Feel the burn

(And so Late Bland shuffles shamefacedly back into the world of blog, with only some lame excuses to explain away his prolonged absence).


Well, I've been busy, you see? Marxist Jim had to go into hospital to have his ulcer seen to, and then Vinnie went home to the land of moose and Mountie for a fortnight, and then our suppliers delivered all this Blossom Hill that we hadn't ordered and it took an aeon to sort out.


And, erm... well...


Ah, heck. I'm a lazy fucker. So sue me.


Things have been pretty blissful on the domestic front, however, despite the fact Lucy has decided that the flat needs a lick of paint. Actually, that is something of an understatement. A lick of paint would be fine. But Lucy has elected to paint a mural in the living room. It all started on a Sunday morning about a fortnight ago - we were tangled together on the couch after a row over who was going to get the papers had turned into a cushion fight, which in turn had turned into an impromptu bout of rumpy-pumpy.


Me: You've got feathers in your hair.


Lucy: So have you. (pause in which I languidly stroke her hair, and she stares intently at the living room wall) That wall looks awfully bare, you know.


Me: Mmmm... What? Oh, yeah. I suppose it does.


Lucy: I think I might liven it up a bit.


Me: Yeah, sure. Whatever. (stroke, stroke, stroke)


I have been living with Lucy for the best part of a year now. You'd think that I would have learned that saying "Yeah, sure, whatever" to one of her schemes can only lead to either (a) acute embarrassment or (b) lots of hassle. Or sometimes both at once.


She has yet to start painting. But the flat is strewn with pieces of A3 paper with potential designs scrawled all over them. Some of them are genuinely alarming (I am thinking specifically of the drawing that seems to represent a pregnant woman giving birth to hordes of Giger-esque nasties. Fortunately, Lucy rejected this one as "too derivative", saving me the trouble of pointing out that having our living room dominated by a mural that would give Hieronymus Bosch nightmares would hardly be conducive to a happy home life).


I have resolved to never say "Yeah, sure, whatever" again. Ever.


But I didn't start blogging again so I could tell you about Lucy's creative efforts. No, I was spurred to put finger to keyboard by the Chilli Con Carne Fiasco. It was so traumatic that it has to be capitalized.


Picture the scene. As a surprise, Late decides to cook his famed chilli con carne for his lady love. He makes an effort. He lays the table, lights candles, polishes the cutlery, opens a damn fine bottle of red (Chassagne-Montrachet 1er Cru 2001, an outstandingly earthy burgundy with cherry fruits and well-structured tannins). He makes with the shiny knives. Garlic - crush, chop, chop, chop. Onion - chop, chop, chop, wipe away tears, chop, chop. Red chillis - de-seed, chop, chop, chop, ooh, hang on, quite need the loo actually. Late puts down his shiny knife and heads off to the little boys room.


 


You can see where this is heading, can't you?


 


Yes, your beloved hero forgets to wash his hands after chopping the chillis. Meaning he gets chilli on his chopper. And so it was that Lucy turned up to find her darling boyfriend curled in the foetal position, whimpering softly, with his cock stuck in a tub of Yeo Valley natural yoghurt.


We drank the wine and ordered a takeaway pizza. Hawaiian. No chillis.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Casillero del Diablo Malbec 2003 (Chile). A complex red with chocolate and cedar notes. And it's from Chile, see? Drink it, reflect on my burning John Thomas and make a mental note to always wash your hands after chopping chillis. £5.49
4.10.04 14:15


Retail Outlet of the Damned

You're all familiar, I'm sure, with the residents of our little arcade. At the far end, Bricks and Mortar Estate Agents sits in a prime position by the pelican crossing; look in its window and you will see Wall-Street Phil on the phone, his face twisted into a sweaty panic as he fails to sell a semi-detached fixer-upper to a prospective homeowner. Next to that is Giannone's cafe, which never seems to shut and is always full of people eating all-day breakfasts, bubble 'n' squeak and jam roly poly pudding. In the middle is the Bottle Shop, its glowering facade a warning to foolhardy punters that this is a Serious Wine Merchants and that any request for Piat d'Or will be met with either derision or a punch on the nose. Beside the Bottle Shop sits Curl Up 'n' Dry, where Stan and Carol's marriage disintegrates to the sound of Heart FM and the snipping of scissors. And next to that? Next to that is the Cursed Shop.


Every arcade seems to have a Cursed Shop. It is the shop that is always either boarded up or on the verge of closing down. It's as if, back in the mists of time, a shopkeeper gave the wrong change to an old gypsy woman and in revenge she laid a hex upon the premises that meant any business based there was doomed to failure. Even if King Midas set up shop there giving away free gold, there would still be a 'Closing Down' sign in the window within six months.


