There are not words that can describe the greatness of the Wimbledon final just witnessed, and the two players involved. The levels of tennis, the style, power and determination displayed were like nothing I've ever seen. Sport generates cliches as there are only so many possible story lines and they must end up being repeated - this game deserves the cliche of 'taking tennis to a new level'. Certainly, in my lifetime, there has never been a game of such consistent inspiration and quality of play.
Rafa and Roger are a rivalry to savour - two complimentary talents so finely balanced. Both complete players, Federer's strength is the subtlety and fluency of his tennis whereas Nadal excels in the power stakes, blowing his man off the court. They are also perfect examples of two distinct types of top sportspeople. Roger exemplifies the oft-invoked 'being in the zone'. His focus is steely and his mind fully in the moment. He doesn't shout or wildly celebrate small victories, instead calmly moving from point to point, set to set, with total, unbroken concentration. He brings to mind athletes like Tiger Woods playing the back nine in the last round of a major, Steffi Graf in her pomp, Jonny Wilkinson dropping a vital goal, Zidane orchestrating a beautiful attacking move or Brian Lara in complete control of a crucial innings. His brilliance is clinical - which mustn't give the impression of sterility or caution as he has flair and genius aplenty - and betrays no chink of weakness. Nadal, on the other hand, can be seen in a long and proud line of impassioned competitors - with raging heart and sparkling genius not to be dulled. He invokes Flintoff imposing his will on the Australian batsmen with brute force of personality, McEnroe dying for every point, Martin Johnson dragging England forward or Roy Keane forcing his team-mates up to his level. The common factor is a desperation to win - coupled with the ability and skill to compete at the very highest level.
This discernable contrast of styles, play and personality makes this one of the greatest sporting battles we may ever see, and one to cherish for however long it lasts. So many times in this match you saw points at which any of the other players in this tournament would - and did in their games against these two - crumble. They would lack the necessary strength of character and faith in their ability to hit the line on a crucial point, to fire down that strong first serve necessary to save a break point against. So many times in this match did Federer and Nadal save those break points and make those winning shots. More often than not with a flashing winner any player would be proud of.
I thank whoever there is to thank for giving us sport, drama, entertainment and people of this quality - we are very, very lucky.
Sunday, 6 July 2008
Tuesday, 27 May 2008
Tangent? OK.
Well, I started this blog saying I'd write about my three simple pleasures in life; sports, music and food. Without even writing anything about music yet, I'm going to take a massive side-step and write something rather random about books. Ah well, I am rather simple...
What I've been reading, and thinking about, recently is Michael Chabon's rather good, non-patronising teen-fantasy (think Pullman rather than Potter) SUMMERLAND. It's an alternative universe story that draws its inspiration from Native American mythology and presents you with all variants of sentient dwarves, werebeasts, goblins, giants, oddities and pixies. These species live at various degrees of proximity, knowing of each other with varying degrees of certainty - some are close neighbours (with one forming a considerable portion of the diet of the other!) whilst others are mere rumours and myths to each other. What this got me thinking of is the position of humanity in the broader world. Is there really any difference between our relationship to the squid of the sea when compared to the giants of the frozen north and the reubens of the middling in Chabon's fantasy world? We both live in different worlds, have occasionally encountered each other and there's been some occasional eating. The big difference seems to be the fact that most creatures in SUMMERLAND are able to communicate in some way - inter-special - which allows them to recognise their common 'humanity', for the lack of a better word, should they be disposed to. Has our inability to communicate meaningfully with animals resulted in our apparent disrespect and abuse of them, their territory and their right to life? Or, is this just a natural mechanism of the animal world - you don't see plagues of locus/ants/squid chastised for their inhumanity and thoughtlessness? I think this is where the crux seems to be. As philosophers have argued about for years, we have some sort of an objective, reflexive sense of who and where we are. We have powers of REASON. I guess where I was really going with all this, is do animals share this power, but not the ability to communicate it to us? Perhaps they share it in differing degrees, as they seem to have differing powers of problem-solving and intelligence, but with no way of communicating it to us, at least not in ways we'd understand. I guess maybe a dog's returning of a stick may be their attempt to share with us their powers of reason. "Look", they say, "I understand that you threw it away, but want it back, so I will oblige. I am exercising my faculty of reason yet still you wont let me on the sofa. What must I do?!". Or maybe not. But they seem able to achieve the most incredible feats of navigation, organisation, adaptation, ingenuity and creation yet we still don't credit them with anything approaching respect-worthy intelligence. I'm not sure where I'm going with this, and I'm certainly not suggesting we shouldn't eat/farm/fish them, but, perhaps, we should do so bearing in mind the possibility that they might be sentient, reasonable beings with no means of telling us. That would be shit. For them.
