For Christmas, I received a selection of Nandos sauces. This evening, I decided to cook some chicken…
Shortly after getting up this morning, I covered two chicken breasts in marinade.
Half an hour in the oven, and this came out…
The chicken was transferred to a plate and vegetables added…
Very tasty it was too…
I didn’t lick the plate as the sauce was very hot!
This evening I went to Nandos. There wasn’t a professional football player in sight. I was very surprised.
You may remember back in the summer, the city of Bath became under siege from swarms of giant ants and a plague of noisy, defecating seagulls. Well now Bath has another menace on the streets. One that arrives every September. I am talking, of course, about students.
Now don’t get me wrong, most students are decent and respectable members of society. I was a student once. I went to Bath College and didn’t cause my fellow humans not partaking in further education any harm. When I wasn’t studying or in a lesson, which was most of the time (come on, I was a student), I could be found in McDonalds, KFC and Pink Planet Games Exchange.
Like I said, most students are OK. There are, however, some twattish students. For example, the ones on Newbridge Road last year. The group who have all night parties, dragging the speakers into the back garden, so they can feel the full force of the bass from The Sugarbabes, as they pass out from drinking an entire 8-pack of Brothers Raspberry Cider.
There was one of the annoying students in Nandos last week. There I was, enjoying a nice meal of peri peri chicken, when some arrived. What looked like an entire class of them. A full herd of students. A gaggle. They sat down and began to consume their chicken and free tap water (as is tradition). Then one of the students started talking. I say talking, it was more of a noise you would hear on a wildlife documentary presented by David Attenborough – a high-pitched, loud cackle. I believe the language being spoken to be English, as I could make out some of the broken-dialect above the drone. Most of the words from her mouth; nay, all of the words, were about herself, how great she was and how everyone should love her. I didn’t love her. I hoped she would choke on a chicken bone, but being a student, she could probably only afford spicy rice and a small side salad.
I received an email yesterday afternoon from Sky Bet. Not being a regular gambler, I would normally mark such correspondence as ‘spam’, deleting it from my inbox. However, in this instance I opened it. Inside was some waffle about a new online game I could play on my iPad. Blah blah blah. I read on. After lots of guff, I was informed I had a free £5 bet to use on this new game. Despite not knowing anything about it, I downloaded the application from the App Store and entered the promotional code for my free bet.
Having launched the application, I stared blankly at the game. It meant nothing to me. All I could see were some cartoons of jungle animals and strange symbols. The only button which looked like it did anything was one labelled ‘spin’. I pressed it. After a few flashes on screen and a roar of a lion, I was told I had won £41.25. Blimey. It felt like I had mugged an old aged pensioner. Considering Rupert Murdoch owns part of Sky, I suppose in a way I did.
Surely making over forty pounds is harder than that? I quickly deposited the money into my bank account. There was, however more of my free bet remaining. Again, I had no idea what to do, so I pressed ‘spin’ again. After another bizarre animal noise and onscreen animation, I was told I had won £14. This time I had taken candy from a baby – £14 worth of candy to be precise. Before the online police could catch me, I moved my latest winnings into my bank, before returning to the game for more money making enjoyment. This was getting fun. Alas, my free bets ran out. I had, however made £55 from Sky.
To celebrate me screwing over Rupert the Bear, I went to Bristol with Simon and John. Simon invited his friend along. He supports Tottenham Hotspur.
The first stop was Nandos where I had an adequate meal. Not shit. Not that nice either. Nandos is always good, but my chicken was a bit dry. Simon complained that I took too long eating it. I prefer to chew my food and not devour it whole, like a duck eating bread. The way Simon and John moaned about my speed of consumption, you would have thought I had taken a month to eat my chicken. While I ate my meal, and my friends moaned, the Spurs supporter sat quietly, presumably worrying about the future of Gareth Bale.
We left Nandos shortly after, although Simon and John would tell you that it was hours later, before driving to Showcase cinema. There is a Vue right next to Nandos, but that is overpriced and often overcrowded with smelly Bristolians.
It had already been decided we would go to see The Worlds End. I had no objections, so did what I was told and paid for my ticket. Simon had snuck a couple of bottles of Sheppy’s cider into the cinema. Considering they sell alcohol at the snack bar, I didn’t think there was anything morally wrong with this. It was just that we were getting a far superior drink for a greatly reduced price. Simon and I had two bottles between us, and had drank all but a few drops before the film even started. A stupid advert with David Beckham drinking espresso and wandering around in just his pants is enough to turn anyone to drink.
The film was OK. It had Simon Pegg and his fat mate in it. I forget the fat man’s name. I could look on IMDB for it, but meh. If you’re that interested, and you’re probably not, you can look for yourself… I just remembered… Nick Frost.
I thought the film was going to be primarily about a load of middle-aged men going on a pub crawl, with predictably hilarious results. It started off that way and yes, I found it rather funny. Then things got a bit weird and robots got involved, some sci-fi shit happened and I got bored.
My review of The Worlds End in just five words… “It was not Hot Fuzz.”
