I thought I'd start writing the date in the titles of these posts rather than just the day of the week, as it has become a bit of a nightmare looking back over old ones when it's just a long string of Mondays, Tuesdays and so on. The first day of a new month also seemed like a good time to do it.
Ah. Now that's a real hangover. The AM suffering of the last two days has, apparently, just been a warm up for this one. Or perhaps what I'm feeling now is the aggregated punishment for three nights of highly irresponsible behaviour. I can't summon the wisdom to blame myself quite yet, though - at the moment it all feels like Old Rosie's fault. Or possibly Mike's.
I wake up on the sofa at around 7.30, with the lights on and some dreadful soap on ITV2. I have no idea why I was watching ITV2. I look around and notice my brand new netbook lying face down on the floor. I can only hazard a guess that I rolled in, started fiddling drunkenly with my fun new toy, then passed out and dropped it on the floor. Cursory, bleary investigation seems to show no damage to the computer - which is good; I'm like a pissed-up, one-man Gadget Show at the moment - so I head to bed, setting an alarm for an hour later. I'm expecting K back from Sonisphere later so I'll need to be up to clean and do the shopping.
I'm a little surprised, then, when K calls me at 8.2o to announce that she's on our street and will be in presently. Luckily, given my fragile state, she's in no mood to force me to start cleaning the house just yet - as she apparently had a couple herself last night too. Phew.
After moping around for quite a while, we eventually force ourselves to do the shopping and some basic cleaning to the flat. Needless to say, I feel terrible. No amount of food or fluids can alleviate my stomach ache and throbbing headache. Is this one of those real hangovers that people say you get as you get older? Or is it just because I've been drinking like a tramp for three days? It's very hard to say.
What's even worse is that our plans this afternoon involve going to the pub. Not planning to drink (or even feeling able) we get on the tube at around 4 and head south to Stockwell, where K's friend Tristan is running a kind of variety cabaret afternoon at the pub he manages. After walking through some oddly-residential areas in the unfamiliar surroundings of South London, we end up at The Cavendish Arms to see a stand-up comedian performing on a small stage outside the front of the pub. Stood in what would have been the car park, facing out onto the street away from the door of the small bar and surrounded by people, a man with a moustache sings a song about a panda (which, incidentally, I had seen on YouTube only a couple of days ago).
Other acts include a banjo player, some dancing children and a couple more singer types with acoustic guitars. Mike and Ant show up and eventually we're all having a nice time, even daring to sip on a couple of Kronenbourg tops. It's not a good idea - but it's taking the edge off the boozeache. This is the last of the drinking for at least a week, I swear.
During the headline act, we are given a startling image of the worst case scenario future should a life of drinking this much continue. As a young woman sings a funny song about advertising, an old man sat on a picnic bench in front of us suddenly projectile vomits pure cider some five feet in front of him, soaking the table and splashing onto his arm. Suddenly no one is listening to the song, rather staring and giggling at this horrible, pathetic and undeniably weird display of hitting rock bottom. He does it again, without facial or physical reaction, and is eventually led away from the pub by one of his reluctant mates. The singer/comedian does well to handle the moment ("Did you not like that bit, mate?") and it all adds to the surreal mood of the day.
I think the puking man is the wake-up call I need - for this week at least. Shuddering as I walk away, I'm already looking forward to a wholesome working week.
Tuesday, 3 August 2010
Saturday
I get up feeling, once again, less than clever - it's been a heavy few days booze-wise and I'm not sure whether the pace is going to abate any time soon. We have some breakfast and potter around for a while while K packs her bags and digs out her tent - she and Faye are off to the Sonisphere Festival at Knebworth to see the formidable Teutons that are Rammstein, among others. I chose to stay at home, partly because they're not really my cup of tea, but also because I know how easy it is to blow money at these things.
