A Glasgow Reunion

The last time I was in Glasgow was 1992. I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to make a return visit, but this weekend I popped back for a couple of days. It’s a great city and reminds me a little of Dublin. My weekend consisted mainly of art and movies, a delightful combination at any time. This weekend I enjoyed: meringues at The Willow Tea Room; paintings by the Glasgow Boys and discovering one of my favourite painters, Sir John Lavery is a Glasgow Boy; sensory overload at Kelvingrove; veggie haggis for lunch; Submarine and Paddy Considine in leather and a mullet; beautifully shot but dull Japanese film named after a Beatles song; more emperor’s new clothes in GoMA; bedroom pods with walls that change colour; breakdancers on Buchanan street; an animated lizard in a Hawaiian shirt and cowboy hat; seafood pasta at The Mussel Inn; the Glasgow Film Theatre; gin and tonics; DVD buying in Fopp.

Paddy's Day Blarney

As a nation, the Irish are renowned for their blarney. Ireland has a rich cultural heritage of the written word, going back centuries: From the Book of Kells, to stories from Irish mythology: Brian Boru and the High Kings, stories of the Children of Lir, Cu Chullian and Finn MacCumhain; Samuel Becket, James Joyce and Patrick Pearse; modern writers like Colm Toibin, Joseph O’Connor or poets like Patrick Kavanagh or Thomas Kinsella; and the chick-lit heavyweights of today like Maeve Binchy and Marian Keyes.

In celebration of St Patrick’s Day, I’ve been scanning my shelves for books that celebrate Ireland’s rich cultural heritage, from the ridiculous to the sublime. First up, ‘The book of feckin’ Irish Slang that’s great craic for cute hoors and bowsies’ is an education in the finer points of Dublin street slang. Here’s a selection:

Make a hames of / I will in me hole / Having a hooley / Howaya / How’s the craic? / Janey Mack / Jaysus, Mary and Joseph / It’s banjaxed / Yer wan / Wagon / Shenanigans / Ride / Jaysus I was scarlet! / Have a puss on / Nixer / Culchie / Langered / Bollixed / Gobshite / What guff / Go and shite! / Giz a gander / Fierce bad head / Go wan yer good thing / fooster / feck / deadly / I’m only coddin’ yer / that’s brutal / Acting the maggot / Ask me arse.

At the other extreme, the more sublime use of the written word is Irish poetry, two of its finest exponents being W B Yeats and Seamus Heaney. Here are two poems, the first by Yeats, probably one of his most famous.


'He Wishes For The Cloths of Heaven' by W B Yeats

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with gold and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths,
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.


'Digging' by Seamus Heaney

My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it                    

                      from Death of a Naturalist (1966)

Childhood Nostalgia

On Tuesday I rang in sick from work and spent most of the day in bed. Being ill when you’re an adult is nowhere near as much fun as when you’re a child. My abiding memory of being ill as a child is a bottle of Lucozade with the crinkly, orange wrapper and a damp, slightly grey flannel being applied to my feverish brow. An image that could have come straight out of an episode of Life On Mars. The modern adult equivalent of the Lucozade bottle, for me anyway, is the duvet, a pile of magazines and my iPhone.

In between struggling with a throbbing head and a compulsion to vomit, I spent the day snoozing, reading magazine articles and wallowing in nostalgia. One article, describing people’s food memories of home-made chutney and hand-written cookbooks, reminded me of my own childhood food memories, my Grandma’s cooking in particular. Like her mince and Yorkshire puddings, such legendary puddings that rose to perfection and stood towering in proud peaks, something I’ve never been able to replicate. Or the dried peas steeping overnight, ready to be made into mushy peas. The fish and chips we’d have every Friday without fail from the chip shop that is now a Chinese takeaway. Or the bacon sandwiches, such incredible bacon sandwiches. I can still taste them now, which is ironic considering I'm now vegetarian. The bacon sizzling under a hot grill and the sandwiches dripping with butter, that she kept in a dish by the fire. And the cherished monthly visits from the insurance man when the ‘best cups’ would come out with the Mellow Birds coffee and the Abbey Crunch biscuits, laid out on a plate. Or her freshly baked scones, hot and fluffy from the oven, oozing with melted butter.

By comparison, my mother has always been a somewhat reluctant cook. Despite her fascination for programmes on the Good Food channel - The Barefoot Contessa being a particular favourite – my mother is a functional rather than an inspired cook. My childhood memories are of baked cheese pudding on a Saturday night in front of the telly, waiting for The Generation Game to start. Or the shop-bought battenburg cake that I wasn’t that keen on, preferring to peel away at the marzipan coating to get at the pink and yellow sponge squares underneath. Frozen, re-constituted, re-heated, freeze-dried, processed food that defined everybody’s memories of food for anyone who grew up in the seventies. Findus Crispy Pancakes, Arctic Roll, Angel Delight, Dream Topping, Heinz Sandwich Spread, tinned chopped ham and pork with pickle or salad cream on white bread, Smash with baked beans and sausages, Heinz vegetable or oxtail soup. That's what I ate as a child. I tried Angel Delight a while ago, to see if it was how I remembered. It tasted just like 1976.

