The pub can't even handle me right now

I love doing Christmas quizzes with my classes in school.

Although the entire cohort of my children are fully ensconced with the notion that Santa does not come down their chimney with his magic key, they are happy to play along with the remaining 59, 000, 970 of the population of the UK and throw themselves right into the party spirit.

The sheer magnitude of the yuletide season for me starts to throng around the 12th of December.

The usual garb of songs are bleating their way through the smooth, signal and heart FMs and through the sound system of many a boots, argos and clinton cards.

My best friend and I had an almost 2 hour conversation en route from London to the North West about which was our favourite of the Christmas songs and why.

We came to many conclusions.

People who write Christmas songs are married to women who get very excited by September and the royalties.

Christmas songs cannot be written anymore.

The only good Christmas song to come out of this decade has been Christmas Time (Don't let the bells end) by The Darkness.

People are forgiving when listening to Christmas songs.

If you listen to Shakin Stevens, Merry Christmas Everyone and you are standing opposite someone. You will eventually start dancing by moving forwards and backwards simultaneously. FACT.

What startled me was that for all the eons ago that some of these songs were created, my children in my class were not even born and neither were some of their parents. Yet when it came to my annual festive fun quiz. All of them knew who Noddy Holder was.
I even had a couple of little impressions thrown in the mix "miss it's him who screams ITZZZZZ CRISSSSSSMEEEEESSSSSSSSS"

Yep. The very one.

It would appear that for young people today, Christmas has a formula.

The weather.

Must be cold.

The trees.

Must be put up by December 1st.

The calendar.

Must have chocolate.

The presents.

Must have an i in front of them.

For teenagers and children today. The Christmas songs are now just part of their magic Christmas formula.

It just made me think how such modern day classics such as the Wesley brothers, Hark the Herald has now been ruined by Mariah, Destiny's Childs 12 days of Xmas and Christina Aguilera warbling her way through some carols.

I must admit. I dislike very few Christmas songs.

The one that does make me feel a bit green around the chops is a spaceman came travelling by Chris de Burgh. Not content with monopolising the commercial season of love with his smoochy slicked back, dry ice oozing classic lady in red. He created a rather unusual narrative documenting the travels of a UFO.

The video impales you with fluorescent green strobes and lots of mountain scenery. The flash photography warning has been omitted. Visions of heathcliff tearing wildly through the Yorkshire moors. And then you are smacked right in the ruud gullit with the la's.

And it went la la la la la la laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

If I were a gambling man. I suspect old CDB was veering towards the metaphor inside the music.

"twas light years since time his mission did start, and over a village he halted his craft"

Sorry Chris. Stick to the mothers day album fanfare.

Dreary.

Whilst I continue to pump out the yuletide merriment and fun in school time, I take time to also reflect on some of our unsung heroes of the sleigh time sing brigade.

Step forward, Harvey, Mortimer, Hendy and Coldwell. That's the lads from E-17 to you.

Yes siree. Stay another day is my guilty pleasure.

Although when I hear the crackled tones of the lads, I am also reminded of Mr Brian Harvey and his bizarre car accident in which he managed to run himself over...in ironically the East 17 district.

Reports from cockney reuters that day say "I’d been stuffing my face with jacket potatoes,’ said Brian Harvey. ‘They were big. I put cheese on, then tuna mayonnaise and I ate the lot.’



Not alrite.

Well folks.

It's been too damn long and I will be back with a Val Doonican spesh this week bringing you some more tales from the Christmas Crypt.

See you tomorrow door 15.

Go Nags

Goodbye BB.

Goodbye 2000 and all its little foibles and idiosyncrasies.

I have been a bit of a BB slut of late in that I have a tendency to dip back in and out of certain series.
BB4 will always be referred to by ardent BB-ers as the “lost years” when it all went a bit countryfile on us. We had some highs with BB8 with the likes of Rex and Mikey, BB5 legends Victor and Nadia and sheer brilliance in the Myra Hindley/ Camp Norwegian Spy and Deep Sea Diver relations between Anthony Hutton and Craig Coates in BB6.

What I do know, for the po-faced people who insult BB watchers as illiterate, uneducated, labour voting, vesta curry eating pondlife of society, there are lots of people who are extremely high brow who still watch it, like my good self.
Yes, it is full of idiots who are destined for the front cover of OK magazine or the Closer diet challenge but in times of people stuck down mines, cricket bungs, urban fox attacks, Peter Crouch being allowed back into Abbey’s arms we are all entitled to some fluff in our life.