Well, that is possibly the most worthless thing I have ever written, seeing as it doesn't reach anything approaching a meaningful conclusion. Seeing as the whole point of this blog is for me to practice my writing, the lesson here should probably be something along the lines of thinking before I write. At least slightly...
What I've been reading, and thinking about, recently is Michael Chabon's rather good, non-patronising teen-fantasy (think Pullman rather than Potter) SUMMERLAND. It's an alternative universe story that draws its inspiration from Native American mythology and presents you with all variants of sentient dwarves, werebeasts, goblins, giants, oddities and pixies. These species live at various degrees of proximity, knowing of each other with varying degrees of certainty - some are close neighbours (with one forming a considerable portion of the diet of the other!) whilst others are mere rumours and myths to each other. What this got me thinking of is the position of humanity in the broader world. Is there really any difference between our relationship to the squid of the sea when compared to the giants of the frozen north and the reubens of the middling in Chabon's fantasy world? We both live in different worlds, have occasionally encountered each other and there's been some occasional eating. The big difference seems to be the fact that most creatures in SUMMERLAND are able to communicate in some way - inter-special - which allows them to recognise their common 'humanity', for the lack of a better word, should they be disposed to. Has our inability to communicate meaningfully with animals resulted in our apparent disrespect and abuse of them, their territory and their right to life? Or, is this just a natural mechanism of the animal world - you don't see plagues of locus/ants/squid chastised for their inhumanity and thoughtlessness? I think this is where the crux seems to be. As philosophers have argued about for years, we have some sort of an objective, reflexive sense of who and where we are. We have powers of REASON. I guess where I was really going with all this, is do animals share this power, but not the ability to communicate it to us? Perhaps they share it in differing degrees, as they seem to have differing powers of problem-solving and intelligence, but with no way of communicating it to us, at least not in ways we'd understand. I guess maybe a dog's returning of a stick may be their attempt to share with us their powers of reason. "Look", they say, "I understand that you threw it away, but want it back, so I will oblige. I am exercising my faculty of reason yet still you wont let me on the sofa. What must I do?!". Or maybe not. But they seem able to achieve the most incredible feats of navigation, organisation, adaptation, ingenuity and creation yet we still don't credit them with anything approaching respect-worthy intelligence. I'm not sure where I'm going with this, and I'm certainly not suggesting we shouldn't eat/farm/fish them, but, perhaps, we should do so bearing in mind the possibility that they might be sentient, reasonable beings with no means of telling us. That would be shit. For them.
Well, that is possibly the most worthless thing I have ever written, seeing as it doesn't reach anything approaching a meaningful conclusion. Seeing as the whole point of this blog is for me to practice my writing, the lesson here should probably be something along the lines of thinking before I write. At least slightly...
Thursday, 22 May 2008
So...food.
Food. Lovely isn't it?...ummm...... I was, and am, still unclear whether food should really be part of the blog, and what writing about it would end up like. But, fuck that, I love food and am just going to ramble on about stuff seeing what happens.
So, what I've been enjoying eating recently is summery things. I don't mean salads (long-held motto being 'you don't make friends with salad' - at least not as a meal on its own. Great accompaniment maybe but a leaf is not a lunch...) but instead fresh tomatoes, Mediterranean flavours and ingredients, white wine making an appearance, fish, sugarsnap peas and yogurt. A current favourite way to start a lazy weekend day is a very simple omlette with a massive handful of parsley thrown in, served alongside some nice, interesting bread (nutty or soda...), goats cheese and fresh tomatoes cut up with salt, pepper and balsamic vinegar. Its almost a meze breakfast and great with orange juice, tea, the papers and a few cigarettes. Heaven.
I've also been making a spinach, ricotta and feta cannelloni around and about a recipe given to me by my friend rebekka - so easy and good for my vegetarian flatmates. The sauce is just red onion and garlic fried out, a few tins of good tomatoes, red wine, soy, worcestershire sauce and basil cooked slowly for half an hour or so. This is then poured over the cannelloni tubes which are stuffed with spinach (frozen is fine, and much cheaper, but can sometimes taste ever so slightly gritty and lacking in freshness....), crumbled feta and some nice ricotta. Amazing.
