Ok, I’ll admit it. I’ve really enjoyed watching Britain’s Got Talent.
Yes, yes, I know, it’s trashy tv and I should be ashamed of myself and tune in immediately to the arts channel but you know what? You can’t beat a bit of ‘easy on the brain’ tv when your just plain knackered.
Of course I have every right to be knackered since in the last week Boofuls and me have been to Wales (twice for me), Glasgow, Manchester, Oxford for Boofuls today, then York next Saturday and that’s without mentioning all the downloading, backing up , processing and everyday business stuff we’ve been getting on with on between times. Oh yes, and don’t forget the doggie portrait session I did yesterday.
Never mind, we’re well into mad June and it won’t be long now till it’s over and we’re off on our jollies.
So. Back to the plot: Britain’s got Talent. Did you see the young lad with the blonde hair, the dancer? Wonderful dancer, graceful, light and a joy to watch. Except.
I just don’t ‘get’ contemporary dance. There’s music, there’s dancing but there’s no link between the two that I can distinguish. Does that make me a total pleb?
This young lad was dollying round the stage, leaping and twirling while a very nice piece of music played but could I make it fit? Could I hell.
Twirl, twirl, twirl, jump, pirouette, flail arms round a bit and drop to the floor at the end. As for the music, it went: lilt, lilt, lilt.
Try as I might I couldn’t make it fit. My brow furrowed with concentration as I attempted to understand the interpretation and understand it all but nope, I failed miserably.
Give me a nice bit of ballroom, latin or ballet any day, I can make sense of that.
The Glasgow trip was interesting. I’m not totally sure it justified the 400 mile round trip or the money it cost us for the seminar and hotel but it was ……..ok….ish.
Talking of the hotel – I don’t usually give out onions and roses to the same thing at the same time but I’m going to make an exception this time.
I’d really been looking forward to dinner in the hotel we were at as the restaurant had rave reviews.
It was with a great sense of excitement and occasion that we sat down at our table.
Boofuls ordered a bottle of wine and I’d ordered my customary g & t since as we all know me and wine aren’t the best of friends due to my allergy to it.
We began to peruse the menu.
The menu was lovely, pricey but lovely. I baulked at paying £23 for a 5 oz fillet steak but I justified it by telling myself it was good restaurant and it would be worth it.
For my starter I went for the haggis fritters, well, you know, when in Rome and all that. Boofuls went for garlic mushrooms.
Both starters went immediately back to the kitchen as they arrived at room temperature. Disappointing. Sigh.
Little did I know that was only the beginning.
We ordered our steaks, as normal, rare for me and medium for Boofuls. That was the plan anyway. When they arrived mine was ‘medium to well done’ and Boofuls’ was a chunk of wood, black on the outside, solid and dry in the middle. We really could have done with some steak knives as well but none were forthcoming.
“Excuse me, I don’t want to be a nuisance but…”
My steak went back to the kitchen, Boofuls decided to persevere with his, a decision he later regretted.
My second steak duly arrived, I prodded it with my finger. ‘Hhhmm it’s obviously not overcooked but…’
Sure enough, it was still mooing, a good vet could have revived it. It was the bluest of blue steaks. Not only that but it had not one, not two but three huge veins of gristle criss crossing it.
I pushed it to one side, bored with it all at this point.
Me? Bored with food? Unheard of!
The manager came across to us, “Is everything ok?
“Let me get you something else.”
No, thanks. I’ll eat the potatoes ( dauphinoise, very buttery and nice) and order a pudding.”
“Well the dessert and your wine is on us.”
So, along came the dessert menu. Of course I stopped reading as soon as I saw licorice ice cream. Yum, yum, yum. I love licorice. It came with a vanilla creme brulee which I thought was a funny combination but hey ho.
Pudding arrived, followed a minute or so later by the manager who by this time was almost wringing his hands with desperation, hoping to find happy customers.
“Is dessert ok?”
“Well……..yes, but….. is that licorice ice cream? It looks and tastes like vanilla to me.”
The manager’s eyes nearly popped right out of his head when he saw the little white blobs of vanilla ice cream on my plate. I’m sure I saw them quake with fear and try to hide behind the creme brulee pot at the look he gave them.
“I’ll kill him,” He audibly muttered under his breath.
He snatched up the dish of ice cream and marched off with it towards the kitchen, looking a bit manic, like Basil Fawlty trying to keep his cool and failing. I don’t know what he said to the chef when he got to the kitchen but I’m glad I wasn’t in his shoes because that was one irate manager.
By this time it had all become a big joke for me and Boofuls, helped along by the fact that I’d decided to help myself to his wine and the combination of that and not much to eat was playing a big part in helping me to see the funny side of it all. The rest of the evening past by in a merry, blurry haze. A merry, blurry haze I greatly regretted the next morning, I can tell you. When will I ever learn to leave the wine WELL ALONE?!
Unusually for an onions and roses I’m not going to name and shame the restaurant.
It’ll have to be an anonymous because I don’t think it would be fair to name them.
Although the food was dire the manager was brilliant and handled everything superbly. The bill for the entire meal was cancelled, including the wine, so me and Boofuls left very happy if a bit hungry and quite squiffy.
So there were are.
Onions and roses for the same place on the same day. Nasty big stinky onions to the inept chef but a huge lovely bunch of fragrant roses for the manager – and all the other staff at the hotel because everything else was spot on.