A little bit of lippy

Do they not feed their lesbians in Scotland? Are they not aware that the streets of Glasgow are literally bulging with deep-fried Mars Bars and pizzas? Apparently not, given the skeletal specimens on the BBC's new 'lesbian drama', Lip Service, last night. Or, 'vests and non-existent chests' as I am now calling it.

Yes, the ubiquitous tank top made an early appearance and then was on show throughout, adorning the ironing board frontages of a range of characters clearly ripped off from the L Word.

Frankie = moody, skinny, rock chick, female lothario = Shane
Tess = kooky, quirky, femme, blonde = Alice
Becky = straight girl goes experimenting = Jenny
Cat = uptight, control freak career woman = Bette

Plus, do they not realise it's fucking cold in Glasgow? If you're going to walk around in a tank top, low slung jeans and no bra all day, you're gonna get sick!

Despite all of this, I will still watch again next week. Any visibility is better than no visibility.

In the meantime I am going to share a nice Scottish recipe of Cullen Skink to feed those skinny lasses across the border. Well, they need the calories to keep their energy up for all that shaggin'!

Cullen Skink

750 ml full-fat milk
small handful of parsley, (stalks reserved), chopped
1 bay leaf
450g smoked haddock fillets
50 g butter
1 medium onion, finely chopped
200 g buttered mashed potato
salt, and freshly ground pepper

To garnish:

parsley, chopped
4 eggs, poached
croutons

Method

Pour the milk into a saucepan large enough to take the haddock. Add in the parsley stalks, bay leaf and smoked haddock.

Bring to the boil, reduce the heat and simmer for 4 minutes. Remove from direct heat and set aside to infuse for a further 5 minutes.

Remove the haddock, strain the poaching liquid and reserve.

Flake the poached haddock, removing any skin and bones.

Heat the butter in a separate non-stick saucepan. Add in the onions and fry until soft but not browned, around 3-5 minutes, stirring often.

Add in the strained poaching liquid, then stir in the mashed potato until you have a thickened creamy consistency.

Add in the chopped parsley leaves and the flaked haddock and simmer for a further 3-4 minutes.

Season with plenty of black pepper and salt, if needed.

Garnish each serving with a sprinkling of chopped parsley, poached egg and croutons.

A lil' bit of Southern style

I have been in a Southern state of mind recently. Maybe it's because I am reading Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, maybe it's because I am making Southern fried chicken tonight or maybe it's because I reminiscing about the road trip that I, Beth and our friends Richard, Sara and Craig took through some of the Southern states three years ago this week?

It was part holiday, part business trip as Beth had been commissioned to write two travel articles on Dollywood and Nashville for Gay Times and Diva magazines. Beth's got a thing for country music you see, primarily Dolly and a lil' bit of Shania thrown in for good measure. Speaking of Shania Twain, have you ever noticed that her and Cheryl Cole look really similar? Perhaps Shania's biological father took a trip to Newcastle and got saucy with a local lass? Seemingly we're not the only people who think this as this Facebook page suggests.

Anyhoo, Beth has got a country music 'thang' going on, which I share when it comes to Dolly and Patsy Cline. Actually, country music has a bona fide out gay woman now, the delectable Chely Wright. I've just read her autobiography, Like Me, which was really quite moving and she's a great spokesperson for the LGBT community. Plus, she's cute as a button.

So, I'm reminiscing about that trip, what we got up to, the food we ate and the multitude of beverages we drank. Here's a rundown:

