Best before...?

Firstly - 'hello blog'. Crikey, it's been so long since I last posted, the World has changed a great deal. Birmingham City got relegated, tornadoes, floods and earthquakes have happened and the price of cider has increased. All major events indeed. Suffice to say, I am ashamed at my lack of textual input these past months. Maybe it's an age thing. Or possibly that I just kept forgetting that I actually had a blog. Either way, I've written sod all since last September and that's a shame because all sorts of berserk things have happened to me during my blogging absence.

Well, enough reminiscing about the recent past (although I must tell you about my mental arm-agony that I had to endure in the winter, sometime) and on to today's interesting life event. My good lady decided to avail herself of a small snack earlier in the evening. This was not a good idea because I was at work and thus not able to provide my usual 'health and safety' style checks on her savoury sustenance. Now don't get me wrong. She is no simpleton. No dunderhead. She is actually infinitely more intelligent than I am. Proof of this can be provided by reading the title of her dissertation that she wrote whilst at university - 'Equations of length seven over free groups'. That's pure maths. And no, I have absolutely no idea what it means either but I do know that it's immensely complex and you need to have a brain the size of Chad to understand it all.

So it's all the more curious then that, given her intelligence, she managed to scoff an entire bag of cheese Doritos that were seven months out of date. That's a 7 by the way. Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that not seeing the 'best before...' label on a packet doesn't mean you are stupid. I agree. However, this packet was vegetating right at the back of a dark, hard to reach cupboard. This would have provided most people with a small clue as to the age of the item. Furthermore, we haven't bought cheese Doritos for months. Another fairly large clue. To be honest if I found an unexpected item of food lurking at the back of a dark cupboard on a rarely used shelf I think I would have at least a cursory glance at the 'best before...' bit on the packet. But that's just me.

The good news is that she ate the Doritos three hours ago and she's still alive which is, of course, great. However, if she awakes in the night, gasping for air, clutching her stomach and asking for a priest, I may have re-write this last bit.

And maybe instead of 'best before...' a label saying 'worst after ...' would be a bit more effective.

A slice of bad luck

Picture the scene: you're enjoying a bit of James Bond on DVD (Casino Royale no less), with your best friend. You've enjoyed a fab, gut-busting meal and the world is a happy place. Then you decide to make it just that little bit more perfect. Melons. Yes, you suddenly remember that you have a ripe one, nestling in the fridge between the Onken yoghurt and the 2 litre bottle of Strongbow. I'm a classy geezer you know.

So, without a moment's thought, the DVD was paused (no, not the bit many of my female colleagues get all excited about - Daniel Craig emerging from the sea in his pants) and I leapt over the sofa, did a forward roll into the kitchen and threw open the fridge door with gay abandon. Er...

Seconds later, the juicy melon was at my mercy, held down upon the chopping board by my manly hand. I whipped out my knife and got to work. Slice after dripping slice of sweet melon fell away as I powered through the powerless fruit. The it happened.

I think I may have said something along the lines of "OH F*CK!". This was because, in my haste, I had almost sliced the end of my thumb off. That knife was terrifically sharp and I had sliced two-thirds of the way through the tip of my innocent finger. The second I felt the blade slicing through one of my favourite digits, I knew I was in trouble. Bravely, I called out to me lovely friend that I was in a fair bit of pain, before almost fainting. Well, when I say fainting I mean that my natural defence system kicked in and decided that the best way to help me would be to make me sweat profusely, develop tunnel vision, tinnitus and a desire to rest my head on the cold floor. I obliged.

After several agonising minutes and a fair amount of horror-film-style blood splattering (the bottle opener and salad bowl took the brunt of it), my friend had stemmed the flow and helped me administer a rather nifty looking bandage. I knew my First Aid training would come in handy one day. Finally, we cleared up the red mess, tidied up the blood-soaked pieces of kitchen roll and headed back to the telly to resume our film. Then I remembered the melon.

