Derwentwater

It's a glorious quality - when a place can conjure joy in one's soul no matter what the weather. Your home can do this; your wife's bed, her legs spread, her eyes wandering slowly and encouragingly over your body till she looks at your penis and says, "inside me now god dammit, what's holding that rod back?"
And Derwentwater can manage this; a beautiful mid-sized Victorian lake, built by the Edwardians in 1675, complete with 5 Islands and, thus, able to accommodate your whole family + guests on your long weekend break.

And the whole lake is effectively a game's room. There are boats; rowing boats; motor boats; wind boats; wind surfing boats (although these are a menace); kayaking boats; canoeing boats; and ferries for those people who want to experience the lake with as many people as possible.

And surrounding the lake is land; and on that land, to the south of the lake, is the glorious town of Keswick; populated, largely, by bed and breakfasts from the 1930s but, also, by some hotels and more modern bed and breakfast establishments (particularly those that serve fishcakes rather than the usual humdrum bacon, egg, potato waffles and sausage).

There are pubs galore in this fabled town - pubs that develop in one's mind images of the countryside - The Dog and Huntsman; The Manure and Footprint; The Pig and Fucker - and they all serve food that wouldn't look out of place in your mother's kitchen; plates filled with frozen peas, frozen carrots, Asda's own frozen cauliflower cheese (with real cheese), frozen pies, and oven chips (all cooked of course, straight from the freezer)

Keswick also has many shops offering Georgian clothes at the half the price of Asda's own Georgian range. I went into a shop that was selling see-through knickers; and so you see, there is titillation to be had too.

Derwentwater has it all. Water!

But travel far from Derwentwater and one may end up stranded in Cockermouth, home of the blowjob brothel, Dick-in-Gob, home of a village idiot named Dick-in-Gob, and home of a local cuisine that is basically a sausage stuck in badly mashed, mash potato, known locally as, Cockermouth Smashed Baked Potato.

Wander into the mountains (which have all been climbed by Englishmen) and you could end up in the Honister pass, known for its Slate...

Oh, I must jump back to Keswick, for a line or two, and mention the pencil museum.

...mine which has some appalling reviews on Tripadvisor; but all mines have appalling reviews on Tripadvisor, presumably because people expect more than a damp cave.

I realise this is no longer about Derwentwater - but what can one write about a lake? I mean, it's just a fucking pond. Occasionally, one will see a jet of the RAF fly over and your girlfriend will yelp and you can comfort her by gently massaging her vul...

Taking Appearance Minutes and Quality of Performance into Account When Calculating Footballers Salaries.

Do footballers deserve their huge salaries even when they are not appearing on the pitch?

Let's look at some randomly selected Man Utd players and see how much they have earned for every minute of football they have played so far this season.

Rooney  - £4319
Van Persie - £3482
Herrera - £2936
Young - £2667
Rafael - £2453
Fellaini - £2227
Mata - £2122
Januzaj - £2057
Evans - £2023
Smalling - £1780
Carrick  - £1747
Shaw - £1560
Valencia - £1228
Jones - £1112
De Gea - £870

Wow!  For every minute Wayne Rooney is doing his job he gets paid £4,319!
But ignoring that, look at three of United's bottom 5 earners - Carrick, Valencia and De Gea.  United's best players are the lowest earners simply because they've played more minutes.  Look at Rafael, he's done nothing this season but he's up there in the top 5.

Some could argue United have been worth their money this season; but what about fans of Aston Villa, for example?  One of the most appalling teams ever to disgrace the Premier League, here are some randomly selected Aston Villa players.

Guzan			348
nathan Baker			420
ron vlaar			647
Jores Okore			471
Ciaran Clark			303
Leandro Bacuna			2022
Tom Cleverley			436
Ashley Westwood			265
Fabian Delph			664
Andrea Weimann			410
Gabriel Agbonlahor			698
Darren Bent			20000
Cristian Benteke			618

Holy shit - Darren Bent has earned £20,000 for every minute of football he has played this season.  Bacuna has earned more than Carrick, more than Shaw, more than Valencia, more than Jones, and more than twice that of De Gea, and he's been SHIT!
The other players are earning a lot less than United's in general, as one would expect, but are they worth the amount they get paid?  Should Benteke get £618 per minute even though his performances have been low in quality?

I propose footballers should get a basic salary and then bonuses based on appearance and quality of appearance.

And that basic salary should be £25,000 a year - enough on which to live.  But if you ain't playing and you ain't playing in a manner that deserves recompense, then you ain't getting any more.

