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I return to this blog after a long absence precipitated by my mid-life crisis with good news … the Willow Manor Ball is underway.

Join Tess Kincaid and her guests as they party like crazed weasels.

I am wrapping myself in a trenchcoat as I hear it can get wet and wild in Central Ohio this time of year …

Christina Hendricks is coming with me … together with several cases of Johnnie Walker which she gets free … the only reason I am bringing her to be honest as frankly she has an annoying giggle and a tendency to say “La di da” a bit too often for my liking … but what the hell she has a great rack …

So hurry along to Willow Manor and sign in … I will be there after breakfast … the full English of course …


(The Manchester Guardian, 3 March 1956)

The president of Scarborough Hotels Association, Mr. Harry Lund, is annoyed with people who praise foreign holidays at the expense of holidays at home, and he is also annoyed with the Government. At the association’s annual meeting last night he said:

“We appear to have two implacable enemies – the garlic and olive oil gang of the press and radio, and the Government. By the garlic and olive oil gang I mean those writers, usually women, who happily accept on the Continent the sort of carpetless room with iron bedstead, flock mattress and early Victorian which they would raise all hell about over here. Imagine what they would say if instead of bacon and eggs and the incomparable meats and vegetables of England we were to give them starch-loaded Continental breakfasts and main meals consisting of dollops of spaghetti with a little tomato sauce. If they are willing to put up with that sort of thing over there it’s their own look-out. What we do object to is that they should then be given good space in journals and valuable time on the air in which to drool about how much better and cheaper foreign holidays are than our own.”

I rather like the Last Supper idea (you choose what meal you would have before your life is cut short), but I have to expand the concept to cover the last day of my life.

For breakfast, I would touch nothing except a couple of young partridges (in season) or a fat capon, washed down with a quart of barley wine. I never eat aubergines, Scotch broth or shellfish at breakfast.

For lunch, I would prefer to sit in a convenient church (or in the churchyard, if the weather is fine) to eat cheese sandwiches with a bottle of whisky to help them down, whilst pondering the eternal verities – love and death, beauty and pain, yin and yang, etc.

In the afternoon, I would read the poetry of Tess Kincaid drinking a bottle of crème de menthe frappé over crushed iced. Tea I have never taken all that seriously (thin cucumber sandwiches, followed by hot chicken or eel pie, even sausage and mash, or toad in the hole, and ice cream).

Dinner being the most important meal of my last day on Earth, I would try to be as varied as possible, starting with broccoli and Stilton soup, Bury black pudding followed by demoiselles of goose, cold lobster or stuffed carp, goujons of sole with dill mayonnaise, smoked sausage with sauerkraut and juniper berries, roast suckling pig in honey, redcurrant sorbet, roast venison with pink gin apple sauce and roast leeks, artichoke souffle, orange or raspberry tart, snipe’s entrails on toast, Eton mess, Marsala honey pears with Gorgonzola, cream and nuts. I would also partake of brown rice to remind me of world problems.

Or I might just settle for the Tess Kincaid poems and some cheese on toast.

slow roast pork belly with proper crackling
amy winehouse hot
victoria coren cleavage
curvy kate
overgrown breasts
black sabbath
edwina currie ugly
one alfred place girls
owl woman
pushkin comes to shove
sand bra
four hook bras
william hague gay
mom a wreck
sexy black wild cats
anglo saxon coat of arms
syrian girls for marriage
old slums higher broughton
cameron is a cunt
tito’s vodka wife sues for divorce
nigella lawson tongue
lord chancellor’s breakfast
man at breakfast table in pyjamas
shemale toronto
grigori rasputin penis
is tony benn mad
redheads cigarettes
ironic country songs
soapy black tits
carol kirkwood spit roast
grief and ecstasy
a kitten dies
pumpkin porn

Click to embiggen

Dear Reader, be honest, wouldn’t you prefer to look at her across the breakfast table every morning, rather than, say, Gwyneth Paltrow? She certainly wouldn’t whine as much.

She could be the next Mrs Stainforth, but I’m not prepared to reveal her name … yet.

Thanks to Tess Kincaid for that word “embiggen”, which just seemed appropriate to the image.

Gwyneth Paltrow admits marriage to Coldplay’s Chris Martin ‘is hard’

She does the weather on BBC Breakfast. So she tells you how many inches you can expect, etc., etc.

She needs a good breakfast.

Motörhead’s singer on the best tour diets, American cheese and food fights.

(Source: Observer)

My mother made this upside-down cake that went horribly wrong. I made her make it again and again, for years, because I liked it so much. It never worked, yet it always worked, if you get my drift.

I don’t eat vegetables. I eat potatoes and green beans and that’s it. I don’t care if you eat 200 artichokes, you still won’t last through a tour. Mushy peas, I like. Brussels sprouts, foul. I won’t eat anything with onions in whatsoever, I hate them – me and Ringo Starr have that in common.

