I finally left York yesterday, but not before couple of fair-ye-well sessions. The first with Claire, Helen and Cath (and Cath's son and girlfriend, who respectively kept their distance. Actually, it was probably more to do with us cramping their style than anything else...). I was hoping Ray, Claire's other half would have come out, but he told Claire 'tell them, I hate everyone except you.' Fair point, I thought. It was a rather sedate affair held at
Oscar's bar. The most notable thing about the place, besides the vast mountain of food that they placed in front of us, was the amount of
BEAUTIFUL women in there. Holy crap, if I'd known about that aspect of the place I would have spent my Yorkian evenings propping up their bar and
leching for all I was worth. But the amount of food we had got me thinking, remember back in the eighties when everyone was eating
Haute Cuisine, which basically translates as: No Food. A plate-full of nothing was served up in every posh restaurant across the country. Mind you, with the amount of
coke everyone was doing people had no appetite to eat anyway. But all that has changed, nowadays we are served mountains of grub. It's quite obviously an American influence; back in 2004 when I drove across the States with some chums we would go to a restaurant, buy a starter and because it was so big, eat half of it and take the rest home for breakfast! But it now seems to be a competition to see who can serve the most amount of food. Generally I end up defeated by it an leave loads, which is something I hate doing.
Err... I asked for the small portion...
I digress, as usual. The second food related leaving do was in the company of Mr and Mrs
Logan Josh. Again, I was cordially invited to their pile on the outskirts of York. Josh had put his nimble fingers to good use and whipped up a delightful
curry. Chock full of roast potatoes. It sounds absurd, but it worked. From what I could work out all he'd done was buy a load of
McCain's potato wedges, deep fry them then pour a jar of
Tesco Value Curry Sauce over them. But you wouldn't know as it tasted delicious! The evening ended in the usual way a trip to Logan's does, ie: drunken Greco-Roman Wrastlin' while
Motorhead DVDs
played in the background...
You're hurting my face...
I bid my fair-ye-wells to the Ukrainians and drove back to the bosom of my youth and spent Saturday night in the company of Dave and Linzie, where Dave showed me a new song he was working on for
Abwehrschlacht. It sounded fucking great, it's just a slight shame that I'll be off to Afrikakakaka for two months this Saturday, so we won't get to record it. Oh well, I'm sure I'll get over it when I go on Safari to shoot Tigers in their faces and wrastle Penguins.
You're dead, you little motherfucker!
