Raiders of the Lost Arse

What is happening to grump's house!? Every day it seems another package arrives for The Flower from one shopping channel or other; all sizes, containing mysteries... grumpydoctor never sees the contents. Just the mountain of leftover boxes building up in his bedroom. A QVC stockpile. Old shipping notices and invoices flutter around him like autumn leaves shaken from protesting trees; a breeze through his warping window frame sends reams of paper skirling into the air...
Just the other day it occured to grump that his red-painted chap's boudoir is in danger of resembling the warehouse at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark. Downstairs, as he reclines on the cat-ravaged sofa, surely he can hear the wooden floor above groan under the burden?

She must be stopped! This mass consumption madness has to end!

And the village postman is in league with her. Just the other day the knock at the door had a certain mocking timbre to it. Another box. Another mysterious 'product'. Now this fellow has already suffered grump's wrath, having been caught with his arm through the letter box, scrabbling about blindly, feeling for mis-delivered mail with spidery fingers. Grumpydoctor, in gentleman's dressing gown at the ungodly hour of 10am, uttered a distressed cry as he witnessed the hand of a stranger scuttling about, emerging from his letter box. "What the bloody hell!" grump may have yelled. "Posted the wrong letters again! Sorry!" Again!!? This man demands watching. Who knows, perhaps half of the boxes, cartons and packets upstairs have nothing to with The Flower. They certainly have no function in the grump's universe.

Freaky, dreamy images...

grumpydoctor, navigating the oceans of information without compass or guiding star, washes up on the shores of this genius site - the weird and wonderful images of an american photographer. no porn here just dream-like, faintly disturbing and brilliant images (I sense his old pal The Captain might find that hard to believe...) Take a sneaky peek at the following:

http://www.parkeharrison.com

Prohibition - hows that again?

Grumpydoctor notices a new bar opening in Nottingham. He usually can tell, the senses tingle at the thought of a fresh venue. Yet it doesn't take very long to upset the grump. He isn't one to be a regular in many establishments. All too easily bored or let down and then... well he takes it very personally. This latest Nottingham bar has already gotten off to a shaky start - and it hasn't even beckoned grumpydoctor over its threshold and enfolded him in its dubious faux-opulence and slaved him to outrageous bar prices. Not even open yet. Quelle problem? Well my dears it is simple: the name. The name of the bar is "PROHIBITION". (!!!!) What to make of that. Bad enough that it is on the site of the previous badly-monikered "Quilted Llama" (eh?) and that was near-indefensible but this? What next? Why not call a brothel "Eunech". Consider this blunderingly bad teaser from Prohibition's website:

"Prohibition Nottingham Opens Soon
Prohibition is coming to Nottingham in April 2006. This stylish cocktail bar will embrace the opulent style décor of it's siblings in Manchester and Leeds. Specialising in cocktails and shooters, the extensive drinks list and enticing menu will equally please lunchers, the after-work crowd and evening revellers. Situated in the old Quilted Llama site in the Lace Market, Prohibition promises to bring effortless style to the city, with a focus on excellent service levels and drinks and food menus to inspire exploration. Be part of the action, this is one Prohibition you'll definitely approve of!"

Who 'thinks' of these names? Oh dear, oh dear...

Duffy Poem - nice!

Stealing

The most unusual thing I ever stole? A snowman.
Midnight. He looked magnificent; a tall, white mute
beneath the winter moon. I wanted him, a mate
with a mind as cold as the slice of ice
within my own brain. I started with the head.
Better off dead than giving in, not taking
what you want. He weighed a ton; his torso,
frozen stiff, hugged to my chest, a fierce chill
piercing my gut. Part of the thrill was knowing
that children would cry in the morning. Life's tough.
Sometimes I steal things I don't need. I joy-ride cars
to nowhere, break into houses just to have a look.
I'm a mucky ghost, leave a mess, maybe pinch a camera.
I watched my gloved hand twisting the doorknob.
A stranger's bedroom. Mirrors. I sigh like this--Aah.
It took some time. Reassembled in the yard,
he didn't look the same. I took a run
and booted him. Again. Again. My breath ripped out
in rags. It seems daft now. Then I was standing
alone amongst lumps of snow, sick of the world.
Boredom. Mostly I'm so bored I could eat myself.
One time I stole a guitar and thought I might
learn to play. I nicked a bust of Shakespeare once,
flogged it, but the snowman was strangest.
You don't understand a word I'm saying, do you?