Usually, the first thing I look at in the magazines I buy is the recipe section. On this occasion, I flicked through the recipe pages looking, without much enthusiasm, at the recipes for ‘lazy lunches’ and ‘simple suppers’.  Forgive me if I sound too much like ‘a Northerner’ but I’ve always been a little bemused by the use of the word ‘supper’. When I was a child, supper meant cream crackers and a piece of cheese or a couple of Digestives on a plate before you went to bed. Not a bunch of rocket on a crab salad with a mango salsa dressing. Let’s keep it simple, people. It’s breakfast, dinner, tea and supper. You know where you are then…

Bhaji Trousers

This week I’ve been working in Edinburgh. The team Christmas dinner finally took place, delayed from December due to the bad weather. We also exchanged our Secret Santa gifts. My Secret Santa bought me slasher DVD’s: Switchblade Romance, The Baader-Meinhof Complex and Audition. My Secret Santa is also my DVD-pusher – we’re both film nuts and our conversation frequently veers off the subject of budgets and strategy documents into films and TV. I blame him for my addiction to Mad Men and Dexter. 

The Secret Santa and I went for a curry while we were in Edinburgh. Curiously, the next day I was reading Craig Potter’s Twitter page, when I saw he’d been tweeting #currysongs, which gave me quite a chuckle. Girlfriend In A Korma anyone? Or how about Tikka To Ride? Poppadum Preach, Korma Police, Bhaji Trousers, Raita Here Raita Now, Brothers In Naans, It’s Bhuna Hard Day’s Night, Tears On My Pilau. I love it!

In Dublin's Fair City

I’ve been in Dublin this weekend attending the Jameson Dublin International Film Festival.

I love Dublin. I’ve been going to Dublin for the past sixteen years, and even lived there for a number of years in the late 90’s. Being back in Dublin is like returning to my spiritual home. It's a place I'm very fond of and a place which holds very dear memories for me.

As an appetiser to the weekend’s festivities, I met a very dear friend for tea after she finished work. We headed to the Irish Film Institute (IFI) for gin, nachos and a good natter before I headed off to see the first of many films that weekend and she went to catch her train. Weatherwise, Saturday was a beautiful, sunny day. I’ve developed a bit of a photography bug and was itching to get out in the sun and take photos. The light shining off the Liffey and Ha’penny Bridge was simply breathtaking. I am rather pleased with how the photos turned out.

On Saturday afternoon me and three of my oldest and dearest friends spent a hugely enjoyable afternoon, having lunch, drinking cocktails and sharing wonderful conversation. I don’t think there is anything else I would rather do. I could quite happily drink gin until it came out of my ears and on Saturday afternoon, I just about did, with the odd Bellini thrown in for good measure! On Sunday I met up with more old friends and enjoyed wonderful food and conversation in their company. I love that no matter how long it is between us seeing each other, when we meet it’s like we only saw each other yesterday and we spent a pleasurable Sunday afternoon, talking about our mutual adoration of Mad Men.

Govindas is a vegetarian Hare Krishna restaurant in Dublin that has enjoyed quite a lot of my custom over the years. The food is delicious, with a special mention for the paneer cheese. A Govindas special for tea on Sunday seemed like the perfect ending to a perfect weekend.

My highlights of the weekend: the early morning sun shining on the Liffey and the river, like a millpond, reflecting everything back on the city; the Hugh Lane Art Gallery and an artist's emperor's new clothes; the Garden of Remembrance; weird Italian films on a Sunday afternoon in the Screen on D'Olier Street with no dialogue but an over-abundance of goats; the purty waiter in The Front Lounge with such elegant poise, magnificent quiff and a beaming smile; the girls together again like we'd never been apart; animated discussions about Mad Men and Joseph O'Connor books; a co-incidental meeting in a Church; goofy sci-fi films and men in anoraks; coffee and The Thirty-Nine Steps in The Winding Stair; snoozing in the cinema; a Bad Ass breakfast; the Blue Rinse ladies in the audience at the IFI; an early morning photography trip to the Northside; gin and tonics and belated birthday cocktails; conversations about crochet; a Govindas Special; gin, nachos and a Ken Loach film; a flea market and sparkly baubles in a former drinking establishment.

Pukka Tukka

Food has featured prominently this week and my eating experience has been one of extremes. It began with my resolve to use up all the food in my cupboards, with a detour mid-week into the world of fine dining and the culinary delights of a fancy London restaurant.

One of my aims last year was to eat at Fifteen, Jamie Oliver’s restaurant in London. This week I finally got around to it. My colleague and I, both of us work-stranded in London for a couple of nights and she, a self-confessed ‘foodie’ and Jamie devotee, leapt at the chance to indulge in a little mid-week treat. Coupled with the added, albeit remote, possibility that she might catch a glimpse of the great man himself (she didn’t), we left work early and headed off to North London. 

Fifteen is an unassuming place off a side street in Hoxton, but instantly recognisable if you ever saw Jamie’s Kitchen on TV a few years ago. The service is efficient and attentive – the wine glass was never less than half-full – and the food was delicious. I had buratta (mozzarella) with clementines and honey-roasted almonds, followed by Sicilian Fisherman’s Stew and finished off with chocolate mousse, vanilla ice- cream and honeycomb. My friend had crab on toasted sourdough bread, venison, and tiramisu with ice-cream. As a special school-night treat, it was decadent, delicious and well worth the price. 

At the other extreme, I started the week raiding cookery books and the BBC recipe finder to find ideas to use up the food that I appear to have been stockpiling for the past few months – like the glut of limes left over from Christmas, or the fish that’s been lurking at the back of the freezer for almost a year. Curious concoctions that actually worked. Swordfish with capers anyone? Or my old student staple – pasta with onions and mushrooms in a mayonnaise and ketchup sauce. Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it! If you have it, a tin of tuna makes a welcome and sophisticated addition! 

There is something simple yet comforting about making do with what you have. Fewer weekly shops. Only buying the essentials. It's relaxation with a pan and a wooden spoon! It’s also reassuring to re-discover the love for something - cooking - that until recently I had very little motivation for. Next week, haggis...