Maybe it is just me who still finds it funny to envisage Craig from Big Brother One, body popping in front of the mirror singing to Madonna’s just like a prayer in his heavy scouse joiner’s lisp, or to see signs in the Big Brother crowd supporting Nadia Almada which read “Go Nads”.

Now tell me that is raw sewage.
And so to the daddy of all BBs: Ultimate Big Brother 2010.
Since the early days of the very clinical and unilever factory appearance of the first house with its whimsical mud painting tasks, we have been entertained over the years with some tasks which belie utter genius.

Housemates have been asked to drink pureed roast lamb dinners, punch their way out of human sized brown paper bags, ignore the obvious, lick thousands of crisps, eat shed loads of sprouts and the now legendary chilli task.
Enter 10 chillies hung on hooks in ascending order of strength. One glass of milk.
So for all you curry lovers out there who turn to a pint of water after a warm Jalfrezi, retreat now. The Capsaicinoids found in chilli peppers determine the heat of the food. Capsaicinoids are also not water soluble, so a little bit like a poo with the mass of a cork that won’t flush; they will remain tingling on your tongue for a good ten minutes or so.
And so bring out the milk which has milk fat and proteins which helps to neutralise the acidity of those pesky Capsaicinoids.

Number 1 is usually your archetypal Friday night in Wrexham Chilli, perhaps a Serrano. Smooth, bullet shaped. Five times the heat of a Jalapeno, guaranteed to get the bowels having a brisk workout.
Number 5 might see your housemate indulging in a Habanero “hab-an-yeah-row”. A close pal to the Na-Na- Notorious Scotch Bonnet, they are both equally fiery and likely to get the tear ducts flowing.
At this point you have to bear the housemates producing some serious stringy saliva and carrying out some serious blunders which would have Geoff Stelling hopping in his seat.
Eyes rubbing, tongue rubbing, in fact any body rubbing is out of the question here.
Some manage to have the minerals to reach number 10.

The Naga.
The Naga or “bhut jolokia” is hotter than Megan Fox and David Beckhams lovechild on an all expenses paid trip to the Sandy Lane Beach Resort with Simon Cowell.
The Naga is grown in parts of the UK which see some standard of decent weather, usually Devon and Suffolk.
Adrian Nuttall who grows the Naga’s at his Chilli Company in the deep sowf recommends domestic cooks to use latex gloves when chopping.
Capsaicinoids are kept in the oils which are split open upon chopping. One meeting with the skin and its Cap-ow suckers.

Chilli has been used in desserts for years in Mexico and we are now seeing this in our own chocolate in the UK. The Chilli Company have even started to produce a Hazelnut and Naga ice cream. Having a tongue like 10 emery boards and a stomach with the strength of hulk Hogan, I could take on a few Naga Cornettos no danger.
I feel a sense of melancholy sweeping across on me as I type this almost posthumously BB – Chilli inspired blog. I shall enjoy raising a glass of bubbly on the BB final night and say farewell to my formative twenties.

In the words of Mr Nick Bateman, you live by the sword, you die by the sword.

Herbal Remedy

A sucker for a gadget myself.

OK, so it looks like it has come from the Anne Summers "autumnal" range of sex aids, however this is a natty idea from Firebox.com at only £12.99 a pop.

I'm in.

Who hasn't bought a Coriander plant for a token curry only to find it shrivel in the faux heat of your kitchen.

Build me up buttercup indeed.

This device is ergonomicall designed to hold any sprigs upright in water- which can be topped up as necessary. It promises you the discerning customer to prolong the life of any cut herbs in your fridge.

As we feel that coolness of the British air and say goodbye to those halycon days spent in minorca with scott and joanne from southend and say hello to our extra vanity pounds, we are also able to embrace all the good things that come with September.

Get those forever growing rosemary sprigs cut up and in your rampant herb compartment and await to adorn them on a fine shank of lamb.

Welcome September.

One Happy & Excited Little Baker

Well.

The time has come.

The launch of my very own bakery project.

I welcome you all to the Happy Little Baker.

An edible annual of delectable pretty cakes.

Orders can be made via email @

feedmecake@thehappylittlebaker.co.uk

It's not easy being Green

Vegetarians.

I know a couple.

I also know a few plastic ones. "Yeah, I'm a vegetarian. But I eat fish sometimes. And......sometimes I eat Chicken, but only like once a year."