Appearance bonuses can be linked to what a player might demand for a weekly wage.
Assuming that a footballer could play up to 50 games a season, players would earn the following per minute:

Rooney - 3467
Van Persie - 2889
Herrera - 924
Young - 1364
Rafael  - 693
Fellaini - 924
Mata - 1502
Januzaj - 520
Evans - 751
Smalling - 693
Carrick - 924
Shaw - 578
Valencia - 809
Jones - 578
De Gea - 867

Ignoring player performance, here's what the United players have earned so far, this year, on the new appearance bonus system.

Basic Salary +

Rooney - 5778922
Van Persie - 4977556
Mata - 2208267
De Gea - 1794000
Young - 1448096
Valencia - 1106560
Carrick - 1015964
Fellaini - 796871
Jones - 623422
Herrera - 604587
Evans - 579107
Smalling - 560907
Shaw - 444311
Rafael - 406987
januzaj - 273000

Some of these salaries are still huge but you can immediately see that those players who have played more games have jumped closer to the top whilst players like Rafael have plummeted to the bottom.

But what about taking into account quality of performance too?

Based on performance (using performance statistics) here's what United's players should have earned so far this year.

Rooney - 7763034
Van Persie - 6786067
Mata - 2186184
De Gea  - 1584700
Valencia - 947953
Young - 873685
Carrick  - 650217
Fellaini - 594997
Jones - 324180
Herrera - 300278
Evans - 229712
Smalling - 205666
Rafael - 120739
Januzaj - 34580

As you can see - the best players are still earning the big bucks, but those who are not playing or under-performing are taking a decent hit in their wages - they're still big earners but it's less grotesque than it used to be when they were getting paid for either not doing their jobs or not doing their jobs well.

But what about Aston Villa.  After a miserable season, what do their players deserve from their performances?

Guzan				468832
nathan Baker				9694
ron vlaar				68735
Jores Okore				73791
Ciaran Clark				96864
Leandro Bacuna				2571
Tom Cleverley				305252
Ashley Westwood				140344
Fabian Delph				159083
Andrea Weimann				323060
Gabriel Agbonlahor				618735
Darren Bent				0
Cristian Benteke				141353

Look at that!  Bent has nought but a basic salary.  Bacuna has earned £2,571 in total whereas before he was earning almost that a minute.  Under the new system, he has earned 1% of what he would have earned on his current salary.  Unfortunate for him, but that's what you get when you're a bit shit and don't deserve your vast fortune.

Some players have done quite well out of the new pay system but not many.  Here is a list of percentages of pay under the new system compared to current salary.

Rooney			108
Van persie			113
Herrera			016
Young			031
Rafael			008
fellaini			031
Mata			070
Januzaj			003
Evans			015
Smalling			014
Carrick			034
Shaw			014
Valencia			056
Jones			027
De Gea			088

As you can see, Rooney and Van Persie have earned more than they would have done.  De Gea and Mata are doing pretty well too.  But all the other players have lost money, whether due to lack of appearances or lack of quality in performance.

And Aston Villa?  Oh dear - Only Guzan emerges with any credit.

Guzan			065
nathan Baker			004
ron vlaar			011
Jores Okore			015
Ciaran Clark			027
Leandro Bacuna			001
Tom Cleverley			042
Ashley Westwood			039
Fabian Delph			022
Andrea Weimann			054
Gabriel Agbonlahor			052
Darren Bent			000
Cristian Benteke			020

House Restaurant, Altrincham.

Walking into The House Restaurant is like walking into a circus where all the actors have been trained by the Marx Brothers and have been forced to work with butter on their fingers; for not a moment goes by when one does not hear the smashing of glass, the breaking of cups, the destruction of plates, the spilling of wine.  Or, at least, that's what it felt like as I munched my way, nay, ground my way through my fillet steak with pepper sauce and "garlic" chips.  Note, dear reader, the inverted commas around the word garlic; for the chips went as close to garlic as a catholic priest goes to legitimate sex; and they were stodgy!  Not to worry, as the drinks arrive the entertainment is ratcheted up to 100 as they are spilled all over my friend's lap who annouces that her knickers are wet.  The boss, at this point, thinks it a good idea to advise that my friend "nips over t' salon across the way and ask to use the hairdryers."  Of course! 
Another friend of mine orders gnocchi (so we must not have too much sympathy for her) but she gets penne instead.  "I ordered gnocchi," she explains; "We've run out of gnocchi; we haven't served it for weeks," responds the waitress as she accidentally throws a melon through the window.  All apart the melon incident - true.
It's time for dessert and we're looking at the board and we all think it would be nice to have this and that and then the waitress explains that the desserts board is inaccurate and that the desserts that are actually on offer are in the desserts cabinet.  "Ok," we respond.  And then the waitress smiles at us, inanely, like her brain has suddenly popped off to the fabulous beaches of Torremolinos and left her body to take the flak.  We wait but she keeps smiling.  Feeling sorry for her I ask if there is Eton Mess; there is so we all order that to reduce her burden.  The Eton Mess portions are huge; no wonder the chef took an hour to whip the cream.  But it's tasty and we all manage to finish but not without the mandatory feeling of disgust and shame that one usually feels after eating a dessert so big it could solve the world's food crises for a day at least.
Not to worry, we left with our bellies full and our bodies intact and we were well entertained.  I just wish it had all been a little less shambolic. 

