COLUMN: January 18, 2018

Guy Fieri eating something. I shudder to imagine what

I HAVE never been to America. But I know everything I need to know about America because I have read DC and Marvel comics and watched a lot of television.

Certainly I have learned a lot about American food because I am a regular viewer of the Food Network, which shows hours and hours of American food programmes when it is not showing the same four episodes of Jamie Oliver’s 15 Minute Meals.

And the most American of these programmes is Diners, Drive-ins & Dives.

Diners, Drive-ins & Dives – or Triple D, as the programme is known, because they went overboard with the title and didn’t consider how often American TV presenters would have to mention the name of the programme – is presented by Guy Fieri.

Fieri is what a hairdresser would look like in a Nintendo Mario game. He has bleached blond hair, a red convertible, and a permanent outdoors voice. By rights, I should hate him. But I do not. Perhaps it is because he is engaging and appears genuinely enthusiastic about food, or perhaps it is Stockholm syndrome.

If you have never seen Triple D, I will walk you through a sample episode…

Fieri fetches up in a dusty American city. There are no pedestrians in sight. He says something along the lines of, “Right now, Triple D is in Bogbrush, Indiana. And you know what that means…” I don’t know what that means. Only people in Bogbrush, Indiana could possibly know what that means.

He goes on, “We’re in the home of the Bogbrush double dip piranha sandwich, and there’s nowhere that does it better than Carlito’s Piranha House. They’ve been doing the double dip for an amazing 23 years.” In America 23 years is roughly equivalent to 387 British years.

They then go into Carlito’s Piranha House to meet some of the regular customers. “I have a double dip piranha every day,” lies an attractive, clear-complexioned woman. If she really had a double dip piranha every day she would be on the news because they had to use a crane to get her out of her bedroom to take her to hospital. “They’re so fresh and tender.”

Tenderness is very important to Americans. They hate chewing things. This is why their teeth are so good – they never have to use them.

Fieri then goes into the kitchen to meet the chef and watch him put together a double dip piranha sandwich. This will involve a ton of sugar and salt, which will go into the “rub” so the piranha has a great “bark”, and a whole “stick” of butter. Americans have butter in sticks because they use it as a weapon.

Fieri will then shove the entire sandwich into his mouth before explaining that it is by far the best Bogbrush double dip piranha sandwich he has ever had, which is probably true, and that the flavours are “off the chart”, which is probably not.

And then off he rushes to another diner or drive-in. He has been to more of these than he has had hot dinners. I don’t know how that can be, but there we are. (He never seems to go to any dives. Or if he does, he does not refer to them as such, for diplomatic reasons.)

He is always in a hurry. It’s a wonder he does not have constant indigestion. This time he is at “the best chilli dog joint in Milwaukee”.

I should explain. Americans, like Guy Fieri, are always in a hurry, so much so that they often have one meal on top of another meal in order to save time. They put bacon on top of pancakes with maple syrup, scones and custard next to their fried chicken, and they have the chilli dog.

For those who do not know, a chilli dog is a hot dog, but instead of topping it with mustard, or perhaps onions, the Americans opt for chilli con carne, a thing that other nationalities eat on its own as a satisfying meal.

This is like going to the chip shop and ordering fish and chips, and when they ask you if you want salt and vinegar you say, “No, actually, could you chuck a couple of scoops of shepherds pie on it?”

After he goes into rhapsodies about a sausage with some mince on top of it, Guy Fieri leaps into his red convertible, cuts off proceedings abruptly, and promises he will be back next time.

And this is why I can never live in America. It’s hard to pull off that sort of exit when you travel everywhere by bus.


COLUMN: January 11, 2018

A carelessly discarded banana skin makes a delightful floor ornament

I HAVE two pairs of shoes. I don’t want you to think I am bragging when I say this. “Oh, here he comes, Billy Four Shoes.” If anything, I am Billy Ten Shoes, as I also have two pairs of boots and a pair of running shoes. I know, I know, my flat is almost indistinguishable from a branch of Clarks.

The point is that, unless I am running, I have a choice of shoes. I can literally fill my boots.

So I suppose that what happened that day was my fault. I did not have to choose the one pair of shoes I own which have a smooth sole.

But, on the other hand – or foot, the manufacturers were at fault for making a shoe with a smooth sole. What were they thinking?

These are people whose job it is to think about how shoes work and are used. Is there nobody in their R&D department who has pointed out that shoes would ideally grip the floor, rather than glide like Torvill and Dean on Teflon across it. Is there nobody saying, “People tend to stand up and walk when wearing our shoes. I don’t see the benefit of a sole that reduces friction on surfaces. Our customers tend not to fry eggs on the soles?”

Anyway, I first realised that this was an issue when I was on my way in to work. I had run out of the specific hair gel that I have to use – and a man with difficult-to-explain hair like mine has to use a specific hair gel – which is only available in the bigger branches of Britain’s Favourite Large-scale Retailer.

Hair gels and suchlike are situated on the first floor of this establishment, and accessed by a travelator on a steep slope, shopping trolleys being tricky to accommodate on conventional escalators, as anybody who has ever gone to town on a Saturday with a pushchair will tell you.

I stepped onto the steep travelator, and gripped the moving handrail, and all was fine until about halfway up, when I had to release the handrail to answer a text message about nothing.