Somehow, whilst thinking about summery foods and other nice things, my mind has become stuck on tea. I love tea. I know everyone thinks they love tea but I'm fairly sure I love it more. Tea and I are like bonnie and clyde......gav and charlotte....... the french and surrendering... I just can't believe that anyone derives quite as much pleasure from tea as I do - it's a very powerful animalistic need in me...coffee hits a totally different spot so its not just the caffeine, but there's something essentially spiritual about a good cup of tea. Anyway, a couple of times recently, I've been lucky enough to wake up in a bed with a teasmaid sat within easy reach! I can confirm that there is no greater wake-up call than hearing the hiss of the teasmaid as the hot water transfers to the teapot, knowing your tea is brewing as your eyes open... sipping that tea, coupled with radio 4 on the teasmaid's alarm, is a truly regal beginning to a day...
Anyway, that's it, half an hour's tangental musings on food. And tea.
So, what I've been enjoying eating recently is summery things. I don't mean salads (long-held motto being 'you don't make friends with salad' - at least not as a meal on its own. Great accompaniment maybe but a leaf is not a lunch...) but instead fresh tomatoes, Mediterranean flavours and ingredients, white wine making an appearance, fish, sugarsnap peas and yogurt. A current favourite way to start a lazy weekend day is a very simple omlette with a massive handful of parsley thrown in, served alongside some nice, interesting bread (nutty or soda...), goats cheese and fresh tomatoes cut up with salt, pepper and balsamic vinegar. Its almost a meze breakfast and great with orange juice, tea, the papers and a few cigarettes. Heaven.
I've also been making a spinach, ricotta and feta cannelloni around and about a recipe given to me by my friend rebekka - so easy and good for my vegetarian flatmates. The sauce is just red onion and garlic fried out, a few tins of good tomatoes, red wine, soy, worcestershire sauce and basil cooked slowly for half an hour or so. This is then poured over the cannelloni tubes which are stuffed with spinach (frozen is fine, and much cheaper, but can sometimes taste ever so slightly gritty and lacking in freshness....), crumbled feta and some nice ricotta. Amazing.
Somehow, whilst thinking about summery foods and other nice things, my mind has become stuck on tea. I love tea. I know everyone thinks they love tea but I'm fairly sure I love it more. Tea and I are like bonnie and clyde......gav and charlotte....... the french and surrendering... I just can't believe that anyone derives quite as much pleasure from tea as I do - it's a very powerful animalistic need in me...coffee hits a totally different spot so its not just the caffeine, but there's something essentially spiritual about a good cup of tea. Anyway, a couple of times recently, I've been lucky enough to wake up in a bed with a teasmaid sat within easy reach! I can confirm that there is no greater wake-up call than hearing the hiss of the teasmaid as the hot water transfers to the teapot, knowing your tea is brewing as your eyes open... sipping that tea, coupled with radio 4 on the teasmaid's alarm, is a truly regal beginning to a day...
Anyway, that's it, half an hour's tangental musings on food. And tea.
Rugby World Cup!
Ha, well, honestly, I've just come back to this after a very long spell not writing anything (for various reasons, chief of which being a profound laziness) and it seems I set this blog up in May of last year. Unfortunately it looks like my blogging may have much in common with Christmas and marital sex - they all come once a year... hmmm, maybe I should leave the jokes alone for now...
...anyway, here's something I wrote ages ago and meant to post, but clearly never got around to - about the rugby world cup.
So, what to make of recent sporting events? The rugby world cup is my current focus – I’m devouring as many games as possible, trying to make sure I watch each team at least once. And loving it. But, the beauty of sport is that there's always something to discuss, improve or debate - and here's something I've been pondering recently:
- I think it’s hugely unfair that almost all the referees talk incessantly to the teams in English. Understandably, with the heartlands of the games being English-speaking, this reflects in the referees. But, with the increase of preventative refereeing – where the ref is constantly warning players of potential infringements, giving instructions and generally trying to shepherd the players through the numerous laws, by-laws and interpretations of the game – this hands an incalculable advantage to those English-speaking teams. For example, in both Ireland-Georgia and South Africa-Samoa you could see the non-englishised teams growing increasingly frustrated with giving away penalties and free-kicks for offences the opposition were avoiding by following the ref’s instructions - “hands-off’ and “roll away” being the most obvious examples. It’s an enormous advantage to have a final warning at almost every breakdown – when you hear ‘hand’s off’ you make an exaggerated gesture of throwing your arms up, and the foul is avoided.
