The Boy Done Good.

Mr PBBB went to Brussels yesterday.  We all know what happened last time he went.  Yes, that's right, Brussels had 'run out of chocolate' and he brought me back a red pointy hat with a bell on it as a present.

So scathing was my reaction that this time he seems to have phoned in advance to double-check on the chocolate thing.

And he went not to any old sweetie shop but to Valrhona, King of Chocolate.  A whole goody bag stuffed full of les grandes crus chocolates.  Blocks of intense, powerful dark single estate Manjari, Tainori, Albinao and Guanaja, a box of assorted chocolatey delights and some decadent chocolate sauce.

His other bags are clanking suspiciously but I've pretended I can't hear. He's in the good books for the rest of the week.  Well, until Friday.

Writer Injured in Beer-Related Knife Attack!

If I was a log-keeping sort of person, yesterday I would have been able to log our first beer-related injury of 2010.  I aspire to be a person who keeps logs - I might make it a Newish Year Resolution.  My friend Mike has a log of all the books he's ever read which I think is a very good idea. Another friend Ann has a Book of Doom in which she writes all the transgressions - real or perceived - of her husband, Just In Case She Needs It.  It's quite a big book.

A log of drink-related injuries would be incredibly useful.  I could send it, for instance, to the people who compile all the dodgy statistics about the impact of binge drinking.  Because yesterday's incident was actually caused by them, not by alcohol itself, but more of that later.

We don't actually need alcohol to sustain many of the injuries at Beer Towers.  Mr PBBB is frequently shouting 'What now?' in response to a yell / squeak from another part of the house.  Usually it's something like smacking myself on the side of the head with my hairdryer or poking a mascara wand into my eye, but sometimes it's a spectacular smashing of my elbow into a singularly unhelpful piece of architraving or the ripping off of two fingernails trying to open the back door to let Captain out to pee.

I have to admit that not all of my injuries are sustained on the proverbial wagon.  There was the time I came back from holiday with a bruise on my arse so lurid that it apparently 'looked as though I'd sat in a punnet of blackberries'. If memory serves me right, that was thanks to a particularly toxic series of cocktails in a bar in Greece and my subsequent descent down a flight of concrete stairs with an amply cushioned but painful landing.  Then there was the Sambuca stigmata (easy to do if you haven't read the instructions), the dislocated toe (showing off by kicking a wheel, as you do), the traumatised cocyx (doing the can-can with both legs at the same time - people in Bristol still talk about it), a broken toe (dropping a particularly heavy glass on it whilst trying to drink some water to prevent a hangover - there's no justice) and a black eye sustained when I ran into someone's benignly outstretched fist during a fire alarm.

Reading back over this catalogue of disasters, I'm slightly surprised that a) I'm still alive and b) I haven't been tempted to seriously worry about my drinking and get my sorry (and bruised) arse off to an AA meeting, but there you go.  If the options were sensible abstinence or occasional memorable days lost in a mad, laughing, sociable, alcohol-fuelled ruckus with the occasional battle-scar, I'd choose the latter every time.

Anyway, back to the point.  Yesterday, STONE COLD SOBER, Mr PBBB sliced a big chunk of his finger and nail bed completely off.  Claret everywhere.  And it was all the result of a particularly irritating article about beer he'd been reading.  He was so incensed that he stormed downstairs to make a salad with the very expensive, desperately sharp Japanese knives that I'm not allowed to use without washing and drying them INSTANTLY. He banged open the fridge door, still muttering under his breath about the beer thing, threw down the spring onions onto the chopping block and decided that this was the perfect moment to try out some fancy new chopping skills.  It was still bleeding 3 hours later, but as he's from Barnsley he toughed it out with a sticking plaster.

So there you have it.  A completely sober drinking accident, thanks to the wankers with the dodgy statistics.  They should be ashamed of themselves.

Detoxtastic

Well that was a doddle. Only 3 days in and it looks as though the no wheat / dairy / alcohol / caffeine / sugar / red meat regime is working a treat (see below).  I also seem to have had my belly-button pierced which is strange, as I've always thought it was a bit chavvy.

Oh if only things were that simple.  With the Wii Fit still in its cellophane wrapper and my appointment with the chiropractor cancelled thanks to the snow, things have been a bit static at Beer Towers this week.

However we've been eating like detox vegan kings. This week we've had spicy split-pea soup (velvety and delicious), Lentil Shepherd's Pie (rich and satisfying) and Pete's Special Soup (we never ask about the ingredients - some things are best kept secret).