Think of Something Good

Right then Muckers!  It's been a while.  College work consumes most; university work consumes the rest; leaving this little blog, this poor miserable little fucker, to fester in the background.  And so much has happened.      Of most significance, a terrible meal at The Lead Station.  And I know their breakfast is to die for; so say all of you; but their venison pie is filled with diarrhoea from an old sheep's arse.  Who the fuck wants that?  Who wants something runny and stinky inside a pie?  And it's not venison anyway.  It's Liver, all leathery and flavourless like an old woman's tits.  Did I really put that?  Can I leave that in?  Yes!  Consider it from my point of view.  I've neglected this blog; I'm willing to write any old shit.  Now I've lost my train of thought.  So, the Pie; it's filled with shit.  What about the pastry?  A substance that should snap and crackle; a substance that should be golden and flavoursome like a young woman's... The Lead Station Pastry looks like a pancake; tastes like an undercooked omelette; and feels, in the mouth, all squidgy and spongy, like an old man's... Like an old man's what?  I bet you're all thinking cock.  And you'd be right.  Like an old man's cock.
So, you're sucking an old man's cock whilst a sheep shits diarrhoea all over your face.  That's a Lead Station pie; and that, ladies and gentlemen, is how to lose readers.
How to win you back?  How can I walk the streets without shame?  I feel a Dickensian swoon arising.  Think of something good...

You'll Wish The Curry Mile Stretched All the Way to Brighton

It's been a while since I blogged about Manchester.  Too long!  My apologies, for I have been on my holidays and, thus, have neglected my duties as a promoter of Mancunian food.  Not to worry, for as soon as I finish this ditty about Brighton, I shall return to my home town, continuing my ventures in all things culinary.

Brighton is a god awful place for somebody who drives a car.  As everybody drives a car, one can jump quite easily to the conclusion that Brighton is a god awful place.  But stop!  That's a bit unfair.  Many good and wonderful people tell me Brighton is their favourite place in the world.  The world!  Better than Paris?  Better than Berlin?  Better than Chorlton?  Indeed.  With its beach, its cute alleyways, its endless supply of jewelry shops, its kooky vegetarian shoe shops, its sex shops (where one can buy the most graphic lampshades), its comedy clubs and night clubs, what more could you desire?  A good restaurant?  That would be my response; and fortunately, Brighton can deliver.

An Overblown Reaction to Beech Road Festival

Give me kooky shops; give me litter; give me booze; give me men peeing up alleyways; give me men spitting up walls; give me women, giggling and fawning over home made wares and tares; give me crap music; give me a tent marketing the Manchester College; give me the tragic Beech Road festival; a festival hell bent on making money, in, of all places, Communist Chorlton.
It was a day when men fought over turf; it was a day when women wept over blood, spilt for the sake of an extra pint of beer; it was a day when the people of Chorlton, free from the shackles of their fucked up ideology, returned to the wild, hacking and crapping in the woods.  And they didn't even bother to use toilet paper.
To say I enjoyed the Beech Road Festival would be an overstatement of gargantuan proportions.  It would be comparable to a statement declaring Neil Ruddock the greatest footballer of all time.  I lasted ten minutes in its chilly atmosphere, watching fair folk go mad for cupcakes, shitty dresses, twee furniture, ice cream, more ice cream, and booze.  Ten minutes is all I could handle and I saw enough debauchery to make a nun weep for forty years.
Apparently there will be changes next year.  No longer can the council tolerate such foul behaviour.  I, for one, would be glad to see the back of it forever.