Ironically, in that sense, my plan for today involves heading into town with the express purpose of buying a new computer. I've recently come into a wee bit of money which I've set aside for this - and I've been thinking about buying a small netbook-type laptop for a while. It will be mainly for blogging and other general writings; I find myself increasingly frustrated that I can't get into the mood to write anything sat at my desktop Mac, which is in the kitchen. I'm also in K's way if she's cooking or sewing, so the idea of being able to be shifted around or taken on the train appeals to me. I realise I'm writing this as if I was the first person ever to consider that a laptop might be a great way of writing stuff on the move (and also the first writer to vainly plan to buy one 'to get more writing done on' while more likely sitting in front of the telly gazing blankly at Twitter) - but I've never owned one before, having previously dismisssed their relative lack of processing power and HD space to get nice big desktop machines. My iMac G5 is great, but the old girl's a bit unweildy for quick, mobile blogging.
I get on the tube with K and head towards town, and we say our goodbyes at Finsbury Park station. I get off at Holborn and walk up New Oxford Street towards Tottenham Court Road - the central London Mecca of technology shops. Having forgotten how hideous central can be on a Saturday afternoon I bundle my way through the crowds with gritted teeth and am eventually relieved to find myself safely inside one of the shops, chatting to an eager salesman. It's been a long time since I was 'sold to' - and this guy even brings out the classic "I use this machine myself" line on me - so I enjoy playing up my umms and ahhs in order to squeeze a free case out of him (having decided to go for the Samsung model he'd shown me some minutes before).
I walk out of the shop several pounds lighter (sadly not in weight) and walk down to Fopp, before dawdling generally through Soho towards the other end of Oxford Street. I have a little money left over from my netbook budget so I had planned to get a little present for K; and I fought my way through my least favourite part of Oxford Street to get to John Lewis. I can vaguely picture the bottle of a brand of perfume I know she likes - so I wander through the stinky fragrance section hoping that it will jump out at me at some point. Amazingly it actually does, and I'm relieved to head home with a new toy, a decent present and having survived Saturday shopping in the West End.
At home I get right on setting the computer up and installing the necessary evil of Windows on it, before heading out to meet Mike. Today, Mike and I are the only people either of us know not to have gone to Sonisphere, so we find ourselves in the odd situation of a one-on-one pub session. Luckily we usually have plenty to talk about, so I walk up through Crouch End towards The King's Head - and am startled to find myself ordering a pint of Old Rosie. The King's Head is one of the only pubs nearby that serves this vicious, demanding wench of a cider, so it seems the right thing to do to partake of at least one. Mike arrives shortly after, and feels similarly compelled - perhaps knowing that when someone else is drinking this 7.8% sui-cider and you're not, you're basically a pint and a half behind them all night.
We chat about various things from comedy to religion to girls and whatnot - and find ourselves a horrifiyng five pints of Old Rosie to the wind at some upsettingly early hour. Feeling in need of a change of pace, I suggest we cross the road to the Harringay Arms, where we are inexplicably joined by a group of middle-aged women out celebrating a birthday. I pop outside for a cigarette with a pint of Kronenbourg and return to find that Mike has "run home" (their words). Unperturbed by my apparent abandonment, I finish my pint before walking home listening to Radiohead's In Rainbows very loud in my headphones.
After grabbing a laughably unnecessary further can of beer from the shop on my street corner I arrive home - and promptly pass out on the sofa. Like a dick.
Ironically, in that sense, my plan for today involves heading into town with the express purpose of buying a new computer. I've recently come into a wee bit of money which I've set aside for this - and I've been thinking about buying a small netbook-type laptop for a while. It will be mainly for blogging and other general writings; I find myself increasingly frustrated that I can't get into the mood to write anything sat at my desktop Mac, which is in the kitchen. I'm also in K's way if she's cooking or sewing, so the idea of being able to be shifted around or taken on the train appeals to me. I realise I'm writing this as if I was the first person ever to consider that a laptop might be a great way of writing stuff on the move (and also the first writer to vainly plan to buy one 'to get more writing done on' while more likely sitting in front of the telly gazing blankly at Twitter) - but I've never owned one before, having previously dismisssed their relative lack of processing power and HD space to get nice big desktop machines. My iMac G5 is great, but the old girl's a bit unweildy for quick, mobile blogging.