Cleethorpes Beach. The Worlds End.
On Friday I blogged about the fucking brilliant news that Ken Bates had left Leeds United. This morning I read the hilarious news that he had been sacked. I was lying in bed at the time, reading it on my iPhone. So amused by the story, I nearly wet the bed. According to the report, he was relieved of his “honorary president duties” for ordering himself a private jet costing £500k. Apparently he may now to sue us. Bring it on, I say. Leeds United’s managing director, David Haigh is a trained lawyer. Of course, if the matter can’t be settled in court, there’s always The Jeremy Kyle Show.
“Pull my finger”
Jaws
A few weeks ago, I noticed to my extreme excitement that Jaws was being re-released at the cinema. Jaws is my favourite film of all time. Sharks are cool and any film which involves a child being eaten alive in a brutal, gory death is always worth watching at least 50 times. Jaws was originally released in 1975, meaning I was born too late to see it at the cinema. Sadly, I also missed out on Manchester United being relegated the year before, not to mention the invention of the food processor.
I managed to persuade John to accompany me to the Showcase, bribing him with pre-movie visit to Nandos. After eating chicken, we went to the cinema, where tickets were purchased along with Ice Blasts. £3.60 each. Three pounds AND sixty pissing pence! It was only a few years ago, John and I would visit Showcase and be able to buy TWO Ice Blasts for a fiver. How things have changed. Bring back Tony Blair and affordable ice drinks.
Despite Jaws being by far the best film being shown in the entire multiplex, it was shamefully relegated to the crap screen at the end of the corridor. The floor was sticky, the room smelt of toilets and everything I moved on my chair, it squeaked. The screen was also very small. I could have just watched the DVD at home and sat close to my telly. I am sure a crap film written by Katie Price, featuring Miley Cyrus and a talking egg was being shown on the bigger, premier screen. Sigh.
So the movie. Without wanting to spoil it for you, it’s about shark. It eats a naked drunk woman. Then it eats a skinny child on a waterbed. Still hungry, Jaws, as I have named the shark, eats a man, but spits out his leg. A policeman, scientist and drunk sailor then go out to sea on small boat to kill the big shark. The drunken sailor gets eaten, no doubt saving on a future liver transplant, before the policeman shoots Jaws, who explodes while munching on an oversized tin of deodorant. You can see why it’s my favourite film ever?
There was a very scary bit in the middle where a head appears from a sinking boat. Having seem Jaws about five thousand times, I knew to the frame that the head as about to appear, yet still jumped out my skin, almost soiling myself in the process. The whole cinema knew I jumped too, as the squeaky chair I was sat on made an extra loud squeak as I bolted upright in fear. Apologies to my fellow cinema-goers for the noise…. and the smell.
England
I was planning on writing this blog on Sunday afternoon, before the quarter final against Italy. In the blog I would praise the effort, commitment and passion shown by the England team. A sharp contrast to the 2010 World Cup, where England players performed so poorly, they made me vomit with rage. The fact Italy dominated the entire match, apart from the first 10 minutes, and eventually won in the most typical of fashions – on a penalty shootout – means this blog is a little irrelevant now. Even so, my feelings towards the national side are a lot more positive and optimistic than they were two years ago.
I think John, who can’t stand football, summed up last night with his text message to me at full time. It read simply “Lolz”.
Crazy Italian
No, this isn’t a racial slur following England’s defeat to the vastly superior Italians last night. This is to celebrate the fact John, Simon and I returned to Bath’s finest pizza takeaway outlet on Saturday night. I say “returned”, I went there last week with Claire. In past weeks, the need was felt, not by myself, but by friends, to visit a nearby competitor. A vastly inferior pizza takeaway restaurant.
So why the “Crazy Italian” heading? Anyone who needs to ask that question clearly has not visited Pizzerella when it’s owner has been present – which is all the time. He’s a great man and a fantastic chef, but his staff must fear him. One piece of pepperoni out of place and he explodes. Passionate, but crazy. A great recipe for a good pizza.
A new member of staff was working in the takeaway. A woman behind the till. She didn’t know how to use the till and had to keep asking for help. My pizza cost £7.10. I will have to check my bank statement to ensure I wasn’t charge £710. I also asked for chilli on my pizza. She didn’t know what chilli was. I pointed to a notice board with the word “Chilli”. She said I would get chilli on my pizza. When I got home and opened the box, there was no chilli.
About Me
So you stumbled across my blog. No doubt after searching for something bizarre on Google. Before you hit that 'Back Button', why not stay and have a read for a few minutes?
If you are after a website which gives advice on how to hack an iPhone X, download the latest Steven Seagal movie, or view nudy ladies, you've come to the wrong place and may now press 'Back'.
However, if you would like a lifestyle blog, written by a 30-something chap, living in Bath (England), feast your eyes on this.
You won't discover how to copy PlayStation 4 games. What you will find is a blog, covering life in the West Country, the highs and lows of supporting two unsuccessful football teams, while sharing a house with a wife and rabbit.
All written by a man, somewhere on the sanity-scale between normal and eccentric.
