Eat this 2010

The year is barely born but we're not going to succumb to subzero temperatures and the January Blues. It takes more than a head cold and unemployment to keep us down, oh yes. To the Russian Bar then in Darkest Dalston, top secret late night techno pit. There's little threat of anyone actually being there to hear us play, but in stark contrast to DJ Sonje's measly two CDs, I have brought enough music to play out the next Millennium. Nervous, Moi? OK yes, I'm a little bruised from the last time I played, over a year ago, when a very drunken man screamed 'what the f**k is this shit' in my face. Who knew the crowd wanted 70's disco rather than modeselektor, who knew? So it is with minor trepidation that I head out with Sonje, not helped at all by her super efficient two CD selection.

True to form tho, there is but a lone table of people in the whole place and a man behind the decks whom we later ascertain is some sort of manager, laying down some ersatz house hell. Our hosts, authentic, real and indeed, genuine DJ chappies Simon n' Matt from We make music, manage to hoof DJ Dire off the decks and Sonje steps up. By this time a small posse of Dalstonites have gathered and golly but I'm actually starting to relax and dare I say it, have fun. Sonje beats the crowdette with some hardy bangers, despite being thrown into the deep end somewhat with having to navigate the technological minefield that is the CDJ 1000. Bolstered with the confidence that only comes from playing in front of friends (and the odd lager) I tag her and take up arms. It is here that a curious thing happens. With the degree of total control the 1000s give you, you really needn't worry about such trivial things as beat matching, they do it all for you. For the first time in years, I can concentrate on the tunes. I'm racking things up well ahead of time, I'm playing things I've never played before - bejabbers, I'm enjoying myself and people are whooping! Granted it's just Margo L whooping, but I care not, a whoop's a whoop. This is the best set I've played possibly ever, and I'm wired to the gills when Matt eventually prises my fingers from the decks and I step down.

Simon and Matt play brilliantly of course and I'm humbled by Simon's mastery of the machinery. That said, I'm really not concerned that I'm not looping madly and filtering and utilising the multiple effects and tricks that the 1000s are capable of. It's about the banging, it always has been.

B

Christmastising - Part 2

Chrissie Day, Callooh, callay! Mr and Mrs. Le Grandbutte have been tasked with preparing the Christmas feast according to some ancient tradition that I dare not question. In an act of low cunning, the ham ladies cook the ham the day before and leave it strategically placed next to the pre-prepared turkey, complete with virtually identical tin foil covering. As it was now about -4 outside, the boot of the Freelander had taken on duties as an outdoor larder and this was where both ham and turkey had been stored. It's -4 then, maybe even less at six in the morning when chrissie cooking began. You're not going to linger are you? You're going to grab the nearest tin foil covered roasting tin and head for the house as quickly as possible. After two hours in what was admittedly a rather luke warm oven, the ham was unceremoniously removed and replaced with the turkey and lunch was back on track.

As Santa ( the real one, not that perverted tramp from the train) had made an appearance the night before (some of my finest work!) the living room was chocka with pressies and our junior citizens were near frenzied with joy. After some hand-to-hand combat, teen queen joined the pressie line and one by one, the youth were led in to fall upon the gleaming boxes with rabid delight. Lunch kicked off at around four, which is pretty standard Christmas Day eating time as far as I'm concerned, and it was indeed, most delicious. That evening we had some remarkably underwhelming fireworks and tried to float a few Chinese lanterns. Not something that should be attempted in either sub-zero temperatures or a heavily wooded area, or both. Having been elected Entertainments Reps, Loved One and I had purchased Britain's Got Talent - the board game, in a moment of desperation. God bless 'em though, the whole family dived in with remarkable enthusiasm and very little discernible talent, and much larffter and bad dancing ensued. (Apologies to Mick Jagger)

Boxing Day saw a select few take to the hills for a brisk walk and a cheeky pint at a handy freehouse that popped up out of nowhere. The entertainments team had managed to convince various naysayers in the crowd that a murder mystery was the way to go for the last evening's frivolity. True to form, all dressed up brilliantly and despite my own secret reservations, the whole thing was thoroughly enjoyable. I may of course have immersed myself a little too deeply in the role of demented Gestapo agent, Otto von Pinkwurst, but you know, you can take the boy out of the theatre etc.