I get on the tube with K and head towards town, and we say our goodbyes at Finsbury Park station. I get off at Holborn and walk up New Oxford Street towards Tottenham Court Road - the central London Mecca of technology shops. Having forgotten how hideous central can be on a Saturday afternoon I bundle my way through the crowds with gritted teeth and am eventually relieved to find myself safely inside one of the shops, chatting to an eager salesman. It's been a long time since I was 'sold to' - and this guy even brings out the classic "I use this machine myself" line on me - so I enjoy playing up my umms and ahhs in order to squeeze a free case out of him (having decided to go for the Samsung model he'd shown me some minutes before).
I walk out of the shop several pounds lighter (sadly not in weight) and walk down to Fopp, before dawdling generally through Soho towards the other end of Oxford Street. I have a little money left over from my netbook budget so I had planned to get a little present for K; and I fought my way through my least favourite part of Oxford Street to get to John Lewis. I can vaguely picture the bottle of a brand of perfume I know she likes - so I wander through the stinky fragrance section hoping that it will jump out at me at some point. Amazingly it actually does, and I'm relieved to head home with a new toy, a decent present and having survived Saturday shopping in the West End.
At home I get right on setting the computer up and installing the necessary evil of Windows on it, before heading out to meet Mike. Today, Mike and I are the only people either of us know not to have gone to Sonisphere, so we find ourselves in the odd situation of a one-on-one pub session. Luckily we usually have plenty to talk about, so I walk up through Crouch End towards The King's Head - and am startled to find myself ordering a pint of Old Rosie. The King's Head is one of the only pubs nearby that serves this vicious, demanding wench of a cider, so it seems the right thing to do to partake of at least one. Mike arrives shortly after, and feels similarly compelled - perhaps knowing that when someone else is drinking this 7.8% sui-cider and you're not, you're basically a pint and a half behind them all night.
We chat about various things from comedy to religion to girls and whatnot - and find ourselves a horrifiyng five pints of Old Rosie to the wind at some upsettingly early hour. Feeling in need of a change of pace, I suggest we cross the road to the Harringay Arms, where we are inexplicably joined by a group of middle-aged women out celebrating a birthday. I pop outside for a cigarette with a pint of Kronenbourg and return to find that Mike has "run home" (their words). Unperturbed by my apparent abandonment, I finish my pint before walking home listening to Radiohead's In Rainbows very loud in my headphones.
After grabbing a laughably unnecessary further can of beer from the shop on my street corner I arrive home - and promptly pass out on the sofa. Like a dick.
Monday, 2 August 2010
Friday
Today starts with a bang - or, more accurately, a banging headache. I feel atrocious, as well I deserve having rolled in to the house at 2.15am on a school night. Tsk tsk. Nevertheless I still have to go to work and I invoke me and Jess's patented Frankfurt Technique for coping with hangovers (e.g. not whining and pretending it's not there). My day improves though when Jess recommends somewhere to take K for dinner by the name of Byron, an apparently impressive chain of American burger restaurants, one of which is based on Upper Street. K seems up for the idea, so after work I get the tube to Highbury & Islington and walk down to Angel for the second time in a week.
It's a bit different this time, though, mainly because Upper Street is immensely busy on a Friday night, something that is easily forgotten during the week when it's relatively tame. On the way to Angel I meet K almost exactly outside the restaurant. It's relatively easy to miss, which is weird as the name is painted in massive letters across the front; though you can't see these when you're on the same side of the road. It looks like an old shop that's had the innards taken out, leaving exposed walls, flaking paint and bits of old tiling where we're sat upstairs. The waiting staff are mostly nerdy American kids, which is fun, and we order our bacon and cheese Byron burgers along with onion rings, fries and coleslaw - and a couple of beers, of course. The food goes down incredibly well and sees off the last of my hangover (funny that).
After the meal we get the bus up Holloway Road to the Big Red to meet Big Nick, Little Nick, Ant, Tim and Little Nick's extremely pregnant wife, Lucy, who sadly has to leave very shortly and drive to Andover. We only stop for the one pint - the boys have been in there for some time - and eventually get back on the bus and head to Crouch End and the comfortable, cosy Harringay Arms. It's what most people our age would refer to as an 'old man pub', but it's just a very friendly place with cheap beer and a grotty but servicable little smoking area. Unusually for me, especially given last night's excesses, I'm still up for another drink when chucking out time comes around - so we head round the corner to Kiss the Sky, a frankly rubbish little cocktail bar that has the sole redeeming feature of still being open.