When I lived in Heaton Moor Lane in Stockport in the early 60s there’d be 35 other people living in the same room, so it was kind of cramped. The basic diet consisted of creamed rice. Punch two holes in the can with an old beer-bottle opener and you can suck the Ambrosia out, no problem.

I developed a taste for cold food. I couldn’t afford room service so I started stealing food uneaten left out on trays. Cold spaghetti, cold chips, cold steak. Cold pizza is a perfect breakfast, with lots of salt.

Girls used to steal food to feed us, out of their parents’ fridges and from stores. I knew one bird who could steal a box of cereal from a shop while only wearing a tiny mini-skirt and T-shirt. Where Phyllis hid the cornflakes I’ll never know.

I was in the Rockin’ Vicars, which was the first British band to tour behind the Iron Curtain. A lot of photos were taken of us next to milk churns. We had dinner – some terrible borscht – with President Tito [in Yugoslavia], but I was down under the table and don’t think he was particularly impressed.

Living in LA makes it so much easier to get food. I can have a full meal with two waiters and a table, brought to my door. Or order pre-cooked bacon strips, shipped to me in a polystyrene container of dry ice from Omaha Steaks. Yet I can’t buy boil-in-a-bag fish with parsley sauce, and there’s no proper Heinz baked beans, they’re in a different sauce. But mainly it’s the cheeses I object to.

My rider is a few biscuits, a few cakes, a meat plate, a cheese plate, some cigs, some JDs. I must say, I’m not completely fixated on Jack Daniel’s – it’s just that it’s the one with the best distribution system worldwide. At one point I mainly drank Southern Comfort mixed with Special Brew. What was I thinking?

If a bus driver says “You will not make a mess on this bus,” that’s tempting fate, isn’t it? I love food fights.

I once judged a spaghetti-eating contest, with Sam Fox. I just said ‘”Him first, him second and him third'”. They were gross, faces buried in huge bowls, covered in marinara sauce, I couldn’t tell one from the other.

I make a very good steak. I’ve never worn an apron – it’s beyond all reason. I prefer a completely splatter-free diver’s outfit in the kitchen.

Motorhead’s new single, Born to Lose, was released Monday on EMI.

Salford Quays

(Source: Manchester Evening News)

The man who is leading the BBC’s move to Salford has hit out against a ‘pathetic’ slur campaign against the north.

Peter Salmon, director of BBC North, took the extraordinary step of speaking out after a series of ‘grim up north’ stories in the national press claimed there was a revolt among staff unprepared to give up their London homes for MediaCityUK. Mr Salmon, who has been involved in programme making in Manchester and London for 20 years, accused critics of a ‘mud-throwing campaign’ against Salford. He said it was ‘unforgivable’ for London-based media to peddle old stereotypes and mislead people into thinking the city was an undesirable place to live. He said stories suggesting BBC bosses – including himself – were not committed to the project were ‘outrageous’.

Mr Salmon told the M.E.N: “People are throwing mud and hoping it might stick at the north which I think is unforgivable. We are trying to build on what Manchester has had in its DNA for years and years – lots of entertainers, great storytellers, wonderful journalists, a great television company, the world’s first soap opera. Instead, they dredge out all those old stereotypes about why it is so dreadful in the north and so wonderful in the south which I think is out of date and pathetic.”

Flagship shows including Match of the Day, BBC Breakfast and Blue Peter, will begin moving to MediaCityUK next year. But the national press has run a string of stories – illustrated with what Mr Salmon called ‘misleading’ images of the Salford Quays site – claiming that staff would rather quit than move.

Last weekend, it was announced that human resources director Paul Gaskin was quitting his £190,000-a-year job because of concerns. Mr Salmon’s deputy, Richard Deverell, will not be moving immediately – a decision the director said was due to ‘complex’ family reasons.

Mr Salmon’s own commitment was questioned in some quarters after he revealed that he and actress wife Sarah Lancashire – best known as dippy Coronation Street barmaid Raquel Watts – would only be renting a home in the north west. He has now confirmed they plan to buy a family home in the region as soon as the move would not disturb their children’s education.

Fuck ’em.

Black Dogs Defined

This is the best of me; for the rest, I ate, and drank, and slept, loved and hated, like another: my life was as the vapour and is not; but this I saw and knew; this, if anything of mine, is worth your memory.

(John Ruskin, Sesame and Lilies)

Whatever people say I am, that’s what I’m not.

(Alan Sillitoe, Saturday Night and Sunday Morning)

This is my letter to the world, that never wrote to me.

(Emily Dickinson, This is my letter to the world)

Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand:
Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!

(Edna St. Vincent Millay, Second Fig)

R.A.D. Stainforth

I was born before The Beatles’ first LP and brought up in the reeking slums of Jericho. I am in love with a woman called Hazel and in love with her daughter, also called Hazel, both of whom I met at Alcoholics Anonymous.

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