Mr Chang’s Tasty WaresIf you go to one of the Thai restaurants in Crystal Palace (we’ve got loads of them) you will find them picking up on Kev’s latest business venture, which is brewing a fine, light and refreshing beer with his name on it.
Mr Chang’s is clearly a popular choice with customers here and we wish him the best of luck in this new endeavour.
Review: Monty Python LiveLast week I went to see Monty Python Live, on one of their ten final ever dates. It was an exciting night for many reasons but I left feeling very let down.
The first problem was not the fault of Monty Python themselves but was to do with the venue. On arriving at the O2, instead of finding the incredible, expansive white domed tent I had been led to expect by the O2’s promotional material, I found instead a very underwhelming brick-built theatre tucked away on a back street in Soho. It was an extremely long walk from North Greenwich tube station and not at all well placed for river boat services.
On entering the venue the staff were very rude and insisted that my ticket was not valid. It was only by kicking up a considerable stink and threatening to call the police that I was finally admitted to the auditorium. Inside the seat numbers made no sense when compared to the seat number on my ticket so I had to choose my own seat.
The show itself was baffling, principally because it was very difficult to tell who was who. All five of the Monty Python performers were so heavily made-up and disguised in costumes that they were literally unrecognisable. This, and the absence of any material I had seen before or recognised, meant that the whole show was rather strange. The sketches appeared to flow together extremely closely in a single flow of consciousness to the point that it almost resembled a normal theatrical performance, and there was a consistent theme of a murder mystery running through it.
There were very few laughs, and when I attempted to whip the crowd up a bit by shouting “albatross!” or “nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!” I was shushed by other audience members. At one point a steward threatened to eject me if I didn’t stop chanting “spam” through what appeared to be a particularly dull scene involving a police officer interviewing somebody.
After the show I inspected the merchandise, but without much hope, and found it all as abstract and obtuse as the show had been. All of it had the slogan “Agatha Christie’s The Mousetrap” which I don’t remember being one of their better lines and which didn’t seem to have been shouted at any point during the show.
All in all, I would vote to give it a miss as I found it extremely disappointing.
I vote it three stars out of five.
The manliest night of my lifeA couple of weeks ago I had a whole new experience. Ian, long-haired co-conspirator here on the Beans, accompanied me to a pub where football was showing. Together we drank beer and looked at a small part of the TV screen that was visible where we were sitting, and talked about football and women. At times we said swear words. It was easily the manliest thing I’ve ever done.
After we left the pub, we accidentally sat on some slugs on a wet bench and recorded a moving musical tribute to the missing third member of The Beans.
Here it is, in full.
Ode to a Broken SpoonSome months ago, while stirring a particularly stiff risotto – which, really, needed more liquid as it was far too solid in that state – I applied too much pressure and snapped the wooden spoon in half.
It’s only now, with the passage of time, that I feel able to begin to come to terms with this tragic event and to put some of my feelings into words.
I have now written a poem about this incident. I’m sure you understand how difficult this is for me and I’d be incredibly grateful to have your support.
Wooden spoon, wooden spoon
Hardwood utensil
For my cookery a boon
In rice-filled pan
You tried your best
But perished when you faced the test
Your shaft bore the scars
Of previous mistreatment
Of singes and overheating
At my behest
I feel
I regret
I cry
To the moon
For you
For you
My spoon
Words I Hate, Part 4Words are the foundation of our language, the tools of our communication. As well as being useful to us, they can also be beautiful: the sounds they make and the feelings they evoke are all a fundamental part of the experience of human interaction.
Not all words are like this. Some words are stupid. Like this one.
I like Christmas. I like it an awful lot. I like presents and Christmas dinner and having a tree in the house. Given the warm, pleasant weather we’ve been having lately, with the sun high in the sky and the gentle breeze just keeping it cool enough to go out and enjoy yourself (or, conversely, to stay in and suffer sun guilt), my thoughts have naturally been turning to Christmas lately, and all these things I like about it.
I even like the shiny spangly ropes of gaudy plastic frill that get draped everywhere. I just hate their name. Tinsel. Written down it’s fine, but said out loud it has an unfortunate pairing of a T and an S that give the whole word the irritating sound of someone whispering nearby, or possibly a high-pitched whistling noise made by air escaping from a perished rubber seal on the back of an old fridge. For example. That’s not Christmassy at all. That’s just stupid. And that’s why we need to rename this delightful substance to something better. My suggestion is “spanglestrands”, a word that describes the article in question without making me want to scratch my ears. Perfect.
Missing a BeanI was all set. All on track to get my full bean on the Bean Counter for May. Three in the bag, one post still to make on the 31st to bring me up to the requisite number. Had my topic lined up and everything.
All on track, that is, until I got a text to say that there was a free screening of Labyrinth, the David Bowie goblin king spectacular, in a park near me and did I want to go? Well of course I wanted to go, and go I did, forgetting all about my post and my perilously low post count for May.
I’m not telling you I didn’t enjoy Labyrinth. I did. I enjoyed every moment of it. I cheered along with the crowd whenever Bowie’s leggings were on screen (seriously, he might as well be naked from the waist down) and waved my arms in the air through the voodoo song. I shouted “double yellow lorry” at an appropriate moment. It was great. I’m not saying I didn’t enjoy it at all.
I’m just saying that waking up this morning and realising that another pea would be permanently added to my record on the Beans has soured it for me, just a little bit. That’s all.
Essex HighwayIt’s here! It’s super! It’s Essex Highway!
Or you can watch it on our Vimeo page.
Sun GuiltToday I’m suffering the sun guilt. It’s a condition I first identified last year, and while I haven’t been able to cure myself of it, having a diagnosis is definitely helping.
This is what happens.
You get a sunny day, like today for example. It was 25 degrees here, clear blue skies, sunny, a gentle breeze to take the heat off – just beautiful. It’s been like this for a few days, but I was at work then, and today is a day off. Today is my day off and it’s a sunny, beautiful day. And that’s when the sun guilt strikes.
The sun guilt says: you missed all that nice weather while you were at work. But you’re not at work today. You should do something with it. It would be a waste not to do something with it. But my plans today don’t involve lazing around on a beach, or having a barbecue in the garden I don’t have, or playing beach volleyball with some Brazilians. I have other stuff to do. Non-sunny stuff. And then I feel guilty for wasting the sunny day.
What I realised last year was that actually I’m not very good at sunny days. I get sunburnt easily and hot weather makes me tired and sweaty and I’d always rather be in the shade. Sunny weather is wasted on me. I have to accept that it’s OK not to be doing sunny things just because it’s sunny. I have a life to live and sunny days are wasted on me anyway.
But this is the first one of the year and I’m having a pretty hard time with the sun guilt all the same.