Look, you have to get your priorities right. I may have nearly lopped the end off my thumb, experienced exquisite pain and bled like a halal pig, but food is food. Just because you've suffered a major, life-threatening trauma (am I exaggerating a tad?), it shouldn't mean you have to neglect your tum. So I zipped back into the kitchen, grabbed the plate of succulent (and blood-free) slices and returned to Jimmy B and his trunks. Life was once again, good.

But now I have a phobia of melons. The fruit that is.

Capers and such like

Do you ever wish you liked a food, but didn't? But wish you did? Even though you didn't? No? Well I do. There are at least three foods that I didn't like but made myself like them because, well, they just looked so much fun to eat.

The first one is .... celery. Yes I know. People think it's dull and that it takes more calories to eat it than it actually contains. Aside from all that though the reason I yearned for celery so much was that it just looked so crunchy, easy to use and brilliant for scooping up yummy stuff like houmous, peanut butter and salsa dip. When I first tried it, naked ... er, the celery was naked, not me. Or was I? Anyway, the celery was 'au natrel' and I thought it tasted like crunchy water. But I was determined to be a 'crunchy dunker' and I persevered with the little green stalk until I finally came to love it's fresh, bland taste. I always remember one summer's day, when I was but a child, my dad sitting in the garden, his belly button full of salt and him dunking his celery in it... Aaah memories.

My second hated food was .... olives. When I first tried an olive, the taste made my mouth feel violated. I thought they were disgusting. But olives just seemed to be the darling of the social event. They were, and still are, bloody everywhere - parties, restaurants, pubs and clubs. And they're just so, well, handy. Easy to nibble on their own or with a plate of exciting goodies. I needed to get to like olives. So I re-visited them and discovered that black olives tasted rather like metallic courgettes diced with a little bit of cat vomit but if I had them with something else they were bearable. Admittedly, I had to eat them with things that helped disguise the flavour slightly. Cheesey Doritos worked quite well, but eventually I had to 'go it alone' with an unaccompanied black olive. I liked it. The next step was to tackle the gag-inducing green efforts. Surprise surprise. My black olive training had taught my taste buds to actually enjoy the weird flavour imparted by olives. I loved the little green buggers. Then I discovered stuffed olives: pimento (what the hell IS pimento?), almonds, anchovies, sun-dried tomatoes and more. Nowdays, there is always a jar of fat, stuffed olives lurking in my cupboard.

My final challenge was .... beetroot. I blame my schooldays for my acquired abhorrence of this stupid-coloured vegetable. They used to put beetroot in loads of meals and as the meals themselves were generally unfit for human consumption, the lowly 'beet' quickly became associated with all that was vile, inedible and an insult to all things cullinary. Plus, I thought that beetroot was just showing off, by bleaching it's sodding purple-ness onto every other foodstuff on my plate. There's no need for that is there? Then, one day, about 25 years after my last beetroot-infected school dinner, I was treated to a delicious meal which was essentially a fresh tuna salad (I'm dangerously obsessed with tuna by the way) that also contained, dear God - beetroot. Unfortunately, I wasn't in a position to grab a fork and flick the offending bits into the nearerst bin/flower pot/pram and so I had to actually eat the stuff. It was delicious. It was amazing. It was beautiful. It was angelic. It was ... purple heaven. All these years, I'd shied away from, despised, loathed and reviled beetroot. And there, in one glorious moment, I discovered that it was, in fact,delicious. And did you know that if you eat enough of it, it can even make you wee go pink, which is always a hit at parties. Bonus.

And so, my life, like my tum, is now fuller because I made myself like three foods which I had just naturally avoided or disliked. I can't imagine not enjoying them again and know that I will always be happier for including them in my diet.