Today I continue my quest to cross Gillian McKeith with Fanny Cradock *shudder* and I've made the unlikely sounding delight of Cabbage and White Bean Soup. It's bloody lovely, even though it sounds like something they'd serve at a workhouse.  I urge you to try it:

Delicious & Healthy Cabbage & White Bean Soup
Finely slice 1 onion, 2 celery stalks and a whole white cabbage.  Put in a saucepan with a stock cube (I used a vegetable stock one but you could use chicken) and 1 tbsp vegetable bouillon powder (mine's a Marigold one - most health food shops and probably better supermarkets sell them).  Cover with water, bring to boil then simmer for 30-40 mins under all nice and tender. Add 1 tin of butter beans (drained), simmer for another 10 mins. Whizz with hand-held or food processor. If you can be arsed, sprinkle some parsley and fresh peas. If not, tuck in straight away. Mmm.  Feel that goodness coursing around your body. Hubba.


(Serves 4, courtesy of Gillian Bloody McKeith)

And no, we don't need a beer to match with it, but thanks for asking.

Wii Fat

There's no avoiding it.  2009, a year of book launches, comfort eating and trying to make a dent in Mr PBBB's beer cellar has had a supernatural effect on my wardrobe. All my clothes have shrunk. Even my magic pants.  Usually, wardrobe malfunctions are handled entirely by Mr PBBB who in the past has put both a silk chiffon beaded dress and a brand new set of Agent Provocateur bra and knickers in a hot wash. I was understandably more upset about the dress, Mr PBBB about the smalls.

This Christmas our present to ourselves was a Wii Fit. So far, Mr PBBB has managed to get Barnsley into the Pro Evolution Soccer play-offs by buying both Thierry Henry AND Wayne Rooney without actually breaking a sweat. Call me old-fashioned, but I suspect we have to physically unwrap and install the Fit software then actually USE IT (more than once) in order for it to have any real effect.

Tomorrow is the first day of our month-long detox.  It's the full bells and whistles one - no wheat, dairy, sugar, red meat, caffeine or alcohol.  And for every expert that says there's no point doing one, the benefits tell another story. We sleep better, wake refreshed and raring to go, any lingering eczema I have (*nice*) vanishes within days AND we lose on average between 7-12lbs each. Yawn.

To celebrate the last day of hedonistic living, we're having the best breakfast in the whole wide world. Smoked (spicy) sausage sandwiches (from a Welsh smokery) in freshly baked white bread (from the bagel shop round the corner) with brown sauce (from the Houses of Parliament).

I suspect that we're not going to a) create a decent meal from or b) actually get through the cheese-mountain, 6 mini mince pies, 3 yoghurts, remnants of sherry, couple of glasses of Baileys and half a bottle of very expensive red wine, 2 large bags of sea salt and balsamic vinegar crisps, what's left of the festive ham and the chocolate Scrabble game, but we'll give it our best shot.

Tomorrow we'll be busting out the quinoa, concocting bean stews, tofu stir-fries and pretending we quite like corn pasta, but today, it's sausages, beer and chocolate all the way...

My Christmas

I've only just discovered Wordle - it's great.  I did a beer one but deleted it sharpish. That way madness lies.

I predict New Year Resolutions going to pot if I bookmark it. 

And there really are too many resolutions, mostly involving how to avoid beer, to risk it.

Class of '09

We always say it, but it's true.  Hasn't it flown by?  This time last year we were still covered in builders' rubble after the reconstruction of our kitchen and bathroom and were incredibly stressed with last-minute unpacking of kitchen boxes, getting the industrial cleaners in and hiring the only vehicle left - a transit van - to pick my dad up from Victoria Coach Station.  


Exactly one year later, we've had an incredibly chilled run-up to the festive season which has been extra-magical thanks to the sprinkling of snow.  We've got a house full of delicious food and apparently there are a couple of cans of Fosters in the cellar if we run out of wine.  


The joy of having a relaxed Christmas will be offset by the deep sadness of missing my Dad, who passed away in February.  But the festive season isn't just about stuffing our faces and watching the Gavin & Stacey special.  It's time to reflect on Christmasses past, present and future (someone should use that as a story line, I think it might fly..) and we'll be doing just that, marking the first Christmas without Dad with a meal we couldn't have cooked when he was with us, stuffed with garlic ('ooh, not for me'), onions ('I love them but they don't love me'), spices ('I'd better not') and gravy ('it plays havoc').  


Mr PBBB is looking forward to what's already shaping up to be a busy, exciting and beery new year.  I've got a new project that I'm ridiculously excited about and which promises to keep me out of trouble for the foreseeable.


So with the fairy lights twinkling, Johnny Cash's Christmas Collection serenading me and a lunchtime Baileys by my side, I thought I'd join in the spurious-award-giving and bestow a couple of awards to people who've made the whole beer thing a little more bearable this year.