On our arcade, the Cursed Shop used to be Rock 'n' Sole, the local chippy. It opened in a blaze of optimism back in 2002, then died a long, lingering death until it finally closed at the beginning of this year. I went in there, once. Everybody only ever went in there once. The chips they served tasted like nothing on earth. Pale, greasy fingers that seemed to be a combination of reheated styrofoam and deep-fried cardboard, with a soupçon of ammonia thrown into the mix. Prior to that, it was a perpetually-empty kebab house, its shining elephant's leg of doner meat turning sadly as the proprietor contemplated ending it all. Before that, it was a butcher's shop that was forced out of business by the colossal aisles and knock-down prices of the Sainsbury's Savacentre down the road.


So the shop has been boarded up for a good while. Graffiti, courtesy of the Steves, has blossomed over its frontage (including the slogan "Steve-O + Hayley 4 Eva" in red spraypaint - a foolish thing to advertise, in my opinion, considering how enraged Marxist Jim was and still is about the fact that one of the local youth got his only daughter up the duff). But in the last few weeks the boards have come down and decorators have been painting the shop a dark, glossy green. A few polite questions to the fellow doing the painting (a spry little chap called Terry who is perhaps the best whistler I have ever encountered) revealed that the Cursed Shop is to be turned into a health food store.


Health food? Here? There must be some sort of mistake. People round here regard "health food" as the salad option in McDonalds. And even then they choose the Big Mac with extra large fries. The concept of dining on quinoa and organic pulses is as alien to them as the idea of wearing a little less 9kt gold jewellery from Argos.


Ah well, another small business doomed to come in with a bang and go out with a whimper.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Bourgogne Passetoutgrains 2002 (France). A delightfully fruity wine, at a great price, ideal served slightly chilled. And if this was the Cursed Shop, I wouldn't have an icicle's chance in hell of selling it. £4.99
5.10.04 14:19


Facial fuzz

We don't take things very seriously here in the Bottle Shop. I think that is why I like it here so much. In my previous life as a high-flying, hard-dealing, coke-snorting Man Of Business I took life very seriously indeed. Which was probably why I ended up wigging out in such a spectacular fashion. Nowadays I am more relaxed. I now accept that shit happens and, rather than allowing it to stress me out, I either (a) laugh at it or (b) drink heavily until the shit goes away. This paradigm shift owes a lot to Lucy's anarchic approach to life. It is impossible to take anything seriously when your girlfriend is a Grade A, five star, madder-than-a-badger-in-a-wig nutjob.


Take today as a prime example. Marxist Jim has taken Hayley for an ultrasound scan of his future grandchild (presumably so they can check for any '666' birthmarks before the baby is born), thus leaving me to deal with one of our more fractious suppliers. We're also supposed to be doing a stock-take. It's a busy day in the Bottle Shop. So how are Late, Lucy and Vinnie dealing with this unaccustomed activity?


 


Why, we're wearing false moustaches, of course.


 


I'm sure you can guess whose idea it was (clue: it wasn't mine, nor was it Vinnie's). Lucy went out to the shops earlier on this morning, ostensibly to buy some stamps, and came back half an hour later excitedly waving a paper bag.


Lucy: Check out what I found!


Me: A paper bag. Amazing. Well done.


Lucy: No. Moustaches!


Vinnie: Aw, cool!


Me: Words fail me.


Lucy: Let's put them on now.


Vinnie: Yeah, man.


Me: We've got a stock-take to do. We haven't got time.


Lucy: Oh tish. There's always time for moustaches.


There's no arguing with that statement. We each chose our "stylish mustaches" (as the packaging would have it). They were self-adhesive, so fortunately we didn't have to faff about with spirit gum like bad actors in rep.


Lucy chose The Hollywood:

She looked surprisingly sexy, a fact that I find faintly disturbing. I've never had a thing for moustachioed girls up until now. Maybe I should start taking holidays in Greece.


Vinnie plumped for The Bruiser:

Which made him look like a scruffier version of Charlie Chaplin, only minus the bowler hat and cane and with added piercings.


I selected The Weasel:

I like to think it gave me a rather raffish air. Like the Terry Thomas of wine retail.


(I hope you're impressed with the artist's impressions, by the way. I spent a good half-hour fiddling around on Microsoft Paint to do those, a half hour that would probably have been better spent doing our stock-take. Never let it be said that Late Bland didn't know how to avoid doing work).


We've kept them on all day and they have afforded us - and the customers - much mirth. What Lucy said is true - there is always time for moustaches. Now, if I can just persuade her to keep hers on when she comes to bed tonight...


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Durius Tempranillo 2002 (Spain). Rich vanilla aromas overlay rich summer fruits in this punchy red that, were it to have facial hair, would definitely wear a twirly Dali-esque 'tache. £6.99
8.10.04 16:29


Oh, and in other news, Lucy has now been working in the Bottle Shop and enriching our lives with her weirdness for exactly one year. How time flies when your mind is being boggled.


 


Time to crack open some Perrier-Jouet, I think. We'll keep our moustaches on while we drink it.
8.10.04 18:11