So there you have it, Chrissie 09. Many thanks must go to KG and JG senior for their near mythical spreadsheet skills, DG for his outstanding role as Head of Cheese and to everyone else for cooking and drinking and larffing it up good. Happy New Year to all!

B

Christmastising Part 1

It seems like a dim distant memory now, but Christmas did actually take place, and I was actually there. As mentioned before, the so-called festive season occupies its own unique niche in the time/space continuum; managing to simultaneously be interminably plodding and over in a flash.

Our arrival in Derbyshire and Turpins Cottage was relatively painless thanks to the marvel of GPS and clear roads. While a lot of snow had fallen, this was hardly the arctic blizzard predicted by the met office doomsayers, who said we wouldn't get two metres past our front door. The Le Grandbutte Massive were almost in full effect but for lower middle sibling and family. After tottering up some lethal snowbound stairs, we were welcomed into the bosom of the hearth and fed a sumptuous ahem, Chinese takeaway. Our ground floor room was a double-edged sword; far from the madding crowd and with its own en-suite ablutions, but with only a wall of glass between us and the increasingly frigid night air. Sleeping in your dressing gown and scarf might seem fun if you're five years old but loses its appeal when one hits forty. We survived the night but had no choice but to procure a heater if we were to make it through the next five days with all our extremities intact.

With the arrival of lower middle son the next morning our party was complete - 11 adults, check. 1 teen, moody, check. 3 kinders, off their heads with excitement, check. 3 infants, cute, check, and one jaunty Labrador - Christmas could officially begin. Actually, with the arrival of Sainburys, Christmas could officially begin, bringing as they did most of the food and booze right to our door. As we were first up for cooking duties, we had armed ourselves the week before with smoked keilbasa and cannellini beans to create our state of the art Polish Sausage stew, famous throughout the, er, room. No mean feat cooking for the ravenous hordes, though fortunately the three under twos weren't exactly sausage fans and left us enough for seconds.

Day three was one of those days that slipped in time.I recall very tasty spag bog for dinner and that's about it. Some went walking, some went sledging, some went shopping, some had another Boddingtons, perhaps that some was me.

Day four and Chrissie Eve huzzah! As one of our junior members was fixated with trains, the entire clan had been booked aboard the Santa Express, leaving from the appropriately named station of Butterley. The Thomas rip-off you see above was our iron steed, and despite some blind leading the blind navigation, we managed to make it in time...for the session after the one we were booked for. No matter, we're here now, let's not hurl abuse at DG for his inability to read a very large sign that the rest of us saw, all aboard, let the magic begin! Hmmm, someone appeared to have left the magic at home as we clambered onto this dilapidated throwback to a bygone era and made our way to the front carriage. (by the bar, naturally) The old girl wheezed into life and crawled out of the station as we sipped our complimentary Baileys dinkies and gummed our complementary Iceland mince pies. Never mind, soon we'd be flying down the tracks, marvelling at the glorious winter wonderland flashing past our windows, reveling in the glory of this noble engine's steam powered majes... oh, we appear to have stopped about 2 minutes outside the station, curious. After some furtive banging and clanging, we saw Thomas chuffing past us in the other direction and came to the sad conclusion that this was the sum total of the Santa Express. A plod four hundred metres out of one end of the station, an uncoupling, recoupling, then a short run out the other end of the station, woo and indeed, hoo. Neeeeverrrr mindddd, there was still a visit to Santa, hurrah, huzzah! OK kids, are you ready to see Santa? Here he is!! Yes, he smells a little like Old Speckled Hen, chip fat and the bitter stench of despair, but it's Santa! I say Santa, shouldn't you have the wee kiddie on your knee and not his Mother? Steady on Santa old boy, that's my wife. Oi Santa, do you want a punch in the..gerrorf...oof.. get himm...ouch...smack.

After a jolly visit with Santa on his marvelous express, we head back through the snow for Chrissie eve, delicious Beef Casserole and a rousing game of trivial pursuit. This game dwells in that same slow, terminally dull part of time/space In fact, it rules it with a leaden, ponderous fist. After three years in the Trivialpersuitosphere, we eventually escape and hit the fridge, our brains numb with trivia. To be continued...