The Beer Delivery Award goes to our elderly next door neighbour who, frankly, is a lot stronger than she looks.  We regularly come home to find she's taken delivery of the latest box of beer and has lifted it in and out of her house and into ours.  She doesn't drink so she doesn't even have a vested interest. Together with the fact that she feeds the insatiable beast otherwise known as Fatbert the Cat (who, together with Mika, exists only to irritate Mr PBBB to the point of incandescence), this also nets her the Best Beer Neighbour of the Year Award.

Beer of the Year definitely goes to My New Favourite Beer which changes pretty much every week, but which this year has included Thornbridge Raven (for one night only, never to be repeated, thanks for asking), CrownBrewerStu's stonking 13% IPA that I think we're having for Christmas Dinner, Otley's Columb-O and the Flying Dog smoked beer which introduced me to smoked beer, winner of My New Favourite Style of Beer Award.

Brewer of the Year would have gone to Stuart Ross if he hadn't shouted 'Beer' every 5 minutes the morning after the Raven incident.  So it goes to Steve Wellington instead because he's responsible for the main ingredient of our Christmas pudding.  This is the same ingredient the Queen gets to use, so I'm bestowing upon myself the title of "Queen for the Day" which means Mr PBBB will have to act all Prince Phillip-ish and intermittently shout racist insults, which should go down well with the neighbours.

Beer writer and all-round good egg Jeff Pickthall gets the Best Beery House-Guest Ever Award.  Not only did he make his bed all tidy when he last came to stay, but he voluntarily loaded the dishwasher AND brought some Cartmel Sticky Toffee Pudding as a gift, thus ensuring free board in London for the rest of his natural born days.  Jeff, if you're reading this, you left 2 dodgy ties and your mobile phone charger in the spare room...

I'm giving 2 Best Pub Awards: the first to The White Hart in Stoke Newington, which combines great beer garden, excellent Sunday Lunch, shortest distance from home, dog-friendliness and suitably eclectic group of customers (a Peter Kay-as-pub-regular lookalike, some random celebs and the bloke who taught Angelina Jolie to rollerblade).  The 2nd award goes to The Charles Lamb in Islington, mainly because it's got the best pub dog in London.  Mascha (left) is an affectionate, slightly greedy 10-year old Staffie, who has special hand-painted signs dotted around the pub saying 'Please Do Not Feed Mascha'.   It's run by some really friendly people, the food is excellent and this year it was host to one of the best days of the year, a Hophead-fuelled riot of tall tales and side-aching laughing with Billy and Declan, stars of Three Sheets. 

Finally, 2009 wouldn't be complete without a Beer Husband of the Year Award.  This category, only having one eligible entry, wasn't the most hotly-contested of the bunch, it has to be said.  The only entrant didn't even complete his own application - I had to do it.  There were also a lot of points deducted from the overall score.  Points lopped off for endless yanging about neo-prohibitionism, Alistair Darling and supermarket pricing.  Lots of points lost for the moaning every time we've walked into a pub and there's only been one - or worse, no - handpull on the bar.  Several points hacked off for numerous trips in the car to the sorting office, only to find a parcel with a bottle of beer in it.  Another swathe of points gone for red pointy promotional beer hats with bells on, an overflow of promotional beer glasses in our otherwise stylish kitchen and Spitfire bottle-openers that scare the bejaysus out of me every time I use them (they make a noise like a, er, Spitfire which makes me duck).  


But despite all the deducted points, the entrant made up for it with his sincere  efforts to ensure that beer doesn't take over too much (that's 'sincere', not 'successful' by the way). For every beer event that I've been invited to and enjoyed, I had to add some points. The people I've met along the way who've become friends also ensured some extra points. And if I'm really honest, I have to acknowledge that the winning entrant has opened my eyes and taste buds to some beers that I now often choose over a glass of wine.  So for all of that, and the fact that on a good day, he's the cleverest, kindest and loveliest person I know, the Beer Husband of the Year Award goes to.... Mr PBBB.


And as the Awards come to a close, I'd just like to wish everyone a very splendid Christmas and a happy and healthy New Year.  

 

I thought we'd agreed...

I had this conversation with Mr PBBB last night, who'd chanced his liver on an event at The Rake and who was phoning me to announce his departure:

Mr PBBB: Hello I'm coming home now.
Me: Excellent.
Mr PBBB: It was a great event.
Me: Excellent.
Mr PBBB: I've got you a present.
Me: Is it beer?
Mr PBBB: Yes.
Me: .....
Mr PBBB: But it's your beer, I won't drink it.
Me: .....
Mr PBBB: I'll just get my coat.