Slightly Askew

I’m a writer, so you won’t be surprised to learn that I’m often asked to write things.

And so I write something for someone, sweating over commas, conjunctions, but not exclamation marks (because they’re crap).  Then I present my work with a beaming smile, like a puppy that’s collected its first pair of slippers without pissing on them.

And then this happens:

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Someone’s lost their temper:

You’re a fucking dickhead.

Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares is a stunning programme.  Not for the culinary delights.  Not even for the colourful language.  But because it never ceases to amaze me how many people get caught in a cycle of stupidity and stubbornness.  Neither is a particularly desirable character trait; put them together and you’ve got dynamite.  And great TV.

How these people end up running their own restaurants is quite staggering.  They are a different class of idiot, in an environment that doesn’t suit them.

My career has led me into (and out of) the crazy world of restaurant kitchens.  They’re quite incredible places: drenched in grease, tension, and good humour.  Somedays you’d do so little, it’d barely be worth turning up for work.  We’d do the ’salad olympics’, with tomatoes and obstacle courses made from crockery and chopping boards, or just bodypop on flattened chip boxes.  There’d always be one day that made up for all those easy days, though; you’d work ten hours without looking at a clock.  You would, in the words of Ramsay, be fucked.

Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares takes me back to those days - without the long hours and shit pay.  I’ve got respect for Ramsay.  He’s worked for what he’s got - bloody hard too.  And he’s mastered his craft; perfected his skill.  Sure, he’s got a filthy mouth, but you need one - it’s the only way you can get your point across in some kitchens.

Don’t knock him until you’ve tried it.

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There was a time when pop was a dirty word - it was a vehicle to steal the pocket-money of gullible teenagers.  In recent years, however, we’ve been spoilt for choice.  From Busted to Girls Aloud and, more recently, Robyn, pop has bucked its ideas up and delivered us with the tunes that we crave so dearly.

There has also been many a time when a smug comedian has taken a pop at Ipswich.  Okay, so this part of the world hasn’t delivered much over the past few years - aside from a mass murderer, some bird flu, and a spot of blue tongue - but maybe things are on the up.

I used to live on a crossroad.  I didn’t know much about my neighbourhood, but I did know there was a gentle boy called James Severy who lived on the diagonal corner to me.  I didn’t know much of him either, to be honest, but I think me, and you, will be finding out a lot more about him this year.

Do The Circus Circus and other songs was released on Monday through the indie label Art Goes Pop.  After one spin of the three songs on the 7-inch, I’m hooked.  Anyone that can drop Las Vegas and amyl nitrates into a drooled rhyme has my attention.  Anyone that can write proper pop songs has my respect.  And anyone that crams three of the fuckers onto one piece of vinyl is getting my money.

It’s annoying that the A-side plays at 45rpm and B at 33rpm, but you’ll get used to changing the speeds because it’ll be in your record player for quite some time.

Proper pop music, from Ipswich.  Who’d have thought it?

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What is it with some people? People say I’ve got a big ego - but nowhere near as big as the audience members on light-entertainment TV shows.

Take for instance, the cringeworthy birthday tribute to Bruce Forsyth I’ve just subjected myself to. The producers get Jools Holland - a quite fantastic piano player - to make an appearance, and Bruce, being the all-rounder that he is, tickles the ivories with ol’ Jools in a pleasant, but frankly underwhelming, number.

Being they BBC, that have the black-tied orchestra in the studio to back them up. Quite a wealth of musical talent.

So why is it that the audience starts to clap along? Why do people do this?

Talented musicians get their performance murdered by a bunch of philistines intent on being heard. Talented drummers hear their intricate rhythms butchered by the sound of hands clapping to a standard four-beat. And barely in time.

No doubt, these are the same people that put blackcurrant in Guinness. That put lemonade in good wine. And feel the need to transfer their fish & chips to a plate. Stop it. Stop it now.

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It’s sometimes the little things.  Because little things often become generic things that everybody writes, or indeed has to write.

So when somebody pays attention to the little things, it makes you - the reader - feel loved.  Well I feel loved, so you can just go along with it.

A good friend of mine (via Caroline) is Zoe with an umlaut.  She gave me a couple of howies clothing catalogues to have a flick through.  Not because I wanted some new clothes, but because she was so impressed with the content.  They sell the brand without shoving the products in your face - which ain’t an easy thing to do.

But it was the last five words of this fascinating little booklet that caught my attention.  Buried at the bottom of the credits, the first three of those five words were pretty standard:

All rights reserved

It was the next two that made the drabbest of sentences gleam with pride:

All rights reserved and deserved.

Simple, but brilliant.  I s’pose that old phrase still rings true: take care of the little things and those bigger things will take care of themselves.

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