Jen was at a meeting at work yesterday in which they discussed the organisation’s values. Afterwards, she asked me what my values are.
I’ve been giving it a lot of thought, and the only one I’ve managed to come up with so far is punctuality.
Liverpool demonstrated their growing title credentials by ending Chelsea’s 86-game unbeaten run in the Premier League at Stamford Bridge and moving three points clear at the top of the table.
Several years ago, Jen found a smoked fish tart recipe in a magazine and gave it a go. It was utterly fantastic.
Ever since, we’ve been trying to find recipe again. Jen has a very large number of recipe magazines, and she’s been through each one of them several times, searching for the bloody recipe. So illusive elusive was it, that the recipe became something of a legend at our place: “Remember that fish tart?” we would reminisce. “Wasn’t it fantastic! I wonder what we did with the sodding recipe.”
Anyway, the other week, Jen decided to have another look for it, and, after several hours’ searching, she finally found it. W00t! So, to avoid losing it once again, I’ve published it here.
Give it a go: it’s bloody fantastic.
As you might expect, it’s not your typical interview:
Q: What is a gentleman?
A: A man who can play the accordion, but doesn’t.
(Not an original quote, but very Waitsian.)
[via Evolving Thoughts]
… Oh, and while I’m on the subject of Tom Waits:
This is just beautiful:
[Hat-tip to Deep Sea News]
BBC: Naked man charged with burglary
A man found naked trapped in the chimney of a supermarket in Wigan has been charged with burglary…
Firefighters were called to rescue the man who had become trapped and had lost his clothes as he tried to get out.
I know one can’t condone criminal activity, but you have to feel sorry for the chap: it’s happened to all of us.
Geordie soccer pundit Alan Shearer commenting after the Liverpool-Wigan match on Match of the Day last night:
I have to say, it was a very, very good game of football, with some top players on show from both sides—and I include Wigan in that.
It’s that time of year again: time to help our farmer friend bring her cows down off the moors. Which is what we spent this afternoon doing, in the driving wind and pissing rain.
If you’ve been paying attention, you won’t be at all surprised just how difficult it is to find cows on a moor. Today, we only managed to find about half of them. They were several miles away, well on their way to Haworth.
Just in case you’re thinking I’m exaggerating just how wet and windy it was, I did you a crappy video:
If you’ve ever wondered what free-range beef looks like before they put it into plastic packets, now you know. (Obviously, I’m referring to the cattle, not the dogs.)
It took us about two hours to defrost.
See also: Cattle drive
BBC: ‘Leggy blonde’ pregnant with calf
An elephant dubbed “the leggy blonde” has made a little piece of history.
Noorjahan, whose nickname come [sic] from her distinctive hair, has become the first Asian elephant in the UK to become pregnant by artificial insemination.
Straight up, no bull!
Have you ever been to Sea World? It’s amazing. They have this killer whale named Shamu, and he does all these amazing tricks. He jumps out of the water, and he splashes everyone, and they’re all delighted because they’ve been drenched by Shamu. It’s fantastic!
I’ve seen whales in the Bay of Biscay too. They’re totally crap. They don’t do anything, they’re miles away, and you can’t see a bloody thing.
Surprisingly informative. It contained an excellent feature on bridal shell-suits.
See also: Bournemouth
(Not as saucy as the still frame implies.)
From a conversation between two Yorkshire farmers today:
“What were his name? Ralph or Matthew or summat like that.”
“Bernard.”
“That’s it!”
Sunday Times: Don’t call Kelly Brook ‘babe’
Yeah, right. And don’t call me ‘fatboy’.
Kelly Brook yesterday.
Fitz and his missus have posted another of their frankly surreal videos on YouTube:
Why not go over there and leave a comment?
Over the years, I must have received a couple of hundred postcards from friends and colleagues telling me what a lovely time they’re having on their holidays. Yet, in all that time, not once have I received a postcard from someone telling me what a fabulous time they’re having at work.
I think that speaks volumes.
Telegraph: Paul Newman – the nuclear secret he took to his grave
Paul Newman, who died recently, took a carefully guarded secret to his grave – something that would have disgraced him in Hollywood.
Did he have a secret mistress? (No, that wouldn’t disgrace him.) Did he have a clandestine fleet of SUVs? (That’s more like it.) Was he addicted to McDonald’s hamburgers? No, Paul Newman was a closet but increasingly open supporter of nuclear power.
This is so bloody infuriating: a prominent environmentalist who listens with an open mind to the arguments and is gradually persuaded to turn pro-nuclear, but who feels he can’t admit it because it will harm his charity interests. Climate change is the most important issue facing the planet, yet people who care passionately about the subject are being gagged by peer-pressure.
This planet really is fucked if we’re not even allowed to mention our last, best hope.
For the record, I am pro-nuclear-power. (But you probably already knew that.)
One of our friends has an adult son named George. George has a very broad Yorkshire accent and tends to talk quickly in a deep, mumbling voice, so it is sometimes difficult to understand what he is saying—even for his mum.
This week, George went to the supermarket to buy some beer. While he was standing in the queue, a bossy posh woman behind him asked him to pass her one of little signs they use to separate different people’s items on the conveyor-belt. George wasn’t at the front of the queue, so the signs were well out of his reach.
“I’m sorry, I can’t reach them,” said George.
“Honestly!” exclaimed the woman to the people behind her in the queue. “These foreigners are so rude!” Evidently, she had mistaken George’s accent for Polish.
Having paid for his beer, George made a point of thanking the girl on the till in the poshest voice he could muster.
Hebden Bridge Times: Denise puts up clock in memory of her late husband