Capers however are rank. They taste like soil, laced with battery acid and covered in algae. They actually make me want to be sick. So why then, did I buy a jar, specifically to include in a tomato salsa recipe, as part of a meal from a Jamie Oliver cookbook? Because the recipe said so. I had faith in Jamie 'Olive-Oil". I truly believed that, despite including the single most revolting food item know to humanity, the recipe would just work. I really believed the flavours of all the ingredients would work in perfect harmony and produce a salsa of such joy, taste and sensation, I would actually need to spend some time alone for a while. I was wrong. It tasted of soil, laced with battery acid and covered in algae, but with the addition of garlic and onion. I felt my intestines trying to force their way up my oesophagus in a bid for freedom. The evil, hateful, murderous capers had invaded and pillaged all the lovely flavours from my salsa and killed them in cold blood. Well, a tomato-based juice actually, but you get my point. So, I tried. I really tried to like capers. But no. Capers are horrid. Truly awful. Utterly repellant. They are wrong!

But the jar's still in my fridge and I'm afraid. Very afraid.

Stag don't

There are certain rules which apply to Stag do's.
1. Get drunk
2. Get a stripper
3. Get the groom tied to a lampost
4. Get a curry
5. Get home alive

I went to a Stag do the other week. We ticked off rules 1, 4 and 5. Sadly, the nearest thing to a stripper was when one of the party allowed his arse crevice to become visible when he bent down to pick up his fag. The lampost thing was a non-starter due to a lack of rope/gaffer tape/cable-ties/Rapunzel's hair.

However, we triumphed on the curry front. Until we began singing. We had been drinking for around nine hours and thus, after a fine meal, we decided to impress the other diners with our dulcet tones.

This video clearly demonstrates are 'barbers shop quartet' style of singing. You'll obviously recognise it as an acapella version of Eminem's moving ballad 'Stan'.

Hankies at the ready.

Supreme indifference

I just choked on an apple. I nearly, actually, really, died. I am at work and my boss was standing beside me as my life began to ebb away. She did sod all. I mean really, how close to death do you have to be before your own manager, (another human being let's not forget) either notices or cares about your well-being? It's a bit like Hitler. Oh dear, she's just come back into the office and seen what I'm writing.

I fear death my be my companion sooner than expected.

Ups and downs

We all have our ups and downs and despite being a blogging legend, I too can feel the force of life's highs and lows. Winter doesn't help. Especially the miserable sodding affair that is the British winter. Rain, rain and more rain. It's enough to depress Mr Happy Hap McHappy from Happytown in Happyshire.

Nonetheless, us Brits are used to cack weather and so find ways and means of distracting ourselves during the long, dark winter months. One of these ways is to talk about the weather. Whilst meteorology is a fascinating subject, you can have too much of it, particularly when you've been getting soaked, blown and frozen by it for weeks on end. So I don't talk about the weather much between November and March.

Instead I prefer to revel in the joys of films, my Xbox 360, football, my iMac, food, shiny electrical objects of desire and my wife. Obviously this list is written in reverse order. So when confronted by a really crappy winter's day, I cheer myself with an hour or two of high definition machine-gunning and grenade-lobbing, followed by a joyous time in the kitchen, preparing my latest tuna-based culinary delight and topped off with a cracking film starring Sandra Bullock or that woman out of that film with the hair and eyes.

Suffice to say I have plenty of ammo in happy-happy-joy-joy arsenal to keep the winter blues at bay. However, talking of 'blues' - Birmingham lost today which has put me in a foul mood so I'm going to bed.

Winter my arse.

Non-league WAGS

Victoria Beckham, Cheryl Cole (nee Tweedy) and Colleen McLoughlin. Part of a group of women known collectively as WAGS. WAGS (in case you don't know, stands for 'Wives And Girlfriends') was the phrase that came into popular use during the 2006 Football World Cup in Germany.

In partcular, the term referred to the lady-friends of the England football players. These women became celebrities in their own right and as their erstwhile fellas strutted across the hallowed grasses of various German football grounds, they glided down cobbled streets, wafted along busy roads in enormous Mercedes Benz's and grazed in the exclusive clothes and jewellery shops of the nearest hautpstraße (high street).

