Slightly Askew

My nephew, Bradley, Christmas 2007.

My nephew, Bradley, Christmas 2008.

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At 8.26pm UK time today (Thursday, 15 January 2009) I was sat in my bedroom browsing the internet. Just round the corner, the Co-op was preparing to throw out today’s newspapers. It shuts at nine.

In New York City, it was 3.26pm. US Airways 1549 was taking off. Minutes later, it suffered some FOD – that’s foreign object damage, kids – thought to be a flock of birds ingested in the engine. It lost power, and ended up crashing into the Hudson.

All 148 passengers and five crew are thought to be alive and well.

I know this because of this article, found via my iGoogle about half an hour ago.

What will tomorrow’s newspapers say? Will they have the full story? Have they gone to print?

The real question, of course, is does it matter? My blog is reporting this news before it’s in newsprint. Little old me in Ipswich. With a silly blog and a Macbook and an internet connection.

Printed newspapers are dying a miserable death. If you needed it, this post is your evidence.

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Pic by -nathan.

I think I’ve decided (hardly a victory for my decisiveness) to get an iPhone. Not only am I a recent Apple convert, but how can you watch those TV ads without looking at your current phone and feeling inadequate? You can’t. You feel like the boy in the corner of the pub with the ugly girl.

So I phoned Vodafone for my PAC or PUK or FUKU code. And, of course, they asked me why I wanted to leave for networks new. “I want an iPhone,” I said. No longer would I sit in pub corners.

And, of course, they told me not to leave. “Stay with us,” they said. “We’ll save you £15 a month.” Which is sort of true, but mostly bollocks because I wouldn’t be saving any money by staying. I’d just be on the same tariff, instead of the iPhone’s more expensive one. Vodafone hasn’t saved me a sausage.

They also offered me The Brand New Award Winning Blackberry Storm. It’s better than the iPhone, so they helpfully tell me. I know it isn’t. They do too. It’s all a bit embarrassing when people have to pretend something is better than it actually is. Like sending your ugly girlfriend for an expensive haircut before you to take her to the pub to sit in the corner.

Vodafone is due to phone me again tomorrow, with my PAC or PUK or CNUT code. I’m looking forward to the same tedious conversation. The customer retaining bit of the call centre is obviously the coolest area. You can tell. They’re steaming with confidence when they call – like they are The Cellgods, and us mere mortals just tap numbers and reduce ourselves to winky faces.

Which is fine, but ultimately these Cellgods have no power. “Send me a Playstation 3 and I’ll stay,” I said. “Erm … no,” they replied. “We couldn’t possibly do that.”

Look at the maths, though, and it’s barmy – surely? Thirty quid a month contract for the next ten years is £3,600. A Playstation 3 is less than a tenth of that. Makes sense to send me one, I think. And it’d mean I could play Little Big Planet instead of despairing about the ugliness of my new non-iPhone.

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Pic by Dominic.

What are the rules for hating old people? Is it allowed? I hope so.

Okay, so hate is strong word. But Sainsbury’s quite clearly mark the basket-only checkouts with big pictures of baskets. So when the old couple with the trolley sneaked in front of me and my four items, my gasket prepared itself for a big blow.

But what could I say to these rule breakers? He may have fought in the war; she may have Dug for Victory. I’d no chance of gracing the higher ground (and checkout position) I craved.

I was about to say something when I noticed their ally. Her Daily Mail gave her away. She glanced at me from the adjacent queue, ready to phone the Evening Star – and maybe even her rag of choice – should I even question the heroes that were slowly unloading their trolley, checking each item as if they didn’t remember putting it in there. They probably didn’t.

They weren’t cheery old folk. Not like my nan. She’s always a jolly old soul. They looked like miseries, but I’m prepared to accept that everyone in Sainsbury’s looks pretty much the same miserable way.

And since these geriatric nutters were happy to break the checkout rules, where would they stop? Rules meant nothing to them. They could be armed. I could be gunned down by these lawless fogeys. In self defence, whispered their ally, in my head.

I drifted off in a wave of absurd thought. Moments later, I was jolted back to reality by the familiar call of the Sainsbury’s droid.

“AffyougottaNectarCard?”

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After my killer butternut squash soup recipe a few weeks ago, here’s another from the Slightly Askew kitchen: Lamb Meatballs in Passata with Spaghetti.

Cut up some red pepper, red onions, mushrooms, and a cheeky green chilli.

Take some lamb mince; mine’s from Sainsbury’s – but you can go somewhere horrible like Asda.

Rip the crust off a slice of bread and chuck it in a blendy slicey thing. This makes breadcrumbs.

Put your mince, breadcrumbs, and some of the green chilli and red onion in a bowl. Add a truck load of seasoning, and mix it all up. Go on, do it with your hands.

Roll the meat into balls to make meatballs. There’s a fair chunk of common sense in this cooking malarkey.

Close up! They look a bit like brains, don’t they.

Fry those meatballs ’til they go a beautiful brown.

Add some passata. Er… from a jar.

Heat up the passata in the pan with the meatballs. Chuck in the mushrooms and red onion, as well as the rest of the red onion and green pepper.

Serve on spaghetti. Wash down with a Rioja.

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Sometimes a change of name is a chance to show the world who you’ve always wanted to be.

And sometimes it’s just a chance to adopt a meaningless palindrome because a marketing consultant told you having a name that included a city in the UK probably wasn’t a good idea for global domination.

The tiresome pursuit of excellence strikes again.

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