We have one more pint and eventually K and I say our goodbyes and wander home. Neither of us are particularly drunk, I suppose because we filled up on grub before we started drinking, but we're both surprised that we're still up past 1am. Usually I'm moaning and dragging her home well before then, even on a Friday.
It's a bit different this time, though, mainly because Upper Street is immensely busy on a Friday night, something that is easily forgotten during the week when it's relatively tame. On the way to Angel I meet K almost exactly outside the restaurant. It's relatively easy to miss, which is weird as the name is painted in massive letters across the front; though you can't see these when you're on the same side of the road. It looks like an old shop that's had the innards taken out, leaving exposed walls, flaking paint and bits of old tiling where we're sat upstairs. The waiting staff are mostly nerdy American kids, which is fun, and we order our bacon and cheese Byron burgers along with onion rings, fries and coleslaw - and a couple of beers, of course. The food goes down incredibly well and sees off the last of my hangover (funny that).
After the meal we get the bus up Holloway Road to the Big Red to meet Big Nick, Little Nick, Ant, Tim and Little Nick's extremely pregnant wife, Lucy, who sadly has to leave very shortly and drive to Andover. We only stop for the one pint - the boys have been in there for some time - and eventually get back on the bus and head to Crouch End and the comfortable, cosy Harringay Arms. It's what most people our age would refer to as an 'old man pub', but it's just a very friendly place with cheap beer and a grotty but servicable little smoking area. Unusually for me, especially given last night's excesses, I'm still up for another drink when chucking out time comes around - so we head round the corner to Kiss the Sky, a frankly rubbish little cocktail bar that has the sole redeeming feature of still being open.
We have one more pint and eventually K and I say our goodbyes and wander home. Neither of us are particularly drunk, I suppose because we filled up on grub before we started drinking, but we're both surprised that we're still up past 1am. Usually I'm moaning and dragging her home well before then, even on a Friday.
Thursday
Necessity means that I must head into Wood Green at lunchtime, specifically the glorious Shopping City, to pay in a cheque and do some present shopping. It's Alex's 24th birthday today, so obviously I head straight for the Toy City toy shop to try and find a hopelessly tacky present for her. There's no point buying people good stuff for their birthdays (meaning that it would require too much thought, and I prefer to do that kind of thing at Christmas.
Accordingly, I opt for a box of colouring pencils (she's currently doing more drawing), a satin pirate's eyepatch and something called a 'Plate Lifter' which is basically a tiny whopee cushion attached to an equally tiny pump. Apparently you put one end under a table cloth and 'astound your friends' by using air to make the plate move around on its own. I am immediately suspicious of its efficacy - but tickled by the idea that anyone would find this impressive (or even astounding), even if it worked brilliantly.
After work, having wrapped the present expertly, Alex pops round and we walk up to The Queens to meet Will, along with Alex's friends Duley and Sam. We have a few pints in the 'beer garden' (not so garden-like these days) and Alex is delighted with her ridiculous presents. The eyepatch is passed around and photographed - and when we try and amaze Will with the Plate Lifter, we struggle to get it to move even a sheet of A4 paper. The effect is almost imperceptible - the idea that it could make a plate dance as implied in the charming illustration on the packet is brilliantly laughable. At any rate we never got to try a plate - the thing broke after around five minutes.
At kicking-out time we walk back over to the Turnpike Lane area, unwisely picking up a bottle of wine along the way, which we drink at Alex's house while listening to music. It's very late when I finally get back, once again much to K's disappointment. Tomorrow's dinner better be brilliant...
Accordingly, I opt for a box of colouring pencils (she's currently doing more drawing), a satin pirate's eyepatch and something called a 'Plate Lifter' which is basically a tiny whopee cushion attached to an equally tiny pump. Apparently you put one end under a table cloth and 'astound your friends' by using air to make the plate move around on its own. I am immediately suspicious of its efficacy - but tickled by the idea that anyone would find this impressive (or even astounding), even if it worked brilliantly.