The media loved them, following them to shops, shops and more shops. The WAGS loved the attention too. They became famous for being famous and for having such extravagent lifestyles and fabulous clothes.

It's not quite the same for the wives and girlfriends of the players at non-league Burton Albion. I went to see them play last week and sside from the ususal joys of visiting a non-league footie match, there was an extra treat in store. About 15 minutes before kick-off (against Kidderminster Harriers no less), 3 or 4 women appeared and stood chatting beside the pitch. Several players (who were warming up) came over and exchanged a few words and a quick peck on the cheek. These women were clearly WAGS.

However, they were not quite Beckham, Tweedy and McLoughlin. They were a gaggle of slightly lumpy, massively fake-tanned purveyors of TK Maxx's finest. Tight, white, semi-transparent trousers, black t-shirt tops with huge swathes of shiny, gold material wrapped around the belly area. The shoes were high and golden but with scuff-marks aplenty. The hair was sort of permed but not. However, even the stiff breeze which whipped across the Pirelli Stadium could not blow a strand out of place. It was industrially rigid. They looked magnificent. And common. I felt like I had discovered a new breed of human - the 'non-league Wag'.

It truly was, a gourmet feast for the optic nerves. The best bit was the fact that were loving the whole thing. Standing there chatting, laughing and preening. Wearing clothes that no-one else would have been seen dead in and living the dream. The dream of being a gorgeous, glamourous, fabulously wealthy footballer's wife.

In Burton on Trent.

Knickerbocker Glory-days

Whatever happened to the Knickerbocker Glory? I haven't seen one on a dessert menu in years and the thought occurred to me at 6.04am this morning, that it may have disappeared for ever.

Firstly, you may ask, why was I awake at 6.04am on a Saturday morning? Well I was simply responding to a 'call of nature'. Actually, whilst we're on the subject, don't you think that the phrase 'call of nature' is a little grand? I mean that phrase conjures up an image of the instinctive migration for millions of birds across the globe, or the natural desire for great herds of wildebeest to sweep majestically across the great plains of Africa. It doesn't make think of having a wazz.

Anyway, I digress. The Knickerbocker Glory has a significant place in my heart. Why? Because when I was a kid, the culinary landscape of Britain was like a flat, vapid, grey and brown terrain of bland flavours and unspeakably bad restaurants and eateries. God forbid you should decide to have a meal at a pub. If you chose to dine during the day, you could expect a cheese sandwich (two doorstop slices of bread, a tiny film of margarine, 3 thin slices of processed Cheddar and a penny-sized smudge of pickle), a packet of 'plain' crisps and a small bottle of warm tomato juice. Yum.

Eating out at night was often little improved with dishes such as gammon (with pineapple ring), chips and a wedge of lemon or chicken in a basket, chips and a small heap of processed peas. Yay.

So, with this in mind, try to imagine how enormous a gourmet experience the Knickerbocker Glory offered as you gazed at it, sitting proudly at the top of the dessert menu. A huge, tall glass stuffed with fresh melon, strawberries, grapes, vanilla and strawberry ice cream, strawberry sauce, squirty cream and a fan wafer, all topped off with a glace cherry. It was pure, unadulterated food heaven.

The Knickerbocker Glory was like no other dessert or pudding. In fact, it was like no other food. It was a God amongst edible things and I adored it. And what made it even more special was the fact that I only ever got to experience one a few times a year. You couldn't just pop down to Tesco and buy one. Oh no. You had to eat at a proper restaurant like a Berni Inn or a Little Chef. It was a rare treat indeed.

So, I shall raise a glass of Blue Nun to this great British institution that began in the 1930's and may, we hope, still survive somewhere in the quaintest backwaters of the UK.

Somewhere like Mansfield.

