all tomorrow's parties

Tomorrow our token gay friend William FitzPatrick is coming round to cook dinner for us. He’s bringing his new partner Patrick FitzWilliam who we’ll be meeting for the first time. Not only is he cooking for me and Mrs B, but also for Laney (Mrs B’s sister), and our good friends and neighbours Van and Lauri Carr-Parker.

William likes to cook and we all like to eat. So what a great confluence of interests this represents. Now William’s best (platonic) friend is Laney. She and Mrs B fight like cat and dog like only siblings can. Laney has facilitated this event, but we are hosting and funding it.. Lauri and Van are freeloading, but they’re on high voltage having had a nipper and being unable to resolve themselves to all that that entails after ten years of twinkydom. Does any of this make sense? More later.

Have a good weekend.

fire and rain

When I start drinking whisky one is rarely enough. I enjoy it. I tend to talk a lot when I’m drinking whisky and most of it is rubbish. The other thing that happens is that I lose my memory. I have watched and, apparently, enjoyed so many films in my time only to happily watch them again days later as if for the first time with zero knowledge of the plot. This is all much to Mrs Backroads annoyance who, a) doesn’t drink whisky and b) even if she did, would probably remember every twist and turn of every film she’d watched. It’s like liquid Groundhog Day.

Last night I had a few too many whiskies and have absolutely no memory whatsoever of what happened on Celebrity Love Island. What a disaster. I had to ring Mrs B from work this morning to get an update (apparently Rebecca Loos was voted off and Paul Danan continued to be an absolute arse).

The other symptom of whisky over-indulgence is feeling down. I’m normally a fairly ‘up’ kind of guy, but when I wake up after taking on too much fire-water, my cup is always half empty and never half full. Trouble is, I now recognise this as a symptom now and deliberately adjust my behaviour to compensate for this natural tendency to be an Eeyore. This means I often end up trying to be bouncier than Tigger whilst feeling like poo. Sorry, I meant Pooh.

Perhaps I should try crack as an alternative? What do you reckon?

back to life

I often have to defend why I watch stuff like Celebrity Love Island and Big Brother, but y’know I sit in the car for the best part of four hours each day listening to Radio 4 and Radio 5 Live, I don’t have to sit in front of Jeremy Paxman when I get home. Now sometimes I do watch the TV news, but if there’s an Alias or a Boston Legal of even a Joey to numb my whirring brain, then on it goes.

This doesn’t mean that CLI and BB aren’t rubbish… they are… of course. Despite this though, they can be addictive. However, if that’s the case, my tolerance levels are on the increase or I crave something better, harder, stronger, faster. In the meantime CLI and BB will have to do. On BB though, my interest is actually waning in direct proportion to the amount of whining. Also, I think it’s pretty clear that Davina has lost interest in both the format and the people and it’s purely a cash cow for her. She should stand aside and move over for Dermot O’Leary who’s still a bit creative and currently just left with the crumbs from BB’s table.

As for CLI, it’s sort of semi-addictive because those involved are semi-famous. Also, there’s no attempt at even semi-hardship as the semi-celebs are mollycoddled through the day and plied with cocktail after cocktail. The best bit is the complete lack of chemistry between Patrick Kielty and Kelly Brook, plus Kelly’s increasingly bizarre wardrobe. It’s great watching Patrick wince at Kelly’s overall clumsiness and lack of ability with the script/autocue. But it’s Kelly’s deal, as she’s ‘consultant producer’ so unbelievably she calls the shots. Imagine the sound of two vacuums colliding.

show and tell

Of course the worst thing about local agricultural shows is the queueing. Alley and Snicket decided they wanted to go on the Mega Slide of Death as well as the trampolines. Five minutes on each cost us over an hour of queueing alongside every chav in Yorkshire, as well as the traditional arm and a leg.

By the way, I should issue a correction to yesterday's post. Those camping chairs have gone up... £5.99 each, £10.99 for two. Just keeping you up to speed.

These dos are hosted and attended by a mix of chavs, chavettes and farmer types, but the modest selection of kid's rides means that there are 'fair people' there. Where do you think they go in real life? Somewhere with no running water I'd imagine as they all appear to be caked with a patina of grime so thick you'd think they holidayed in Pompeii. At least they're keeping the boys at Golden Virginia in business.

Now, normally we walk across the fields to the show, but this year we reckoned Snicket wouldn't cope with the walk back after the excitement of the death-slide, some newly sheared sheep and a sweaty bag of pre-spun candy floss for £1.99. So. We took the car. It would have been a good idea except for the fact that the complex parking system was overseen by those pretend weekend policemen who are trained to run away from the first sign of bother and some army cadets. I'm pleased to say that the army teens were blessed with a good deal more common sense, communication skills and strategy when trying to clear a gridlocked field of angry motorists than the pseudo-police... better training I'd imagine. Plus they probably get to play with real guns.

Either way. It took an hour and a half to travel the half mile home.

We'll be there next year though. Oh yes.

land girls on film

It's the local agricultural show today. Hooray. Tents have been erected. Buns have been baked. Dogs have been groomed.

Ponies will jump over little fences, chickens will be judged, castles will be bounced upon, warm lager will be supped, those green folding camping chairs will be sold (£4.99 a piece or two for £8.99), candy will be flossed, young ladies in jodhpurs will be ogled.

All in all, a highlight of the social calendar.

the aviator

Corporate shindigs are funny things. Went to one yesterday in London and, as these things go, it wasn't bad. Some champers, a few IT bods talking about multi-channel bits and bobs, some posh buffet food, more champers and a toddle off home.

I flew to the smoke this time... normally I go on the train. To be honest there's not a lot in it. It's either a drive to Wakefield and the train to Kings Cross, or a hop over the Pennines to Manchester and a Fokker 50 to London City. There a bit bumpy those planes... they're less Meet the Fokkers, more Meet your Breakfast.

Anyway, it still feels more thrusting, dynamic and space age to go by plane. I like to sit there doing my So Doku and listening to my tunes whilst looking out over the title sequence from Eastenders.

Staying away in hotels is another matter though. They have full length mirrors in them you know. No Health and Safety warning or anything. I thought a was sharing room with a perspiring fat bloke with a bald head at first. I'd start running again but my calves have other ideas. Bugger. I've got my biannual BUPA health check at the beginning of next month. I'll get a right telling off.

Hey, I didn't tell you. When I came back from London on the train earlier in the week, I sat in the same carriage as Sadie Flower who won Strictly Dance Fever. You know the squat muscly jiver. Hey, and here's the thing. She's neither squat nor muscly... in fact very petite and pretty. Maybe I'll look petite and pretty if I enter for the next series... my rumba is to die for. Anyhow, I thought the other couple should have won but I didn't tell her that. She was on her way to appear on Look North and I didn't want to put her off her stroke.