Bertie's Shed

When I told my Dad I'd be taking him to Albert's Shed for his Father's day treat, he responded with a long drawn out breath, followed by a loud guffaw, followed by something that sounded like a snort, followed by a sentence that roughly went as follows, "Who the fuck eats in a shed?"  Except, of course, there was no expletive.  That, dear readers, is my own, small embellishment.  Incidentally, never trust a writer who directly addresses his readers.

So Bertie's Shed is a lot more than a shed.  It's part of the Duke's 92 establishment and will, as chance happenstances, provide the food for my forthcoming wedding.  Impress it must, then, for I will not eat shit at such an important event; not in front of the world's press anyway.

Did it impress?  Did it manage to tickle my taste buds into a frightful frenzy?  Nope.

Could You Pass the Tea?

With great joy and with glee radiating through my heart and throughout my body, I recount my latest tale of adventure:  My visit to Mr Scruff's Teacup in Manchester's Northern Quarter.  I have been a fan of Mr Scruff for a long time.  As I write, I question whether that is true.  I have a couple of his records but they're nothing brilliant.  His club night has gone down hill too.  I'm getting older; his clientele are getting younger; many annoying people dancing to many annoying songs; the grumpy old man in me is revealed.

Akbars: The Ghee Monster Stampedes Through the Kitchen and Dumps its Load into Every Meal

Short follow up to Friday's post:

I was born into a world of ghee.  Ghee!  If somebody told the chefs at Akbars they were not allowed to use ghee, they'd probably kill themselves.  Jesus Christ!  There's a lot of ghee in an Akbars' meal; my balti was swimming in it; if a small child were to fall in, t'would never be seen again.  I placed my knife in, to ascertain some kind of depth, and it completely disappeared, consumed by the grease, destined to roam the murky underworld for eternity, seeking the princess who could set him free (where have I gone with this?)  The Naan bread was a victim too; covered, head to toe, in ghee; dripping in it. 
All this ghee makes a young boy sick.  I spent the night, head over toilet; I spent the next day degreasing toilet.  Nothing to do with the whiskey of course.  Oh no sir!  All to do with ghee; the vast quantities of ghee; the disgusting, repulsive ghee.

But it's Really Cheap and the Food is Alright

Time and again I go to Akbar's and walk away pissed off.  Thus, it is with some trepidation that I return this evening, unable to convince my other half (I refrain, on this occasion, from calling her my better half) it would be better to go someplace else where they don't treat you like cattle at feeding hour.
"But it's really cheap and the food is alright," she insists.
"But they treat you like shit!"
"But it's really cheap and the food is alright," she repeats.
"But they only care about your money; quick in; quick out; food dumped on table!"
"But it's really cheap and the food is alright."
Heads banging against brick walls.
The trouble is, as I write this, I know I will have to go.  I know I will have to hold one of those ridiculous beeper things in my pocket before it finally vibrates and I walk, like an idiot, up the ramp to my table.  And then I suffer, like a pleb, the discourteous waiters.  And then I agree, like a dick wad (80s revival moment), to purchase naan bread that could feed 5,000.
And it's so loud; and it's so dark; and it's full of people having birthday parties; and every one of them thinks it necessary to sing that dreadful Hill sister's song.
And all the time, whilst I experience these thoughts of hatred, I hear the sensible voice of my better half explaining, "but it's really cheap and the food is alright."
On Monday I shall write about my experience.  You'll be able to read about it.  Rest assured, I will be taking very detailed notes.  Be warned Akbar's!  I'm coming.  You better be on your best behaviour.

Ooh, I've just remembered its name: Saahil



Banana Slop

At the weekend, I made the grand error of travelling to Southport to eat my tea.  Southport is a bit of a stinker.  It reminds me of Trafford Park; it lacks grace and elegance; it's full of coffin dodgers; and it lacks a decent restaurant.  It does have an extraordinarily long pier but who cares?  I suppose if it were shorter, Southport would have a higher suicide rate.

Altrincham (or would it be too much trouble if we could go to a remote Scottish island instead?)

Not a sound to be heard; not a soul to be seen; there's only one place; Altrincham

No decent meal to be had; no hearty drink to be found; there's only one place: Altrincham

Not a joke to be told; no tale to be wove; there's only one place: Altrincham

Altrincham: The dullest place on Earth. As a sage once said to me, "there is more life on a remote Scottish island than there is life in Altrincham."  It's a place where cockroaches are so bored it actually kills them.  Not even a nuclear missile can achieve that.  Yet, it comes to my attention, like perpetual bad tides, like clouds of locusts, like plagues of rats, that people, if we must call them anything, love Altrincham.  There is no manner in which one can begin to calculate the workings of their stupidity. 