After work, having wrapped the present expertly, Alex pops round and we walk up to The Queens to meet Will, along with Alex's friends Duley and Sam. We have a few pints in the 'beer garden' (not so garden-like these days) and Alex is delighted with her ridiculous presents. The eyepatch is passed around and photographed - and when we try and amaze Will with the Plate Lifter, we struggle to get it to move even a sheet of A4 paper. The effect is almost imperceptible - the idea that it could make a plate dance as implied in the charming illustration on the packet is brilliantly laughable. At any rate we never got to try a plate - the thing broke after around five minutes.
At kicking-out time we walk back over to the Turnpike Lane area, unwisely picking up a bottle of wine along the way, which we drink at Alex's house while listening to music. It's very late when I finally get back, once again much to K's disappointment. Tomorrow's dinner better be brilliant...
Wednesday
Tonight, for the second time in as many weeks, we are off to see Richard Herring do stand-up. This one is slightly different; while a couple of weeks ago we saw him MCing a show that was ostensibly Stewart Lee's gig, this is one of the final previews of his revived Christ on a Bike show before the Edinburgh festival - which seemed like a cool opportunity to see a full Edinburgh comedy show for a cut-down price.
After work I head to Highbury & Islington station, enduring the appalling heat of the Victoria Line for a thankfully very short ride, and walk down Upper Street to meet K at Angel Station. I'm a little early, so hang around with the large group of fellow waiters that always seem present outside this presumably quite handy station. After around 20 minutes of hanging around I get a call from K saying that due to various tube rubbishnesses she's stuck at King's Cross, so I make my way towards the pub where the gig's being held and plan to meet up with her along the way.
We get to The Compass just as the doors of the small function room are opening and take a seat on high stools at the back of the room. The place is absolutely boiling and, predictably, the window next to me is the one that doesn't open. MC Tiernan Douieb informs of this horrible fact just as the show starts - pointing out that it's not actually as hot as the previous night. Not terribly comforting, it must be said.
Before Herring comes on there is an Edinburgh set from Canadian comedian Pete Johansson, whom I hadn't heard of before, but who turns out to be very funny. His material ranges from the quite silly to the really rather dark, and amusingly at the end of the show he asks the audience if he went too far - perhaps hoping to protect his proper Edinburgh audiences. The folks at this show are fairly unanimous that the material was fine.
Herring finally appears at around 9.30. I had brought my copy of his book along, hoping to get it signed (not something I had ever done before but it seemed a good opportunity), but never really found the moment as he wandered around the venue, seemingly busy. The show, which focuses on Jesus and the myths and truths of the 'historical Jesus' is very funny, and has clearly progressed even since the small snippet we saw him do in Shepherd's Bush and the little bits he tried out during his As It Occurs to Me podcast.
It all comes to an end at around 10.30, and after donating a couple of quid to Scope (a tradition at Richard Herring gigs), we head out into Islington in search of food and maybe another pint or two. Unfortunately it's a little late for food, and both being a little hungry and grumpy from the extreme heat in The Compass, we get into a bit of a row and ride home on the Victoria Line in a bit of a strop - mostly revolving around the fact that the gig had taken up too much of our night to fit in dinner and drinking too. We're mostly OK by the time we get home - but don't really eat anything and go to bed less than 100%. I promise to take K for dinner on Friday night instead!
After work I head to Highbury & Islington station, enduring the appalling heat of the Victoria Line for a thankfully very short ride, and walk down Upper Street to meet K at Angel Station. I'm a little early, so hang around with the large group of fellow waiters that always seem present outside this presumably quite handy station. After around 20 minutes of hanging around I get a call from K saying that due to various tube rubbishnesses she's stuck at King's Cross, so I make my way towards the pub where the gig's being held and plan to meet up with her along the way.
We get to The Compass just as the doors of the small function room are opening and take a seat on high stools at the back of the room. The place is absolutely boiling and, predictably, the window next to me is the one that doesn't open. MC Tiernan Douieb informs of this horrible fact just as the show starts - pointing out that it's not actually as hot as the previous night. Not terribly comforting, it must be said.