VFM day

I've got a real thing about not wasting your days off from work. You know how some days just seem to fly by and when you look back, you feel like you've not done really anything at all? And then before you know it, it's bath-time and up the wooden hill to beddy-byes.

These sorts of days are bad VFM - Value For Money. I bloody hate 'em. So, bizarrely, on my days off I get up at the same time (or even earlier) than I do on work days, just so I can make the most of not being at work. Is that mental? Possibly. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't. This is because it's all very well dragging yourself out of your fetid pit at 7am, but if you just waft around the lounge in your pants for three hours, you're not exactly giving yourself an action-packed day.

So today, as I'm not working, I'm up early and have plans: have a light, yet nutritionally balanced breakfast (peanut butter on toast and a pint of coffee); head down to Tesco to buy ingredients for making a big, homemade pizza for tea; go the gym for an hour; phone the council about an erroneous postal voting thing they sent us; write and send a 'congratulations on your engagement card' (which I should have done before today); finish writing my presentation (more on that tomorrow); phone Microsoft and complain even more bitterly than last time about my deceased Xbox 360; go to the toilet; iron the cat and have a shower. Oh, and make, bake and eat the pizza with my wife.

Now I reckon that's a pretty full day. Some of it is fun, some mundane, some tiring, some irritating and some a pain in the pooper. Nevertheless, it will be a really good VFM day and I'm sure I shall feel a real sense of achievement when it's all over.

Or I may just waft around the lounge in my pants for thirteen hours.

Eurovision - flying the flag

A poor quality video to reflect the poor quality of Eurovision. Which is what makes it so great. Although all the bloody Eastern bloc countries voted for each other and somehow a truly crap song, sung by a sort of female Ronnie Corbett managed to win. Our boys and girls finished a magnificent second from bottom but at least the vast array of Euro-food and booze was worth it all.

What the hell is 'halva' anyway?

Gorgeous crunchy snack of the day

You can't beat a puff. Especially a crunchy, sweet-chilli flavoured one. I just bought a bag of these beauties from a deli and they are SO delicious. Unfortunately they cost £2 for the 150g bag, which is a tad pricey. Mind you, my gob is still experiencing a post-nookie style afterglow as a result of the passionate assault on my taste buds. Yum.

I've emailed the company - 'Olives Et Al' (click on the posting title for a link)to find out where else (other than the odd deli) they sell their stuff so I'll report back as soon as I get a reply. Maybe they'll see this posting and send me some free puffs.

You can't beat a free puff.

Exploding nuts

Oh my God. I nearly died today. Well, not actually nearly died but I did almost have a trouser movement. What happened? Well, I had popped down to Tesco's to get some bits 'n' bobs, as you do and I espied some rather nice-looking chestnuts. So, on the spur of the moment, I thought I'd get some.

Right. Cue 20 minutes later and the chezzies are on the old baking tray, cooking away in the oven. Now I've only ever bought roasted chestnuts from one of those funny little roadside stalls, so I was inexperienced in the way of the chezzie. But how hard can it be I thought?

After 8 minutes in the oven I took the baking tray out and the smell of the hot chestnuts enveloped and teased my sense of smell, lulling me into a sort of food-infused daze. My reverie was shattered though by what happened next. I was leaning over the tray, inhaling the delectable odour one of the little b***ards exploded in my face. When I say exploded, I mean exploded. Fragnments of pulverised chestnut shot everywhere, including over my horror-stricken face. As I recoiled in shock I knocked over a china bowl which smashed into pieces on the tiled kitchen floor. I was staggered. I was flabbergasted. I was covered in bits of chestnut.

Chestnuts? Never again.