Alternative Realities are More Interesting

Jam Street cafe is in Whalley Range; some people, having no desire to be associated with said place, claim it's in Chorlton.  "On no, I couldn't possibly go to a cafe in Whalley Range; imagine the muck on my shoulders and the stench t'would contaminate my body!"  Yet, Chorlton, in full, is called Chorlton-Cum-Hardy.  Cum?  My Fiance has the same attitude.  We don't live in Chorlton-Cum-hardy; we live in Chorlton Green; we live in a place of trees and ponds and grass and skipping children and kite flyers and quaint pubs and clock towers.  Anyway, I do believe we were talking about Jam Street Cafe.

The Place Leaves My Stomach in Knotts

It's Wednesday; I'm watching Channel 4; a programme called Superscrimpers.  Advice: want to book a cheap restaurant?  Check out toptable.com.  Great!  A site full of restaurant deals.   A bit of searching and I find something I like:  The Place Restaurant on Ducie Street.  To the Place we would go.  Days are spent in preparation:  I get my hair styled; I get my legs waxed and eyebrows plucked; I have scent enhancement treatment; my tongue is kept free of contaminants; I buy a suit; I buy some brogues; I invest in a taxi so I can arrive in style.  Disaster strikes; The taxi fails to turn up; a sign that events are turning bad.

The Rapture: How to Guarantee You'll Be Left Behind.

Idiots are gearing up for the rapture, this weekend, certain they'll be travelling to heaven in a beautiful pea green boat.  The sinners, 6.9 billion of us, will stay behind and witness the greatest show on earth.  Earthquakes, famine, war and plagues will ravage the earth for five months before our beloved planet goes "pop" in October.

The Kids of Croma

Croma is heavily populated by adults but it's the kids who dominate.  Go there between five and seven and you'll be forgiven for thinking it's run by kids.   On a recent trip I was happy to witness a kid, scampering about, weaving in and out of tables and crawling under chairs like an insane cockroach.  His brothers and sisters and friends cheered him on.  It made me glad to be there.  But then he proceeded to eat his chocolate cake by smearing it all over his face and I thought, this is worse than watching a baby eat a banana.  Sat next to him and looking rather startled was a young girl, hair plaited down to her bum, smile graced by a lack of  front teeth, freckles so dense she looked sunburnt.  I'm sure she must have said something horrible to the young, disgusting boy for he turned to her and sprayed ice cream all over the flower in her hair.  Crying, ladies and gentlemen, followed.  Plenty of it.  Not just from the plaited girl but from her companion who took it upon herself to beat the boy over the head with some leftover pizza before rubbing the rest in his face to create a chocolaty, tomatoey, mask.

Yara, Altrincham

Yara, in Altrincham, is a hustley-bustley sort of place.  It's bursting at all hours.  It's so full, people pop out of the front door when it's opened.  Try to get up and you'll realise you're stuck in a dreadfully tiny area.  Everybody is happy too.  Why is everybody so happy?  This is Altrincham.  People in Altrincham have more sex than any other group of people in the world.  Go to Altrincham for a day trip and you can quite easily score yourself a shag.  Yet, beyond the large quantities of sexual behaviour, there is another, more disturbing reason why Altrincham folk have smiles etched permanently across their faces.  They're all zombies.  Anyhow.  This isn't a review about Altrincham and its people, it's about Yara.

Red Alert: St Petersburg Restaurant

My friend at St Petersburg:  Pickled tomato on fork; tomato in mouth; friend's head...disappeared; sucked out of existence.  Conclusion:  Pickled Tomatoes are capable of creating mini black holes.  QED! as the scientists say.

Quick Pick: Chorlton's Salt Mine

My friends adore Yakisoba:  It's cheap; the food is great; the portions are huge; you get these little, bento boxey thingy wingies that have all sorts of goody woodies in them.  Everything is so cutesy pie.  Of course it is, it's Japanese.  One of my friends, who shall be known as Miss W_____, squeals every time it's mentioned like she's experiencing a Lawrentian crisis.  Think about this men; if you aren't managing with your willy, simply drop in the name of a good restaurant.  Anyway, back to Yakisoba

1847 Felix and Fanny's

I've been informed by everybody!  The sausages at 1847, Manchester's newest vegetarian restaurant, are not made from quorn.  I'm gonna let you in on a little secret.  Are you listening?  They may not be made from quorn but they sure as hell taste as though they are.  But what does it matter?  Quorn sausages are perfectly decent fayre.  I daresay I've enjoyed a quorn or two with my girlfriend.  And 1847 has so much more to offer.