Carol Ann Duffy

Mexican Director Steals Pen

It is with some amazement that grumpydoctor realises that acclaimed director and writer Guillermo Arriaga (21 Grams, Amores Perros) has wandered off with both his pen and a copy of The Night Buffalo, Arriaga's own latest novel (lent out as the poor fellow forgot his annotated copy for a reading). Grumpydoctor, assisting with an evening talk and signing at 'B' cinema in Naughty Nottm with the much-lauded Mexican, found this all great chin-stroking stuff, but the students and wannabe cineastes in the audience couldn't keep politics out of the discussion for long and it soon began to drag. Hmmm... On returning to collect some corporate clobber from 'Big W' booksellers that served as table covers and a backdrop for the talk, grump discovers the lack of a certain stylo and livre. So, Mr Arriaga, wheres my bloody pen gone? And - with all due deference to your undoubted artistic talent, wit, intelligent and charm - just because you *wrote* the novel doesn't mean every copy belongs to you! However, if you just happen to be chatting on the phone to Naomi Watts or Cate Blanchett (I hear she is in your latest movie) then send the grumpydoctor's love and all is forgiven. Ok, amigo?

Fat woman on horse

grumpdoctor saw a fat woman on a horse. Amusing at first. Lounging in the study with a book, drifting along towards lunch in mid-morning reverie, spending more time gazing out of the window at the fields than paying attention to the page... then she came along: the coconut-clopping of hooves along Main Street announcing her dubious processional. Fat woman on horse. Perfect, comic, endearing and enduring British village scene. Grumpydoctor chuckled, but then noted this expression of abject shame in the mount's eyes. Turned its head as though sensing scrutiny, transmitting embarassment with moist eyes: "fuck-off," it might have said, "enough fat women have ridden you, grumpydoctor, but at least it was in private... and you were doubtless drunk." b

Wedding Menu

For those interested in what all my hard work (hah!) and discussion with the chef resulted in the wedding menu follows (to be included in the invites but worth a cheeky peek). Admitedly The Flower was being more creative than grumpydoctor but, you know, I did have that terrific wine contending for my attention....

Starter
Chequers pate, toasted brioche and red onion marmalade
Seared salmon, Mediterranean chutney, char-grilled foccacia

Main course
Roast loin of pork and crackling, roast potatoes and seasonal vegetables
Chicken and leek pie, new potatoes and seasonal vegetables
Pan fried Monkfish, Sauté new potatoes, green beans and tomato butter sauce

Pudding
Tarte au citron with a raspberry coulis
Chocolate and hazelnut truffle cake

Late Sunday Lunches

Spent yesterday being ravished by a late lunch of perfect pork and golden crisp, crunchy crackling, washed down with a bottle of ripe malbec red. Watching the April showers lick at the window; swirling deep, velvety waves of wine around a truly enormous glass and luxuriating in time stolen back from a frenzied week. And that is the advantage of these 3pm sittings - lunch drifts effortlessly into evening; time can be measured by the glass. None of the frenzied gnashing of workday gears, the rusty cogs of the everyday grinding away, the seemingly neverending toil of a mundane engine....
And yet the grumpydoctor was at the Chequers Inn near Belvoir Castle on business. Ostensibly. Supposed to be organising my wedding menu for August. Much to the chagrin of The Flower, she being armed with notepaper and pen and scribbling down ideas while I contemplated the excellently rich gravy. Got there eventually - and even scored some free pudding as a tester (which made it onto the list, funnily enough!), a silky smooth chocolate truffle cake. I grunted my assent in a vague way. After all we did manage a long lunch first.
Do try this venue if you are out exploring the Vale of Belvoir. Woolsthorpe being a Marple-esque village bedded down amongst the sheepfields at the foot of the castle. Check out their website on: http:www.chequers-inn.net
The sunday lunches (two courses at £10.95) are wonderful value. Even grumpydoctor could raise a smile.