Homity pie recipe

Oh my God. This blog is turning into Delia Smith's 'How To Cook'. Personally, my cookery hero is Hugh Fearnely-Whittingstall. Anyone who can make a meal out of roadside weeds and bits of random woodland animal is alright by me. Even though I'm half-veggie. Anyway, due to popular (one request) demand, following on from my blog about the pub meal, I have decided to share my Homity pie recipe. I think it's chuffing gorgeous and it's dead easy to make, especially if you cheat and buy frozen shortcrust pastry. Excited? OK then. Here goes:

Ingredients:

Shortcrust Pastry 300g
Potatoes 350g
Onions 450g
Oil 3 tablespoons
Margarine 25g
Parsley, chopped 15g
Cheese, grated 100g
Garlic cloves 2 crushed
Milk 1 tablespoon
Salt & pepper to taste

• Roll out the pastry and use to line six 4” individual tins or foil dishes.

• Alternatively, use a single 8” dish.

• Boil or steam the potatoes until tender.

• Chop the onions, then sauté in the oil until really soft.

• Combine the potatoes and onions. Add the butter, parsley, half (50g) of the cheese, garlic, and milk. season well to taste.

• Really mix well. Break up (don’t mash) the potatoes. Allow to cool.

• Once cool – use the mixture to fill the pastry cases or dish.

• Sprinkle with the remaining cheese.

• Bake in the oven at 220°C (425°F) for 20 minutes, until golden.

• If baking in an 8” dish, bake for 25-30 minutes.

Makes 6 pies

Then shout "Who ate all the pies?" Then shout again "I did!"

Postings, pubs and pies

Ooh my posting is slipping again. Sorry about that. I've got no excuses. Anyway, as I've got your interest I just wanted to say that I've had some nice feedback about the podcast. Now I know it's not the best (yet) but I shall persevere and hopefully you'll be laughing. Or tittering. Or smirking - slightly.

Please let me know if you have any problems listening to the podcast, either on the podcast website or via iTunes. There is actually an old podcast feed on iTunes which I need to try and get deleted. the correct one has the (currently two) most up to date shows on and had a 5 star feedback on there too!

Well, time for some more wine. I'm still savouring the gorgeous salad dressing I knocked up earlier. God I'm a talented individual. In fact I must tell you my recipe for homity pie sometime. It's a classic, old English dish and one I'd never seen in a restaurant until Friday night when a load of us went to a renowned pub for a hearty meal. The food on offer was amazing and the setting is pure, old-fashioned English pub. And no, none of it is fake. It's a truly wonderful setting and still full of locals as well as the 'outsiders' who have come to sample the highly rated food. However, the most memorable thing for me was the appearance of homity pie on the menu. I was so chuffed, although I didn't order it in case it was better than my own version!

So thank you to the The Bear inn at Alderwasley in Derbyshire. It was worth the long journey to get there and any pub that serves food including wild boar and homity pie is alright by me.

Cheers.

Getting fruity

In response to my recent post about what to do with my pears, I had a winning suggestion. Obviously I could have chosen the 'steamed pears with pheasant and roast parsnips' or 'glazed pears with wild rasperries and devon cream' but there was only one clear winner. One kind respondent suggested chucking the pears in with a load of booze and just necking the lot. Subtle? No. Fun, easy and morally reprehensible? Definitely.

10/10

A lovely pair

In lieu of anything interesting to write - see the lack of postings recently - I am letting you know that we have a lovely pair of pear trees in our garden. Oh yes. And the good news is that both trees have produced a bumper crop this year. Nice one global warming.

The bad news is that I don't know any pear recipes, other than 'pears with a bit of ice cream' which is not the most imaginative culinary creation. I've tried to invent some but 'pears in gravy', 'pear and liver roulade', 'stir fried pears' and 'pears au tripe' just don't seem appealing. Or edible.

So, if anyone has an exciting, vibrant and cosmoplitan suggestion as to what I can do with a lovely pear, please drop me an email and I'll give it a try.

Or I could just let them all rot.

Burger update

Thanks to the correspondent who emailed me (bornthendie@mac.com) to tell me of his rather less than enjoyable experience of a Wimpy meal. Now, for fear of legal action, I will not provide details of the 'alleged' gastronomic disaster. Suffice to say, the phrase 'dripping fat' was used along with several heartfelt expletives.