Before Herring comes on there is an Edinburgh set from Canadian comedian Pete Johansson, whom I hadn't heard of before, but who turns out to be very funny. His material ranges from the quite silly to the really rather dark, and amusingly at the end of the show he asks the audience if he went too far - perhaps hoping to protect his proper Edinburgh audiences. The folks at this show are fairly unanimous that the material was fine.
Herring finally appears at around 9.30. I had brought my copy of his book along, hoping to get it signed (not something I had ever done before but it seemed a good opportunity), but never really found the moment as he wandered around the venue, seemingly busy. The show, which focuses on Jesus and the myths and truths of the 'historical Jesus' is very funny, and has clearly progressed even since the small snippet we saw him do in Shepherd's Bush and the little bits he tried out during his As It Occurs to Me podcast.
It all comes to an end at around 10.30, and after donating a couple of quid to Scope (a tradition at Richard Herring gigs), we head out into Islington in search of food and maybe another pint or two. Unfortunately it's a little late for food, and both being a little hungry and grumpy from the extreme heat in The Compass, we get into a bit of a row and ride home on the Victoria Line in a bit of a strop - mostly revolving around the fact that the gig had taken up too much of our night to fit in dinner and drinking too. We're mostly OK by the time we get home - but don't really eat anything and go to bed less than 100%. I promise to take K for dinner on Friday night instead!
Tuesday
In-keeping with the vague new fitness regime (which this weekend's boozing definitely wasn't), K and I are off for a swim after work for the third week running. She is much better than I at sticking to routines - particularly ones that are a good idea and don't involve any booze at all - and so it seems to be better for me that I carry on going with her. This also means that she'll bollock me if I try and wimp out and that's the best motivation for continued exercise I can think of.
I walk up through Priory Park and arrive at the pool at around 7.30, coincidentally just as Faye is leaving and making her way back to our house for dinner. After chatting with her for a bit, K turns up and we join the ridiculously long queue at Park Road Leisure Centre. This place, I have thought before, is run by morons - and it's incredibly frustrating to be stood in a queue 15 people long while the staff chat and joke among themselves behind the counter while a single person actually mans one of the many unused tills. The patrons aren't much better, however - with a couple of them choosing to argue the toss about having to have had an induction before using the gym for the first time.
I'm not in the best mood when we finally head into the pool, especially when an awful family sit and stand arguing in the gap between the changing rooms and the suana - none of them even bothering to swim; I'm sure it would be the same scene outside some ghastly pub were this Friday rather than Tuesday. Is it really the prospect of exercise that's making me so intolerant of the people here? I'm sure I could do this every day if it weren't for the appalling public.
I set myself a modest target of 30 lengths (K does twice as many and makes me slightly ashamed to be in the slow lane with the old people and the other lardy folk) and am totally exhausted by the end of it. I'm encouraged by the fact that I reached my target, as well as the fact that I'll surely get better with practice. The fact is that, despite being unfit, I'm also not a particularly strong swimmer and I'm not too keen on being underwater at any point - meaning I mostly flap and flail about in the water like a startled cat with a broken neck.
We finally tire and head home through the park which, despite the threat of rain, is a very nice way to walk on a summer's evening and get home with the prospect of a healthy dinner ahead of us. It's only one day a week at the moment - but I definitely feel better for getting a regular workout these days. It's just the days in between I need to work on now.
I walk up through Priory Park and arrive at the pool at around 7.30, coincidentally just as Faye is leaving and making her way back to our house for dinner. After chatting with her for a bit, K turns up and we join the ridiculously long queue at Park Road Leisure Centre. This place, I have thought before, is run by morons - and it's incredibly frustrating to be stood in a queue 15 people long while the staff chat and joke among themselves behind the counter while a single person actually mans one of the many unused tills. The patrons aren't much better, however - with a couple of them choosing to argue the toss about having to have had an induction before using the gym for the first time.
I'm not in the best mood when we finally head into the pool, especially when an awful family sit and stand arguing in the gap between the changing rooms and the suana - none of them even bothering to swim; I'm sure it would be the same scene outside some ghastly pub were this Friday rather than Tuesday. Is it really the prospect of exercise that's making me so intolerant of the people here? I'm sure I could do this every day if it weren't for the appalling public.