The thing about gravity is that it is no respecter of texts about nothing, and I felt its pull immediately. I started to slide down the incline, my shoes giving me no traction, my legs thrashing about as if I were in a Japanese game show called Enormous Comedy Slippery Slope, until I could sheathe my phone without causing it damage and snatch the handrail again while falling to my knees.

This is why I have never been skiing, incidentally. Ice is slippery. I don’t see how making a virtue of that helps anybody.

Luckily only the 12 or so people behind me on the slope saw me, and, presumably, the security man watching on CCTV. And the members of staff he called over.

After picking up the gel, I went on the return journey. It was easier going down, because even if I slipped at least I was going in the right direction.

I walked gingerly to work after that, very much aware of the shortcomings of my sole, and got on with my job.

But I had a lunchtime meeting outside the office. A cold wind was whipping up as I went there, but there was nothing to concern me, because I was wearing Medium Coat.

However, the wind, as it turned out, was the beginnings of Storm Eleanor.
“Goodness me, it’s blowy,” I thought, as I returned to work, and I turned a corner, walking down the middle of the pavement. But Eleanor was now at my back, and the difficulty began.

You see, Medium Coat is a three-quarter length affair, and is flappy in even a light breeze. In these conditions, Medium Coat was effectively a sail.

Had I been wearing any other shoes, I might have got away with it. A gust slid me along the pavement, heading helplessly straight for a busy road.

I was too far from the railings on one side of me, but there were cars parked perpendicularly to the pavement…

I jumped, using Medium Sail to turn me into the path of a car, and grabbed the bonnet, preserving myself until the wind passed, my head down.

And then I looked up into the eyes of the driver, who was sitting behind the wheel, watching a man who had, inexplicably, leapt from the pavement to hug his car.

COLUMN: January 4, 2018

Some Cheshire cheese, but on a French plate for some reason
I AM not the most decisive of people under pressure. No, that is not true, sometimes I can be very decisive. Actually, I’m not sure the word “decisive” is the one I should use. Maybe “resolute”? No, decisive is the one. Definitely.

The point is, the fewer decisions I have to make, the happier I am. I am not saying I would welcome a totalitarian government, but I would probably do all right under one, especially if it banned coriander leaf, melons, and workplace raffles.

But most of life in 2018 appears to be forcing me into decisions that I would prefer not to have to make. I have to decide which company supplies my gas, which of hundreds of TV channels to watch, which of 12 different types of olive oil to buy.

I am exaggerating for comic effect, of course. I do not have hundreds of TV channels, as I only have Council Telly rather than Posh Telly, and consequently have limited access to channels which show exactly the same programme as another channel, but one hour later.

But my fear of making decisions is that of making the wrong choice, because I make the wrong choice far more often than I should. And knowing this fact leads me to make more bad decisions, as I change my mind on the assumption that my first instinct must be wrong.

Essentially, I am constantly engaged in a game of bluff and double-bluff with myself. It is exhausting as I am simultaneously a fiendish opponent and a totally useless one.

So I was the worst person to be faced with an automated check-out over the holiday period, because it offered me the opportunity to buy and weigh my bag at the start of the process, which would allow me to put my items straight into the bag, saving me as many as 30 seconds.

I gave that a lot of thought – should I stick with what I knew, and bag up my groceries afterwards, or should I take a risk on a new and brilliant short cut?

“This is inevitably going to be the wrong choice,” I thought, as I went for the short cut. This is because I have never found a short cut that is more successful than the longer route.

I scanned my bag and then placed it in the bagging area. The computer ummed and ahhed for a moment, then told me to proceed, its fingers steepled.

I tried to scan some cheese, failed, straightened out the bar code, failed again, straightened it out again, succeeded, and put it in the bag.

“Unexpected item in the bagging area”, the computer lied. It had been lulling me into complacency. Instinctively I removed the cheese. Another bad decision.

The light flashed and a supermarket operative appeared. “I took the cheese by accident,” I explained. He stabbed a code into the machine to cancel the cheese and scooted off.

I immediately put the cheese back in the bag instead of scanning it.

“Unexpected item in the bagging area”, the computer said, reasonably this time. The supermarket operative returned. “I accidentally put the cheese back,” I explained. He repeated the cheese cancellation. I now hated cheese, and put it back in the basket.

I tried another item, some washing-up liquid this time. I scanned it correctly, the price came up, I placed it in the bag.

“Unexpected item in the bagging area.”

The supermarket operative appeared. I think he hated me, and I could not blame him. He probably dreams about me now. “I don’t understand why it’s not expecting the things it has told me I’ve got. Oh, it’s the bag, isn’t it?” I said.

“Yeah,” he said.

“I don’t get it. How can it not be expecting a bag in the bagging area? If anything, that is the one thing that a bagging area should be expecting.”

He cancelled the bag without a word and stalked off in search of less problematic customers, like a half-starved Rottweiler on heat, or a sarcastic teenager covered in flaming spikes.

And so I went back to my usual practices of filling up a bagging area while not quite having enough space, and ruing my poor decisions. The cheese worked this time, the check-out having become reconciled to the idea that I might want to buy some. It even accepted the bag. Eventually.

Come to think of it, “decisive” probably isn’t the word.