Yes. I know what it's like. Sometimes, David Beckham rings me up and takes me to Pizza Express once a week for Orange Wednesdays, every so often Beyonce rings me and asks me to go swimming with her at Darwen Leisure Centre and Brad Pitt also calls in to deal babysitting duties off me the first Saturday of every month whilst him and Ange hit the nearest Hogshead and Lava and Ignite.

It could not of course be further from the truth.

Being a Vegetarian requires a person to abstain from any meat, flesh of an animal, poultry, crustacea or shellfish of any kind.

The afore mentioned plastics, are what we know to be Semi-Vegetarians.

So let me get this straight.

I am for the sake of any arguments. A teacher. My requirements are to plan lessons, turn up to work on time, teach kids how to cook and learn about nutrition.

But, when the urge does not take me and I feel like perhaps forgoing my job, I could be a Semi-Teacher?

I have always been the kind of girl who is all or nothing. It is not one hob nob. It is the whole tube.

Being a Vegetarian would be hard sure. But spare a butternut squash and aduki bean spritzer for the poor blighters who choose to live by the real hardcore diets.

I am talking your fruitarians, nutarians, su-vegetarians (they believe it or not won't eat anything that smells of an onion or garlic). Eating a strawberry spag bol followed by a plate of pineapple mash and blueberry sausages would be enough to send Mr Del Monte himself down to the Dole canning factory for a few chunks.

I actually love Vegetarian food anyway. Meat and fish are too expensive for a single lady.

My friend and I toddled our carnivorous bodies off to Simon Rimmer's divine Vegetarian restaurant in Didsbury, Manchester last night.

Green's was first established back in 1990 when only 7% of our UK population would admit to be a Vegetarian.

Looking at the Veg busting stats for 2010, it would appear that the figure won't budge and there are still 7% of our population munching edaname beans and soya sausages.

Perhaps they are the same people, cryogenically preserved by anti-oxidants and flavenoids.

Green's are not only appealing to the V-fest around Manchestaaaa, but to a whole crowd of people who are either fans of Mr Rimmer and his cheeky and extremely amiable TV appearances and talents or his £15.95 for 3 courses and a glass of wine meal deal.

We, of the Semi-decent teaching salary brigade went for the latter.

A cosy dining room vibe. Deep, warm wooden flooring, chesterfield seating, Nina Campbell-esque wallpaper, ornate glass mirrors and trendy french looking waiters all sporting obligatory mancunian urban facial growth.

It was 6.30pm (15 minutes short of the meal deal cut off point) and we were in good company.

It's funny looking around a Vegetarian restaurant. For all they could know, I could have been a fully fledged Veggie since the late 80s, flying the flag for the SOS mix.

You don't go in KFC and look around wondering who the meat eaters are?

Our Waiter politely brought us both menu's over. Luckily the meal deal menu did not have old kent road style meals on it. I would have happily bought any of them. In fact, to monopolise them, they would be up there with waterworks or the electric company.

No one really knows how to operate them or would live in them, but you invest in them and slowly reap the benefits.

For starters we had the choice of red pepper hummus and pita bread, Greek salad or soup.

Hummus, no contest. Delicious. No meat cravings here. Looking like a well turned out wet sandcastle, it was juicy, salty enough and full of charred pepper goodness. The cheeky drizzle of basil oil was a pleasant added river to dip my pita in.

The mains were like offering a group of Saturday morning footballers Juninho Pernambucano, David Villa, Daniel Alves and Kaka as a back up sub.

I suppose being used to being offered savoury crumbles and lasagne's in your standard pub, it is a slight shock to the system when you find veggie options difficult to choose from.

Three bean chilli, aubergine Thai curry and sticky rice, goats cheese, celeriac and beetroot tarlets and cheshire cheese sausages with mustard mash and beer gravy.

Kappow, sock, boom hunters chicken and minted lamb cutlets!!

The aubergine curry was the sweet and sticky melee that I would have wanted. Heady, light and packed full of flavour, not to mention filling.

I suppose being good northern souls, we only felt it fair to the animals that we ate our puddings too.

Creme Brulee or Chocolate Pudding.

The health goddess in me said Creme Brulee.

A pot of amber glass staring back at me. Breaking in is always the party piece. Like stepping on a glass christmas bauble, it broke so beautifully and was perfectly burnt, cindered toffee heaven.

Underneath its frozen lake of cinder bobbed the gluggy mass of custard. I usually enjoy a much lighter and runnier Brulee. Don't get me wrong, it was as gorgeously delicious as a dessert could be and I ate almost everything apart from the 200 degree stained caramel dregs from the edges. But........and I hate like any Semi-Veggie likes to admit that they guzzle tuna butties.