• Arrive at Atlanta International Airport in a haze of Valium and gin. Consequently unfazed by the fact that it takes two hours to actually get out of the airport.
• Off to Mary Mac's Tea Room in Atlanta for a cliched meal of fried chicken, collard greens and creamed sweetcorn matched with copious amounts of Mint Juleps. Adds an interesting edge to my already Valiumed and gin addled brain.
• Sample the Atlanta gay scene, which has gone Halloween crazy and is good fun. Start on the Seven and Sevens.
• Pile in a monster SUV and climb high up into the Great Smoky Mountains to Moonshine Cabin and enjoy a hot tub at sunset whilst the eagles fly and the beer flows.
• Enter the hallowed gates of Dollywood, where it's not as camp as you would like and we experience some minor indirect homophobia (well the woman was from Arkansas). Plus it's 'dry'!!! Still, I got to see what I would look like superimposed with one of Dolly's wigs on. Maybe they should have a similar tool with Dolly's cleavage...not that I would need it.
• Go back to Moonshine Cabin and meet up with the owners and new friends, Ken and Jerry. Get them gradually drunk and show them how the Brits like to party.
• Hop back in the SUV to Nashville with a killer hangover. Hangover is sated with biscuits and beer at the Loveless Cafe, just outside Nashville
• Arrive in Nashville and head off straight to the gay scene, which is a blast, if a little thin on the ladies. Drink Whisky Sours.
• Make a mental note never to attempt to sing karaoke in a Nashville bar. I haven't got the range....or the talent.
• Enjoy huge slabs of meat and Alabama Slammers at Jimmy Kelly's.
• Country Music Hall of Fame, check, Ryman Auditorium, check, Grand Old Opry, check, RCA Studio B, check, Jack's Bar-B-Que, then Lower Broadway bars, music and beer...check.
• Get complimented on our trendy hair by Nashville tour guide, who surmises we must be European.
• Get gnashed and trashed on the Nash Trash Tour with the Jugg Sisters, in a sea of beer, 'horse doovers' (Southern hour'doves which consist of cheese from a tube on cheesy crackers), fake celebrity spotting and ribald jokes about what it would be like to be a lesbian and in the vicinity of Dolly's boobs. If you ever go to Nashville, you must take this tour!
• Have a panic attack at Nashville airport and so start on the Valium again. Consequently am the only one not freaked out by severe turbulence, plus Beth, Richard and I are the only ones drinking on the plane. What does it say about us?
• Arrive in New York where cab driver takes us to the wrong Hilton hotel. Result, stand up argument with said cab driver in Times Square.
• Sort out temper with pizza and beer at John's Pizzeria in the Village.
• Meet up with two friends from London and find the Cubbyhole bar in the West Village and remain in situ for the evening. You have to love a bar which plays both Dolly and the theme music from the Golden Girls on their jukebox. Richard manages to pick up a guy in what is predominately a girls bar.
• Sample monster sandwiches at Katz's Deli and walk the length and breadth of Manhattan.
• Retreat to the Cubbyhole again with a further two friends from London. I know there are more bars, but the jukebox is too good.
• End the evening sitting around a piano singing show tunes and drinking frozen margaritas at the Monster on Sheridan Sq. Those that know me, know I am in my element.
• Finish trip with cheesecake at Junior's in Brooklyn and more Valium and red wine in order to get on the plane home.

A good roasting

That's what some of the contestants on X Factor could have done with Saturday night - a good roasting. Preferably over a large open fire in the ITV studios. And throw in Louis Walsh and Dermot O'Leary for good measure. Roast leprechaun anyone?

Speaking of roasts, I have one in the oven right now. A rolled leg of lamb stuffed with capers, garlic and anchovies. I'm really looking forward to it. Certainly given that I have a minging hangover, caused by Cava, which only roasted meat and ample carbs will be able to penetrate.

Anyway, back to the show. Last night's programme put me in mind of a Pontin's holiday camp talent contest (Butlins would have been too good). Or at least a very poor year at Eurovision. Let's recap on some of the low lights:

• A rapping skeleton from with eyelashes nicked off some ropey drag queen attempting to convince us that Worcestershire is a hotbed of raw urban talent. Move over Brixton, the 'Malvern Massive' is where it's at.
• The reincarnation of Margarita Pracatan, but now she is a scary beardy weirdy bongo player from Brazil trying to channel Barry Gibb.
• Diva Fever - who might as well have just waved a massive rainbow flag on the stage for two minutes. It would have been more entertaining.They're gay you know.
• Storm Lee and his amazing troupe of dancing gimps

I could go on, the material was endless, not least Cheryl Cole's increasingly radioactive hue and the fact that every male contestant seems to have their level of campness cranked up to high octane (a shot of tequila for every time the term 'diva' is used next week...I will be rat arsed by the end). But I shall save myself for subsequent shows.