I set myself a modest target of 30 lengths (K does twice as many and makes me slightly ashamed to be in the slow lane with the old people and the other lardy folk) and am totally exhausted by the end of it. I'm encouraged by the fact that I reached my target, as well as the fact that I'll surely get better with practice. The fact is that, despite being unfit, I'm also not a particularly strong swimmer and I'm not too keen on being underwater at any point - meaning I mostly flap and flail about in the water like a startled cat with a broken neck.
We finally tire and head home through the park which, despite the threat of rain, is a very nice way to walk on a summer's evening and get home with the prospect of a healthy dinner ahead of us. It's only one day a week at the moment - but I definitely feel better for getting a regular workout these days. It's just the days in between I need to work on now.
Monday
We are reliably informed that the new series of Man vs Food starts tonight on the Good Food channel - which immediately appears to be a complete contradiction in that Man vs Food is a celebration of all that is revolting, offensive and bad about the things we as a species do to the stuff we use as fuel. If you haven't seen it before, it's a well-padded 30 minute show following a chubby, likable New Yorker as he takes on the ridiculous over-eating based challenges present at, seemingly, most American restaurants and sporting arenas. In one of the episodes I had seen prior to tonight's new one, he took on a six-pound burrito at the Nascar Cafe in Las Vegas (man lost, in more ways than one). It's compelling, disgusting television that represents all that makes people want to fly aeroplanes into the financial centres of the Western world. It's also, fortunately, rather funny and impossible to stop watching.
Before tonight's episode, Rick pops round so that K can alter a football shirt for him - an Aston Villa shirt that he has to wear for a stag do, apparently - and so joins us for Man vs Food while K sweats over a hot sewing machine. Tonight, "Man" (I think his name's Adam) is at a baseball ground somewhere in the Southern US, warming up for an enormous burger challenge. This particular "burger" is in fact five one-third-pound beefburgers on a one-pound bun, covered in nacho cheese, chilli, tortilla chips, salsa and sour cream. It sounds as awesome as it is an affront to all that is right and true about the world - and sure enough Adam ploughs through the giant bastard with aplomb.
Afterwards Rick heads home, and K and I sit down with Faye (our house guest for the week) to watch the new episode of Mad Men, something we're even more excited about than Man vs Food - albeit in a very different, less voyeuristically disgusted way.
Mad Men, as ever, exudes class and quality writing from the beginning - bringing us back into the story around a year later as the new ad company is getting onto its feet. Don Draper is just as magnetic and combustible as ever and there's some brilliant one-liners from the rest of the excellent cast. As we're following it through US broadcast dates, it's going to be weird watching this series week-by-week, having previously been able to session several episodes in a row. As with Sherlock last night, truly great TV like this is evidence that 'event television' still exists and should be savoured.
Before tonight's episode, Rick pops round so that K can alter a football shirt for him - an Aston Villa shirt that he has to wear for a stag do, apparently - and so joins us for Man vs Food while K sweats over a hot sewing machine. Tonight, "Man" (I think his name's Adam) is at a baseball ground somewhere in the Southern US, warming up for an enormous burger challenge. This particular "burger" is in fact five one-third-pound beefburgers on a one-pound bun, covered in nacho cheese, chilli, tortilla chips, salsa and sour cream. It sounds as awesome as it is an affront to all that is right and true about the world - and sure enough Adam ploughs through the giant bastard with aplomb.
Afterwards Rick heads home, and K and I sit down with Faye (our house guest for the week) to watch the new episode of Mad Men, something we're even more excited about than Man vs Food - albeit in a very different, less voyeuristically disgusted way.
Mad Men, as ever, exudes class and quality writing from the beginning - bringing us back into the story around a year later as the new ad company is getting onto its feet. Don Draper is just as magnetic and combustible as ever and there's some brilliant one-liners from the rest of the excellent cast. As we're following it through US broadcast dates, it's going to be weird watching this series week-by-week, having previously been able to session several episodes in a row. As with Sherlock last night, truly great TV like this is evidence that 'event television' still exists and should be savoured.
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