Girl was stuffed.

Thinking from a scientific point of view, fibre tends to expand in your stomach and cause a feeling of fullness. I should have known such techniques from my weight watcher scoffing years. Those vegetarians aren't as hungry and deprived as we think.

It was around 8.30pm and we were finished. We were not court marshalled out by a prize growing leek or stoned by maris pipers to leave.

We were left to order another glass of Pinot G, listen to some Groove Armada and to enjoy the Vegetable buzz in the air.

I give Green the light.

Birthday Kake!

Whipped up a delicious batch for my sister's birthday yesterday!

Happy Birthday Kake!

Berry swirls.

Standard Cupcake recipe:

40g butter

120g Plain Flour

140g golden caster sugar

1 egg

120ml milk

1 1/2 tsp baking powder

1 tsp vanilla extract

1 tsp strawberry flavouring

Bung it all in a kenwood and blend until smooth.

Pour into a measuring jug.

Fill cases just above halfway

Bake in preheated oven at 190 for 15-20 minutes

mmmmmm yummy smell fills house

Make the buttercream by whisking all together and shove into a piping bag.

I used a thick star nozzle for these babies.

175g icing sugar

1 tsp strawberry flavouring

75g butter

silly sweets for good measure!

Get baking xxx

Mutant Pizza

Being sent a menu to pre-order your meal for the following week I always find highly intrusive.
They are basically pre-empting your exit before you have had chance to sit down and slightly absorb the ambiance.

Like people who choose to find out the sex of their baby and talk about it for the next 8 months, I don’t like to think about my food all week.

An Italian menu. Good start. The standard layout and choices. Girls tend to steer away from the meat and fish section. Firstly, it is too healthy and second, too damn expensive.

Pizza and Pasta may as well be the only choices to show us.

Most girls will choose pasta. It is safe. Pizza can say a few things when it comes to ordering in a restaurant.

You are an unpolished philistine with no social etiquette when it comes to eating out.
You are greedier than an urban fox sniffing around a KFC waste control bin.
You can’t read properly.
You could be pregnant.

I like to hold my pudgy fingers in the air and throw caution to the wind on this one as I flippin' 'love Pizzas and that is what I went for.
Essentially a very posh toastie, it is no nonsense. You don’t have to have a back catalogue of knowledge on the location of the ingredients, nor will it whiplash you in the face and smear sauce up your nostrils.
Some classic pub quiz trivia for you. Pizza owes its origin to Neapolitan cuisine and has been adopted in various bread guises across the world.
Now, if they were to ever bring back the game show You Bet! (without Matthew Kelly as he scares me somewhat) I would be able to compete on the topic of Pizza.
I would vouch for eating going on 2000 pizzas in my lifetime. I love everything that the Pizza stands for.
For those of you who are interested in its Etymology, the first recorded use of the word "pizza" dates from 997 AD and comes from a Latin text from the town of Gaeta in southern Italy. There are many varying stories from die hards from various Pizza Posse’s. Some believe it comes from the Latin word “pinsa”, the past participle of the verb “pinsere” which means to pound or to crush and may refer to the flattening out of the dough.

Some believe it comes from the Greek word Pita just for bread and there are even some cheeky Germans (they never retreat) who believe it is a derivative from their word "bizzo" which means bit or bite. H to tha bizzo indeed.

My piousness for Pizza can be traced back by Pizza anthropologists to my love of mini cheese and tomato Pizzas in my grandmother’s house in the six week holidays.
A chewy CD size of pale white dough, the bread looked like an aero when you cut into it with your knife. The cheese was the type although it had been under the glare of a 180 degree oven, it did not melt fully and still maintained a bulbous maggot appearance, similar to strands of all bran.
The tomato sauce was sharp to say the list; I would go as far to say that we were eating cheese and tomato ketchup on toast.
The advantages to these little babies were that you could essentially build your own Pizza on a daily basis.
Having a mum who worked in a supermarket also played a big part in my love of Pizzas. We were able to try all the latest imports hot off the conveyor belts of Chicago Town and Findus back in the day.