You're barred

My local pubs have turned into creches. As Crystal Palace climbs the charts as a desirable location to live (check out the Lonely Planet Greatest Little Know Neighbourhoods....number 5 in the World!), so come the Jamies and Olivias with their brood of Arthurs and Tillys to put the mockers on an enjoyable weekend drinking session with bawdy conversation.

Now, so as not to alienate my friends with children, I want to go on the record to say that I have nothing against children, but I do take issue with their posh "we really wanted to live in Clapham, but yummy mummy and daddy got hit by the credit crunch" parents forcing them on me when I go down the pub for a sociable drink. There they sit shoving lamb shanks and Pinot Noir down their gullets whilst Hector and Tallulah run riot. And of course, to the parents, everything their kid does is seen as unbelievably cute in a progressively precocious way and if you don't share their opinion, well then you're just a barren old witch! I love this scene in Sex and the City (start from 8:20 minutes) when Samantha takes umbrage for a similar situation in a restaurant.

Let's be frank, a pub ain't a place for a kid. I never went in them as a child. Well, at least not until I was 15 and could pass for 18 ;) In fact, the only memory I have of going into a pub as a child was in a pub garden in the Summer for a BBQ or the occasional Berni Inn for a prawn cocktail and steak dinner (check out this previous post about 80s dinners). But it's like these parents don't want to let go of their pre-breeding days. They still want to go down the pub and get pissed.....en famille! Now if I had children, I would want to spend my weekend days with them, doing things that we could collectively enjoy. I would not wash my hands of them, letting them do a screaming relay round the pub, whilst wittering on to Jonty and Lucinda over a couple of pints of Hoegaarden and munching on halloumi salads with chorizo.

Is the gastro pub to blame or is it the smoking ban? Bring it back I say or at least force all the posh parents to go to the Harvester down Beulah Hill if they still want to spend all weekend in the pub and have their kids in tow. That will soon take the appeal out of the occasion!

Mrs Slocombe has a lot to answer for

Beth and I have a pair of fat pussies. At least that's what the vet told us last week. In fact, she told that she too has a fat pussy. It's an epidemic!

You may have gathered that we are talking about our cats, but one can't help but slip in the the odd 'pussy' joke. I never tire of it. I blame Mrs Slocombe for that. In fact, I've often thought that if I ever had a band I would call it 'Mrs Slocombe's Pussy'. But then realised that it makes me sound like some dreadful 90s student who worships at the altar of the Mary Whitehouse Experience and Viz and who thinks it's funny to be 'ironic' about camp comedy and pop culture.

Th vet called our cat Jasper a 'big girl's blouse' the other day because he was shaking like a leaf during his annual check up. It was an amusing thing to say to such a big pussy who is normally full of bravado in the security of his own home.

Anyway, the upshot is, Jasper and Aslan are on a diet. Which displeases them immensely. For Aslan, that means she no longer is allowed tidbits of cheese when I open the fridge or gets to sample Mummy's baking. That cat is a whore for cinnamon! For Jasper it means special food for fatty cats, for he is one big bugger. It's not that he is fat per se, just big boned and well built. You see, I'm sensitive to his feelings, I am making up euphemisms for his weight problem.

He has to go back in six weeks for his weigh-in. It's quite an amusing sight seeing the veterinary nurse use a tape measure round his waist to measure his girth. What next, Cat Fat Fighters support group with Marjorie Paws?

The fact is, some of our friends have much bigger pussies, ours are slimline in comparison. And if they are reading this blog, you know who you are......