We decided to go all posh last week, and buy our online shop from Ocado. Tesco had really annoyed me, by not only delivering me mouldy oranges one week, but by sending me further putrid fruit the following order!
Ocado source a lot of their food from Waitrose, which is very expensive. I needed to buy a couple of ready meals, which were of good quality, but not stupidly priced. I found some, which were 2 for £6. Not cheap, but considering some of the other ‘deals’ were priced at over £10, I had little choice.
While unpacking the shopping, Claire asked why I had bought gluten and dairy free food. I have no allergies and will generally eat anything, besides fish. It turns out the nice looking ready meals I had bought were for people with special dietary requirements.
Last night, I ate a Thai Green Curry. The last time I had one of these, it was nice and creamy. How could they make a cream curry with no milk? The curry was horrible, and the vast majority of it went in the bin. I’ve got a chicken tikka masala tonight – again, dairy free. I don’t have high hopes.
Last night, we went to The Mint Room for Claire’s Dad’s birthday. The Mint Room is a curry restaurant in Bath that I have often wanted to go to, but have never been given the opportunity. From the outside, it looks posh, expensive and nice, and inside was pretty much all of those things.
Whenever I visit a new curry house, I like to try my favourite Indian dish, the Chicken Tikka Masala. I like chicken, I like cream and I like the unhealthy looking bright red food colouring they always put in, making it look like bloody offal.
Sadly, I couldn’t find any Tikka Masala on the menu, so I went for another dish that I had heard of and could pronounce – Chicken Bhuna. We also ordered starters. I went for a vegetable samosa, although felt a little upset when I noticed rabbit was available on the menu. Eating such a cute animal should be illegal and right up there with selling human flesh. Needless to say, I didn’t order the bunny.
My samosa did arrive, with something I wasn’t expecting. No, not a rabbit ear. Alongside my samosa was two more! That’s right. My starter was three full-sized and very lush samosas. I was impressed and enjoyed them all, especially with the brown spicy sauce they had been dressed with.
While waiting for the main to arrive, a waiter approached our table and took the cider I was drinking. Most alarmed, I looked at him, questioning why my drink had been stolen. He went on to ask my age, much to the amusement of Claire’s Mum, who pointed out that I had long since celebrated my 18th birthday. He was still to be convinced, presumably confused by my young and youthful looks. Remembering a scene from The Inbetweeners, I even started to reason with the waiter, using a law quoted by Will to a barman, that it is legal for a 16 year old to consume alcohol if accompanied by a meal. Looking back, I should have probably just tried to convince him I was legally old enough to drink cider as a fully grown man, and not try to get away with being 16 years old. Either out of boredom, or just common sense, he eventually gave me back my cider and went back to serving other diners.
On the table opposite sat an American. Now I don’t wish to be stereotypical, but this man was “very American”. Anyone who has seen the Waldorf Salad episode of Fawlty Towers will understand what I mean by that term. He sat at his table, alone, before getting out his mobile, or cell-phone as he would call it, and making a telephone call not only loud enough for everyone in the restaurant to hear, but all the customers in Sainsbury’s across the road. After his conversation, he began to (loudly) explain to the waiter how he had been stood up by two colleagues (I have no idea why), but he would still like to eat. I don’t know what he ordered, as my food had arrived at that point. I assume it was Root Beer and Pumpkin Pie.
My meal was really well done. Really, really well done. However, I made a little mistake in my choice of dish. I normally go for a more creamy curry, and the Bhuna had more of an onion/chutney sauce. I managed most of it though, impressive for me considering I had just consumed three large samosas. Alas, the flavours got the better of me and I was forced to retire.
When I do return, and I certainly will, I’ll ask for a more creamy dish… and remember to bring ID.
It won’t be long before all my possessions are moved to the new house, including my freezer, which will have to be transported devoid of ice. Therefore, a large part of my diet across the next week is going to consist of frozen food. I’ll probably catch scurvy from lack of vitamins or decent sustenance.
Tonight’s pièce de résistance was Tesco frozen curry. As I had no rice, I added 4 mini potato waffles as a side.
There is still a lot more food to get through across the week, including an unhealthy number of Chicken Kievs in a variety of flavours. I like to maintain a balanced and varied diet.
I like a takeaway curry. Until a few months ago, I often went to my local curry house. However, it seems they had a health inspection and failed miserably. Not wishing to catch the bubonic plague from a chicken bhuna, I have avoided the place, until the hygiene rating is improved.
Saturday evening though, I was in desperate need of a curry, so, along with Simon and John, decided to go to The Shaad in Weston Village. This takeaway restaurant will only be a short walk from my new house and it has come highly recommended.