Mum worked at ASDA who had already cottoned onto the sheer magnitude of Pizza’s in the UK.
Soon our freezer was stocked full of French baguette style Pizza’s, Pizza pockets for the toaster no less. Both should have been banned under ISO 1001 for their different inflicting injuries on the gums and upper mouth.
The black orchid in our Pizza trail was back in 87’ when the world was a place full of Deeply Dippy, Respectable by Mel & Kim, Flipper on a Sunday morning followed by Batman and Robin and more notably to our household WWF and Teenage Mutant Ninja (now Hero) Turtles.
Part and parcel of being a younger sister to an older brother means that you have to learn to fit in with their chaotic lifestyle.
Being utilised in WWF knockouts in the front room was just one of the deal breakers. Yes, I have been involved in the Hart Foundation, The Colossal Connection, given an elevated walls of Jericho move whilst trying to be The Honky Tonk Man and also been impaled into the carpet after many a Tombstone Piledriver as he attempted to be the Undertaker.
After a good pasting from my dad (heavy duty brass wedding ring and all) WWF was given a timeout and the ring was usurped from under his evil clutches.

TMNT soon became our new fascination. I became particular enamoured by Michelangelo, developing quite the crush on our anthropomorphic buddies. I don’t know whether it was the fact that we were kindred spirits in our shared love of the party scene or that he made me laugh but I developed quite the crush on Mikey.
My brother was not so strange and just stuck to April O’Neill.

Again, another thing we had in common which could not be ignored was our love of Pizza.
The clever cads at ASDA decided to start knocking out some TMNT pizzas. Nobody to this day believes us, but you could get a sweet flavoured TMNT pizza which used chocolate spread on the base and marshmallows as the topping.
We were only ever allowed this on very special occasions. Essentially just nutella on toast with extra sugar smeared across it, this is Pizza Piety in its glory.
Now of course, like anything, I have had my poor Pizza’s. Over use of the dough, stingy on the sauce and oily flabby cheeses are guaranteed ingredients for a teenage dirtbag mutant pizza.
Over in Italy, Pizza’s are all a serious business and are recognised through their regions.
Sicilian Pizza has a thicker base, Rome like to make their bases as thin as crackers, Naples like a soft and pliable dough, Neapolitans stay true to their roots and will only produce two flavours, the Marinara and the Margharita. So staunch about their doughy discs, a Pizza can only be classed as a true “Italian Pizza” if it passes a parliamentary bill by the Pizza mafia.
Once snorted at as a peasant food, it was sold in the street and not even recognised as a dish to be made in a kitchen.

Early pizzas were covered in a white sauce as opposed to tomatoes. It wasn’t until 1889 to honour the Queen consort of Italy, Margherita of Savoy when a Neapolitan chef created the “Pizza Margherita” covered in tomatoes, mozzarella cheese and basil to represent the colours of the Italian flag.
My personal Pizza poison has to have a thin base, preferably with a Naples style chewy dough so that you can taste the pepper in the extra virgin oil. A good lashing of tomato sauce which is still perfectly pulpy bearing flavours of sweet San Marzano’s.
Toppings would bring out my wild Michelangelo side. Vivid orange sweet pointed peppers, soft and sweet artichokes, Milano sausage, capers, fresh red chilli, chilli flakes, a thin layer f patchwork mozzarella cheese and a shower of Pecorino Romano.

Now that’s what I call music 2010.

The pre planned pizza in question had all the pre requisites of my perfect pizza. The venue was Piccolino’s in Clitheroe. A pleasant and cheery restaurant chain from Manchester, it brings a slice of cosmopolitan neopolitano to the East Lancashire eating scene.
Packed with beautiful people quaffing the Italians champagne Prosecco, I was in good company with equally beautiful people.

My week old pre-conceived Pizza was plated up and it did not disappoint. The only problem was the age old routine of “I don’t need to eat a starter”...who was I kidding.
I decided to opt for a little dolce instead......being an official funder of the I hate Tiramisu/all coffee based desserts, I went for a little gelato instead. Ferrero Rocher to be precise.
The waiter was a cheerful soul, who embraced his charachtature of the Italian waiter with great gusto. He obviously fancied his chances as he questioned my choice of a dessert.
Pointing to his belly “you not afraid of diet no?”..........................
No mate, I’m bloody starving after that Pizza was his abridged version.
It is a good job I was steering off the Prosecco or he could have found himself entangled in some Sweet Chin Music, Shawn Michaels styleee.

All in all, a tidy little meal.

Shall I compare thee to an ASDA build your own Pizza??? Hmmmmm, purely for nostalgia, the pick and mix greed factor and the dessert comment, I am going to opt for our supermarket giant.

A Saturday lunchtime favourite from my region of the country is to whack some onion jam on a naan bread or pita, crumble over with feta or Lancashire cheese, decorate with spinach leaves and if I am feeling exuberant, some anchovies.

Mangiamo people!!!