Further, I’m sure referees must, unconsciously even, instinctively go to penalise someone when they’ve given a clear instruction to do something and it hasn’t been done. As much as the ref should know they’re facing a language barrier, the fact that the instruction has clearly been given and ignored can only prejudice what is, essentially, an instinctive reaction.
You could suggest that these instructions are so simple, why can’t everyone learn them? But rugby, especially these days, is such a frenetic, exhausting game that you can’t expect some lumpy Georgian prop who’s just run 40 metres to tackle an Irish back to be able to recall his rudimentary rugby-english and differentiate between an instruction to roll away and the demand that the tackled player release the ball, especially when it might be barked in any manner of heavily inflected national accent! The immediacy with which you comprehend your own language hands English-speaking players a real competitive edge. Is there a solution? I fear that if the refs suddenly imposed a policy of silence during play, the players would be so lost without their constant direction anarchy would break out – the first ruck would turn into a 30 man rumble for the ball. That or the English speaking players would take so long to get used to it the other teams would be handed huge advantages in the first games of any tournament…although that might not be a bad thing at all.
Generally, I think preventative refereeing is a great thing in national leagues, where everyone, or at least the majority of every team, will understand the ref. It really seems to improve the flow of a game when stoppages are avoided and players can quickly learn what the ref is expecting and where he draws the line. But, for the world cup, and also, whilst I’m thinking about it, international club tournaments like the Heineken cup, what can be done? Obviously, if bilingual referees can be found, then there is no problem. As long as he’s rugby-capable in both languages, everyone’s a winner. However, we can’t introduce bilinguity as criteria for ref-selection, or the current standard will drop even further. Officiating the modern game is near-impossible already, never mind making non-linguists think about something else. The only two solutions I can think of (short of inventing some babel-fish-like language device) is either cutting out all such game management, or rendering it universally understandable. I think you must either force players to make their own decisions and interpretations, and hope the referees can officiate consistently enough that the players will learn the margins and expectations as the games progress. Or, you devise some sort of simplified rugby-language. Perhaps referees should only be allowed to address players by nationality and number, and the only instruction they can offer is a polar yes or no. This should allow them to get their point across, either of admonishment or approval, without giving one side a huge advantage by offering specific instruction. For example, in the Ireland-Georgia scenario mentioned above, the ref might, instead of shouting ‘hands off’, shout ‘Georgia - one - NO’. As long as the foreign players can recognise their own number, and the name of their country (something, by the looks of them, some may struggle with!), it could work. It’s not perfect, and I’m sure would lead to some confusion, but if it even slightly rebalances a playing-field that is already skewed hugely into the big-boy’s favour through finances and infrastructure, I’d be in favour. These teams have really showed up this year (of course, not limited to the non-english-speaking, Canada and the US will both leave with real pride, but Georgia, Tonga and Portugal are the leading lights), huge of frame and heart with no little skill besides, they deserve a fair shot at every game, and I’m not sure the current situation is allowing it.
...anyway, here's something I wrote ages ago and meant to post, but clearly never got around to - about the rugby world cup.
So, what to make of recent sporting events? The rugby world cup is my current focus – I’m devouring as many games as possible, trying to make sure I watch each team at least once. And loving it. But, the beauty of sport is that there's always something to discuss, improve or debate - and here's something I've been pondering recently:
- I think it’s hugely unfair that almost all the referees talk incessantly to the teams in English. Understandably, with the heartlands of the games being English-speaking, this reflects in the referees. But, with the increase of preventative refereeing – where the ref is constantly warning players of potential infringements, giving instructions and generally trying to shepherd the players through the numerous laws, by-laws and interpretations of the game – this hands an incalculable advantage to those English-speaking teams. For example, in both Ireland-Georgia and South Africa-Samoa you could see the non-englishised teams growing increasingly frustrated with giving away penalties and free-kicks for offences the opposition were avoiding by following the ref’s instructions - “hands-off’ and “roll away” being the most obvious examples. It’s an enormous advantage to have a final warning at almost every breakdown – when you hear ‘hand’s off’ you make an exaggerated gesture of throwing your arms up, and the foul is avoided.
