Purging to the sounds of Miles Davis

For a boozy weekend, this one was actually of a very high quality. So since Friday night I managed to sneak in two runs, a big shop, a clean, about 5 loads of laundry, an afternoon in the luxe town of Doncaster (more on that to come), a further attempt to get into Mad Men (it’s working), a bake, a slow cook and a chance to catch up on the magic that is the new look X Factor. Seeing as it had all the makings of a too long drink binge in Donny with the whole of Sunday spent with my head down the toilet, I think it’s a huge success.

I apologise to Leanne for missing her leaving drinks Friday. After what was supposed to be a quick browse round Waitrose turned into a bust, with nothing I wanted being available, I was far too wound up to settle into a nights calm drinking. It would have been a 4am hoedown in Dempseys for sure. So I ran, cooked a nice dinner, and went to bed for 10pm. Craaaazy.

So Saturday morning came around, and I couldn’t settle in bed, so ran again, and got home for the Great British Bake Off. Despite being seething that I was not on the show myself, it was a carb comfort blanket of truly British proportions. Anne and I watched together, her down in Plymouth, me in Sheffield. It’s quite funny, the delayed but same reactions we have. Her description of the food historian as a “ginger vampire teaching us about cake” make me snort tea up my nose through laughing.

When you watch the show, it makes baking sound like some kind of chemical engineering. Ok, there will be a science to it, rising agents, wet into dry mix, degree of mixing effecting the end result etc. But if you asked half those contestants about the exact science, they would say eh?! They would say, like I would, the eggs don’t mix right well if the eggs are cold, or the butter mixes in better when it’s proper room temperature, when it can get nice and creamy. It was so tense, I got so into it. Although second series is always a toughie, as you allocate names for them, like “new Ruth” or “new Miranda”. So far, I haven’t allocated a new Edd. I’m not sure who so far. Guinness cupcake guy, and the university bake club guy are not long for the competition would be my prediction.

Oh and by the way here is the photo of me, mum, nan and Claire with Edd.

Formality of the photo aside, it’s quite a nice one.

So for the rest of Saturday, Donny Pride called. Last year’s Doncaster Pride was z list celebrity heaven. A day at Doncaster racecourse, in a VIP lounge with a balcony overlooking the action, with a steady flow of low rent celebs being bought in for photos. We loved it. See the following rogue gallery of 2010 shots:

When he held us (we breathed again)

We’d never had a dream come true…

Oh it’s a mystery….

This year? Jo was returning, minus Bradley and Paul, who probably had pies to devour or something.

It was rough. Beyond rough actually. It was quite scary. And strangely devoid of attractive people. Now, I’m not a resident of Hollyoaks village, where the ugly or overweight are bought in for light relief. But it was quite stark how odd the common or garden LGBT residents were.

We stayed for a while, to hear the Pink tribute, Abba tribute, Boy George experience (the experience was he did Karma Chameleon and two other songs which were never by Boy George) and some Doncaster folk duo. We also enjoyed a lesbian who signed along to songs. It was a weird act, made even weirder by her choice of songs. Loving Each Day by Ronan Keating was lame in the early naughties when it was released, so why that song was chosen escapes me. And her second song, the charming Fucking Perfect by Pink, was rather inappropriate given it was barely 5pm. But its nice to know the sign for fucking is literally making a circle with one forefinger and thumb and penetrating it with the forefinger of your other hand. Which was the sign Everyone in my school used to demonstrate fucking and I adopted also throughout my adult life. Nice one.

Once this highbrow entertainment finished, we jogged on home. After a rather regrettably lairy bus journey, full of overly drunk loud lesbians who wore t shirts stating such lovely sentiments as “loves minge” and “Nice legs what time do they open”, and a train journey shared with a queen with drag queen eyebrows and a mobile phone with horrendous modern music, we went to MC and Amy’s friend Gill’s birthday party. A much nicer affair. The restaurant, La Mama was a bit of a find and we must go for dinner one night. Very nice atmosphere. They had a turn on and everything.

On the train, we discussed all our celebrity favourites. JLo’s pillowed face on a D Listed post, Fishsticks Paltrow and her lack of carbs in spite of what her book and Goop may allude to, and then the oddness that is the Jamie Cullum and Sophie Dahl marriage. We Still can’t figure it out. We also watched, as I have discussed before, The Delicious Miss Dahl, and rolled our eyes at the faux luxe lifestyle she wanted to portray. Also the fact she wanted us to think she lived on endless crumbles, chips, cakes, and stodge. No she doesn’t. And if she does, I doubt it’s in the usual quantities one would treat themselves to. she is far too petite. But all the jazz and croissant stuff in that book truly put me off. And don’t get me wrong, I actually like Jamie Cullum. I bought the Twentysomething and Pointless Nostalgia albums. I liked them both. And I like Sophie Dahl, I loved how she defied the supermodel boom of the 90’s, them conformed to it. But it’s a coupling I still can’t compute.

So today, in my own Sophie Dahl-esque way, I had a lovely Sunday morning. Mad Men, a cup of tea and a banana, followed by toast, scrambled egg and bacon, with a couple of hours baking listening to vintage Doris Day, followed by making a slow cooked beef dinner followed by It’s Complicated and a snooze, and some washing being prepared ready for another week at work. Lovely. Great success. Ok, so I have only been as far as the bin out back today, but I don’t care, it’s a lovely day for a potter around in my comfy clothes.

And as for today’s bake. It was a carrot cake. The most moist, delicious carrot cake ever created. God love it. Or rather, Pete and I love it.

And that’s my weekend in a nutshell. Rather successful all things considered. I have got some more ugly TK Maxx finds to blog, but moderation dear, moderation. Righty ho, off to bed.

Night readers, blog later x

Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

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