bad in moderation, and even if they are surely we, as free thinking individuals, should have the right to choose whether we eat them or not. Let us watch the ads and decide for ourselves whether we want a lunch that’s ‘chicken, lickin good’ or an egg and onion sandwich. We don’t need some bureaucratic ‘big brother’ to tell us, and having a boiled egg with toasted soldiers for breakfast is hardly an issue of taste and decency.
So, in an attempt to champion the cause, I am now off to start my day with a healthy poached egg on toasted wheaten.
PS: How do you make a poached egg naughty? Put it on a toasted muffin, top it with crispy fried bacon, finish it off with lashings of creamy Hollandaise sauce and you’ve shamefully transformed it into my very favorite breakfast – and the only one to make an Ulster Fry look like the weightwatcher’s special – Eggs Benedict. I fear the yolk could be on me with that one!
A Hard Rain Falls
- 14 Jun 07, 12:30 AM
Monday 2pm: Am sitting in the garden, eating lunch under a Mediterranean style sun and getting distinctly pink around the edges. Am considering that if this keeps up I may well have a decent tan by the weekend, particularly welcome as I have been invited to several barbecues.
Tuesday 2pm: Am looking out at the same garden being washed away in a deluge of driving rain, a flood of biblical proportions. Expect at any moment to see Noah on an ark sailing down the street.
Wednesday 2pm: Am on the phone to the insurance company to find out if I can claim for the guttering torn from the front of the house, the leaking glass roof, the huge damp patch on the kitchen wall that has taken all the paint off and last, but by no means least, the three week old cream carpet that is now a sort of smudgy dalmation pattern thanks to the soot spots washed down the chimney.
Wednesday 8pm: Am at friend’s house for barbecue. Inside, eating grilled burgers while looking out at pouring rain. At least the dogs are hot. No tan.
Thursday 1am: Am drinking wine in continuing effort to drown sorrows and create own artificial sunshine in a glass. Apply fake tan. Write blog while waiting for lotion to dry. Still raining.
Not Such Divine In’spir’ation
- 8 Jun 07, 06:35 PM
Last night was so lovely that Ella and I headed off for a long walk along the lough shore at Whiteabbey. It was a perfect early summer evening, bright and balmy. We met my friend Carol and her dog, and as our two contented canines ran in and out of the water, we strolled along gossiping and enjoying that fine view of the Harland & Wolff cranes, looking particularly splendid against a rare, bright blue backdrop. Follow that with a nice, frothy cappuccino, a bit more chat and I am in fine form as I drive homeward in full admiration of the rosy sun setting on the city of my birth. But just as I am in danger of becoming excessively enraptured with the emerging skyline out pops a spike to burst my Belfast bubble.
Yes, I have caught sight of the sun glinting off that stainless steel darning needle sticking out of the top of St Anne’s Cathedral. I know it’s supposed to be ‘the spire of hope’ and I know that the sentiments and concept behind its construction are highly admirable, but architecturally it just doesn’t work for me. Admittedly it does reflect the colours and moods of the changing sky, then so does a window, and ultimately this still looks like an aluminium flag pole, or the aerial of a radio transmitter from a 1950’s black & white sci fi movie. But the question I really want to ask is would something this architecturally inappropriate ever be added to the Duomo in Florence? Would stainless steel sit upon the rooftops of Notre Dame? I don’t think so!
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I’m some sort of arch conservative. I’m not pulling a Prince Charles here and suggesting that there hasn’t been a decent building designed since 1840. Actually I happen to be a fan of interesting, modern structures when they add to their environment. I love the 'gherkin’ in London, the Velasca Tower in Milan, the glass pyramid at the Louvre, but this spire has no character. Yes, modern features can significantly enhance a more traditional building, but not in this case. Obviously this is just my opinion and maybe I have no imagination. I’m sure there will be many of you who love it and no doubt even I will get used to it in time. For now though let me stick with that picture in my head….a bunker, possibly somewhere under Donegal Street, with a lone radio operator, headphones on, looking at a screen, asking over and over again “is there anybody out there?”……
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