Further, I’m sure referees must, unconsciously even, instinctively go to penalise someone when they’ve given a clear instruction to do something and it hasn’t been done. As much as the ref should know they’re facing a language barrier, the fact that the instruction has clearly been given and ignored can only prejudice what is, essentially, an instinctive reaction.
You could suggest that these instructions are so simple, why can’t everyone learn them? But rugby, especially these days, is such a frenetic, exhausting game that you can’t expect some lumpy Georgian prop who’s just run 40 metres to tackle an Irish back to be able to recall his rudimentary rugby-english and differentiate between an instruction to roll away and the demand that the tackled player release the ball, especially when it might be barked in any manner of heavily inflected national accent! The immediacy with which you comprehend your own language hands English-speaking players a real competitive edge. Is there a solution? I fear that if the refs suddenly imposed a policy of silence during play, the players would be so lost without their constant direction anarchy would break out – the first ruck would turn into a 30 man rumble for the ball. That or the English speaking players would take so long to get used to it the other teams would be handed huge advantages in the first games of any tournament…although that might not be a bad thing at all.
Generally, I think preventative refereeing is a great thing in national leagues, where everyone, or at least the majority of every team, will understand the ref. It really seems to improve the flow of a game when stoppages are avoided and players can quickly learn what the ref is expecting and where he draws the line. But, for the world cup, and also, whilst I’m thinking about it, international club tournaments like the Heineken cup, what can be done? Obviously, if bilingual referees can be found, then there is no problem. As long as he’s rugby-capable in both languages, everyone’s a winner. However, we can’t introduce bilinguity as criteria for ref-selection, or the current standard will drop even further. Officiating the modern game is near-impossible already, never mind making non-linguists think about something else. The only two solutions I can think of (short of inventing some babel-fish-like language device) is either cutting out all such game management, or rendering it universally understandable. I think you must either force players to make their own decisions and interpretations, and hope the referees can officiate consistently enough that the players will learn the margins and expectations as the games progress. Or, you devise some sort of simplified rugby-language. Perhaps referees should only be allowed to address players by nationality and number, and the only instruction they can offer is a polar yes or no. This should allow them to get their point across, either of admonishment or approval, without giving one side a huge advantage by offering specific instruction. For example, in the Ireland-Georgia scenario mentioned above, the ref might, instead of shouting ‘hands off’, shout ‘Georgia - one - NO’. As long as the foreign players can recognise their own number, and the name of their country (something, by the looks of them, some may struggle with!), it could work. It’s not perfect, and I’m sure would lead to some confusion, but if it even slightly rebalances a playing-field that is already skewed hugely into the big-boy’s favour through finances and infrastructure, I’d be in favour. These teams have really showed up this year (of course, not limited to the non-english-speaking, Canada and the US will both leave with real pride, but Georgia, Tonga and Portugal are the leading lights), huge of frame and heart with no little skill besides, they deserve a fair shot at every game, and I’m not sure the current situation is allowing it.
Introducing... me, and my funny little blog.
I’d like to start this blog saying something clever and informed about Bacchus, or Epicurus, because I’ve got a feeling that they were two boys who knew how to enjoy themselves. Unfortunately that’s all I know about them, so my classical referencing serves only to illustrate my ignorance. Ah well, I am a simple man. My pleasures are many and varied, but those I think I’ll focus on are the rather odd trinity of sport, music and food.
Sport has always been a love, caught from my Dad and cultivated throughout my life. I’ve played with no discernable success, football being my soul-mate but I’ve had mucky little trysts with badminton, tennis, cricket, rugby, athletics and snooker. I’ve enjoyed them all whilst excelling at none. Where I have succeeded, if you’ll allow me to blow my own drum (mixing metaphors is another pastime), is in supporting. I am a first rate fan. I can talk semi-knowledgeably about all of the above sports, as well as cycling, motor-sport, squash, most Olympic disciplines, funny stop-start yank sports, darts and my grandmother’s favourite – lawn bowls. I buy the papers only for the back pages, listen to sports radio by habit and have my favourite pundits. I’m an inveterate recycler of opinion and fact, talking to friends and family for hours about tactics and personnel, as happy as a sports-hungry pig rolling in the muck of other’s achievements.