Whenever I go to a new curry house, I think the fairest way to compare it, is to judge a common dish available everywhere. The classic. The Chicken Tikka Masala. Chunks of chicken, soaked in a thick, red, slightly spicy, creamy sauce. It looks like bloody offal, but if cooked well, is delicious.
The Shaad’s offering was good. Very good. I will certainly be going back and next time, may be adventurous enough to try the balti!
After devouring my takeaway, I emptied the brown bag which it came in. The curry house’s answer to a party bag. Along with a paper hat, plastic toy and slice of birthday cake, it was full of the usual presents. A papadum. Strangely unpopular with many people, but I like them a lot. I ate my giant crisp for dessert. A frozen lemon full of sorbet would have been better, but I had no complaints. Then there is the customary pot of strange white fluid. Nobody knows what it really is. It nearly always ends up in the bin and this time was no exception. Last and by ALL means least is the small polythene bag full of lukewarm vegetables – again, whatever Indian restaurant or takeaway you visit in the world, your wonderful curry is always accompanied by a bag off this shit.
Overall, top marks for the curry, I always love papadums and would welcome a few more, but no need for the other free stuff.
I have come to the conclusion that my landlord has a voodoo doll. Not of me, but of my flat. Since advising of my imminent departure from the property, things have been going wrong – primarily with the bathroom sink. On Thursday night, the cold tap broke. It is completely knackered. You can spin it and it goes around and around and around. It makes a great spinning top, but you’ve got more chance of getting water from a stone in the desert. Never mind, I’m good at improvising. I’ll use the hot tap while brushing my teeth. True, I’ll risk third degree burns to my mouth and tongue, but I’m a daredevil and a menace to society – I just don’t give a shit!
Then, just two days later, the hot tap broke. I have no working taps in the bathroom. I know your typical bloke doesn’t wash his hands after going to the toilet, but as a rule, I like to clean myself after answering a call of nature. I was therefore left with the dilemma, wash my hands in the kitchen sink, which I thought was unhygienic in itself, or clean them under the shower. I chose the latter. Therefore, every time I piss or shit, I am forced to scrub my hands under a running shower. It is more difficult and messy than you could possibly imagine. Despite letting my agency know at the weekend, they still haven’t fixed it. The sooner I move out, the better!
As part of my moving out routine, I am cancelling all kinds of utilities and services. The latest one I planned to chop was Love Film. When I signed up, you used to be able to cancel online. Now, to make things more difficult, you have to call them up. It was obvious the operator was reading from a script, because he clearly didn’t know how to handle my reason for leaving – “there is nothing left on Love Film that I want to rent”.
OK, I was lying. There is, of course, The Best Of Neighbours: The Defining Moments, which I’m yet to acquire. Who wouldn’t want to relive Karl Kennedy’s affair with Sarah, and Susan reminding him of it every episode for fifty years. Madge dying. That was sad. Julie Martin dying. That was funny. Then there’s Bouncer the dog, who caught rabies, bit Lou, before being shot by Harold. So many memories. Some of them true, some of them made up by me.
Enough about Neighbours, I called Love Film to cancel my subscription. To cut a long story short, I haven’t. Anyone who has seen that episode of Friends (a show I used to love as a teenager and now despise now I have grown up), when Chandler tries to cancel his gym membership, will know how difficult it is. Basically, I signed up with them for another 3 months. 3 months for the price of 1, mind. I just have to remember to cancel in November or dirty Love Film and their tax-dodgy parent company, Amazon, win.
Last night I went out with Simon and John for curry in town. The Chicken Balti was really nice, the restaurant lovely and the company very good. My fellow diners were not so great.
A party on the opposite table were having a series of heated debates, talking so loud, that everybody in the restaurant could hear their conversation.
Fuelled by copious bottles of wine, the discussion hit a racist tone, leading us to believe it was a BNP AGM. It was so bad, they made Hitler sound like Martin Luther King.
I later learnt they were not racists, simply morons, who laid into everyone from “ginger tossers” to “fat, overweight twats”.
It seemed that the table of drunken upper-class toffs had a strong hatred for any human being not in possession of 3 Bentleys, a pony and the ability to talk with a punnet of plums in their mouth.
We left before them. I was tempted to say my goodbyes. I didn’t know them, but after having their whole nights conversation thrust upon my ears, I felt as if we had been part of the same gathering.
On this website, you’ll find me blogging (almost) daily about everyday life, living in Bath, working with computers, and the occasional bit of football stuff thrown in.
If you're expecting The Man Booker Prize, you've come to the wrong place. If you want to read a collection of sometimes eccentric, often disturbing and rarely amusing ramblings, gorge your eyes on this.