Woogie Woogie

The weekend got off to a cracking start with a visit to Wembley's renowned building site, with it's dusty arch of doom beckoning us closer to Duncan from Blue's spangly pants. Yes, you are most correct, we were there to witness Empress Bonnie Langford's crowning achievement, "Torvill & Dean's Dancing On Ice The Live Tour Featuring Andi Peters And His Leg". Yes, you are again most correct, once more the evil genius of Andi Peters has usurped poor, elderly Pip Schofield from his highly skilled presenting duties; and in the process ousted simpering Holly 'Chase That Wolf' Willoughby from her place at the right hand of Robin Cousins. But once Minogue & Madeley (as my deluded flat-mate likes to think of them) took to the ice, all was forgiven.

As if I didn't already feel as camp as the nasty judge in the polo neck, I was soon witness to the spectacle of Torvill & Dean whizzing round the glacial floor to the manly sounds of Queen. My gutteral roars drew the attention of the pre-pubescent girls and arthritic denizens of the row in front, but soon their itzy-ditzy lady-attention was drawn to the subhuman, boy-band skating contingent. My brother cheered on the one out of 2.4 children, sarcasm oozing from every yelp, my mother opted for Bonnie. The crowd favourite appeared to be Kyran Bracken, but as always mother knows best and the be-gingered one went on to triumph over her earthbound underlings. It was all over in a flash of sequins, so we wiped ourselves down with our already soiled tissues and went on our way.

We returned to London's West End, the scene of the early morning's frenzied pressie buying. Like an extended Dale's Supermarket Sweep, we had scoured the golden streets for suitable birthday booty, but now all we longed for was a drink to sooth our craving throats. Once inside, I was bitterly disappointed by the inaccuracies I spied in the food directory of the famous public house, The Clarence, deep in the wilting heart of London's Mayfair. Under the entry for Toad in the Hole was such a monstrous list of wrongness & tragedy, it brought a tear to my aching eye: a round (!) Yorkshire pudding; an unecessarily large Cumberland sausage plonked on top; topped with evil mashed potato; and then, as if that wasn't enough to chill your soul, drenched in a travesty of instant gravy. Now, in my rotund experience, this poor excuse of a recipe, a holey toad does not make. One does not build it like a Lego ham sandwich. The glistening sausage is baked inside the gloopy batter to create an integrated dish of intrinsic & exquisite beauty. I could do nothing, but to flee the premises in floods of glee, and retire to London's Berkeley Square to be comforted by the hideous silence emanating from the circling flocks of extinct nightingales.

Before hailing our homeward carriage we stopped at the headquarters of London's Battlestar Galactica for a draught of London's finest mass produced coffee. We kept a flinching eye on London's two mysterious strangers who occupied the comfy seats, suspiciously not appearing to touch their oversized mugs, just in case they were planning a criminal raid on our precious bodies. London's toilets seemed to be a popular venue as there were never less than three people loitering outside the slowly moistening door. The Clarence's lowly boglet was no less popular, requiring a twenty minute wait for a very sniffy man to exit before I could loosen my stiffening bladder.

We returned home to the dying minutes of the day, just in time to celebrate another anniversary of womb escapology. Representations of frogs and dogs and octopodes were sacrificed to the impending matriarch, but no cows. The revelries continued well into the morning, with the smiling ghosts of Josh Rouse and Torvill & Dean watching over our swimming minds and keeping our livers nicely pickled.


Currently listening: She's Spanish, I'm American by Josh Rouse & Paz Suay