Music came along slightly later, crashing into my life with Nirvana, grunge, scruffy clothes and a guitar for my 14th birthday. My tastes slowly expanded to encompass reggae, jazz, funk, blues, folk, drum&bass, soul, country and hip-hop. I love anything that makes me dance, relax or, for the lack of a better phrase, has some sort of emotional resonance. I don’t believe you can say why you like something, the impulse of pleasure being so unconscious as to escape description. I just know that when I hear a tight funk rhythm, haunting folk ballad, skanking reggae beat or soaring jazz solo something moves within me. A sense of agreement, a feeling of correctness. Live music is the dream, but I like music to soundtrack as much of my life as possible – the ipod changed my life as suddenly everything I owned was available at any given moment. Why wouldn’t I want to be walking down the street listening to a Scottish sea shanty? How did I survive before I could? My own musical abilities somewhat mirror my sporting prowess. I’m an enthusiastic amateur. To play with people, round a camp-fire, in a school band or with friends is something that never loses its appeal. It’s an indescribable feeling when you’re creating music with others – an extra-sensory perception of connectedness. At whatever standard, when you play something well, as a group, there’s an elation that I’m not sure you can find in many other ways. To play to an audience, and earn their appreciation, is truly something else.
And food. My decision to include this in the blog is almost certainly creditable to my recent obsession with Nigel Slater. I love how he writes – his latest, ‘The Kitchen Diaries’, has been my bedtime reading for over a month now. His prose is possibly the most sensuous I’ve ever encountered – food erotica of the highest order. I’m a competent cook – I started young at home, contributing to my Mum’s dinner parties and trying to impress with my culinary mastery. I worked in a crappy Italian restaurant for a while, calling myself a chef when really it was cooking by very limited numbers. Subsequently I’ve mastered the roast dinner and various other staples, not quite intuitive yet but always trying to learn. Food, for me, is the most primeval of passions – a physical necessity taken to all possible extremes.
Sport has always been a love, caught from my Dad and cultivated throughout my life. I’ve played with no discernable success, football being my soul-mate but I’ve had mucky little trysts with badminton, tennis, cricket, rugby, athletics and snooker. I’ve enjoyed them all whilst excelling at none. Where I have succeeded, if you’ll allow me to blow my own drum (mixing metaphors is another pastime), is in supporting. I am a first rate fan. I can talk semi-knowledgeably about all of the above sports, as well as cycling, motor-sport, squash, most Olympic disciplines, funny stop-start yank sports, darts and my grandmother’s favourite – lawn bowls. I buy the papers only for the back pages, listen to sports radio by habit and have my favourite pundits. I’m an inveterate recycler of opinion and fact, talking to friends and family for hours about tactics and personnel, as happy as a sports-hungry pig rolling in the muck of other’s achievements.
Music came along slightly later, crashing into my life with Nirvana, grunge, scruffy clothes and a guitar for my 14th birthday. My tastes slowly expanded to encompass reggae, jazz, funk, blues, folk, drum&bass, soul, country and hip-hop. I love anything that makes me dance, relax or, for the lack of a better phrase, has some sort of emotional resonance. I don’t believe you can say why you like something, the impulse of pleasure being so unconscious as to escape description. I just know that when I hear a tight funk rhythm, haunting folk ballad, skanking reggae beat or soaring jazz solo something moves within me. A sense of agreement, a feeling of correctness. Live music is the dream, but I like music to soundtrack as much of my life as possible – the ipod changed my life as suddenly everything I owned was available at any given moment. Why wouldn’t I want to be walking down the street listening to a Scottish sea shanty? How did I survive before I could? My own musical abilities somewhat mirror my sporting prowess. I’m an enthusiastic amateur. To play with people, round a camp-fire, in a school band or with friends is something that never loses its appeal. It’s an indescribable feeling when you’re creating music with others – an extra-sensory perception of connectedness. At whatever standard, when you play something well, as a group, there’s an elation that I’m not sure you can find in many other ways. To play to an audience, and earn their appreciation, is truly something else.
And food. My decision to include this in the blog is almost certainly creditable to my recent obsession with Nigel Slater. I love how he writes – his latest, ‘The Kitchen Diaries’, has been my bedtime reading for over a month now. His prose is possibly the most sensuous I’ve ever encountered – food erotica of the highest order. I’m a competent cook – I started young at home, contributing to my Mum’s dinner parties and trying to impress with my culinary mastery. I worked in a crappy Italian restaurant for a while, calling myself a chef when really it was cooking by very limited numbers. Subsequently I’ve mastered the roast dinner and various other staples, not quite intuitive yet but always trying to learn. Food, for me, is the most primeval of passions – a physical necessity taken to all possible extremes.
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