On the bright side, Wimpy apparently do offer a veggie menu, although my correspondent did not partake of the 'healthy' option due to his carniverous commitments. In summing up his experience of the esteemed restaurant he cannot, unfortunately, bring himself to recommend the food, or indeed, the experience as a whole. It appears that 0/10 is the score on that one. Obviously, his comments are purely subjective and in no way represent the opinions of YBATYD.

Mind you, it did sound completely rank.

Well burger me

A converstaion arose at work today which got us all thinking. Now everyone's heard of McDonalds and Burger King. These meaty, global behemoths are known the world over and have all but monopolised the 'beef in a bun market'. Almost.

Step forward Wimpy! We couldn't believe that this company is still going. We remembered Wimpy from our childhoods when it was the quintessentially British version of the Amercian 'diner' experience. It was all table service, napkins and yes, knives and forks. So quaint and so NOT fast food as we know now it.

And yet, Wimpy survives. A look at their website informs you that they currently have over 250 franchised restaurants in the UK. Two hundred and fifty! It's truly amazing, yet still rather quaint and sweet. Now I'd love to try and recreate that 70's experience by sampling a Wimpy again. However, I don't know if they do any veggie stuff (yes, I'm one of those) although deep down, I sort of hope they don't cater for the modern market. It wouldn't be right somehow. So if anyone has had a Wimpy in the last 9 years, please do let me know.

You'll be eating for Britain you know.

Last orders

At last the weekend approaches and what better way to enjoy not being at work than partaking in a bit of classy, international cuisine?

Well we're going to see some friends tonight and we're having a Thai takeaway. Now there's actually a rather interesting fact here. The place where we'll be getting the food from is a fully-fledged Thai restaurant that used to be a really old pub. I think it's a bit of a weird transition - from aged spit 'n' sawdust public house to a modern, oriental dining palace.

I wonder if they've managed to retain that quintessentially British, oh so special aroma that's only found in the gents bogs?

That should blend in well with the Thai Green Curry.

Mama mia, it's murder!

I'd never done a murder mystery until last Friday and thought they always sounded a bit rubbish. Well how wrong I was. Oh yes. The whole idea was that we were in Little Italy, New York in 1995. Pepi Roni (Pepperoni, geddit?) had been killed and we were all gathered at the family restuarant to discover 'whodunnit'.

The thing is, you have to stay in character all the time. As you can see from the photo, I made an extremely convicing Italian gangster (Rocco Scarfazzi) along with my 'fiancee' - Tara Misu (genius, that one). The rest of the 'cast' were Mama Rosa, Angel, Marco Roni (they get worse) and the lone Frenchman - Bo Jolais (dear God).

The evening consisted of listening to a tape (it's a very old murder mystery game), reading your characters' speeches and acting your nuts off whilst attempting a convincing accent. The accents were, mostly, appalling. The most fantastically abysmal of these was delivered by my father-in-law who was playing Marco. His accent lurched from one bizarre vocal extreme to another as he butchered the Italian accent, then the New York accent and finally a mish-mash of Welsh and Pakistani. A triumph of enthusiasm over ability.

As it was an Italian theme, we had lasagne, Italian wine and Tiramisu. As the alcohol flowed, the accents became worse and the whole thing descended into a boozy chaos. Finally we discovered (after all accusing each other with varying levels of aggression) that Bo Jolais was the murderer. None of us actually guessed it was him as we'd been so overwhelmed with information, mis-information, wine, poor acting and gargantuan amounts of lasagne that our feeble brains were on the verge of a meltdown. Brilliant.

So, Bo 'dunnit' and we all had a cracking night. I looked the part with my suit, hat, fake cigar and obligatory violin case and loved every minute. In fact I never realised that cold-blooded murder could be such a laugh.

I guess you really are 'born and then you die'. Capiche?