Lezzie Lickin's

Playing the fool

noreply@blogger.com (Barbarella75) — Wed, 08 Dec 2010 18:10:00 +0000

I know it has been a significant amount of time since my last post, but quite frankly my working life has been manic, which has meant that the last thing I want to do when I get home is sit at my PC and write.

So, what have I been doing if I haven't been writing? Well I've been cooking, naturally, but nothing too adventurous. I'm saving all that up for Christmas. There will be turkey, braised red cabbage, baked maple ham, eggnog, Brussels sprouts, smoked salmon and caviar canapés, home made fudge and truffles, goose fat roast potatoes, bubble and squeak, mulled wine, buttered rum plus much more.

In the meantime I have been glued to Coronation Street (oh please don't let Rita experience death by a wholesale jar of mint humbugs!) and Miranda. I love Miranda Hart. Her character is the embodiment of how I imagine others perceive me to be, but without the 6'1 height. She is clumsy, ridiculous, silly, geeky, gawky and foolish but at the same time extremely endearing.

Now I'm not saying I share my house with friends made out of fruit, but I certainly have a habit of playing the fool amongst a sea of more glamorous or more erudite individuals. But that does not matter, I am happy to be the clown (not literally, I don't go out over sized shoes with a big round red nose, white makeup and a fright wig....well not all the time).

And now the Christmas season is upon us, so is party time, which offers all manner of opportunities for me to drink to excess and act even more foolish. Watch out those of you attending a certain lady's 50th birthday bash with an Oscar fancy dress theme this coming Saturday. I will be on lash and in party mode, so the next victim could be 'ewe'!

D'you want me to make you a little sandwich?

noreply@blogger.com (Barbarella75) — Fri, 12 Nov 2010 09:06:00 +0000

So asks Beverly, the grotesque lead character in Mike Leigh's excellent TV play, Abigail's Party.

However, although Beverly is somewhat grotesque, I can see a little bit of myself in her. For example, her vain attempts at social engineering with embarrassing consequences, her tendency to drink a little more gin than is necessary, the fact she comes from Essex and her fabulous 'dancing'.

"I like Demis Roussos"

If you have never seen Abigail's Party, then I urge you to watch it now. Once seen, forever (and ever) quoted!

That's the thing I love about Mike Leigh films, the fact that you can either see yourself or people you know in the characters he creates. Beth and I saw Another Year at the weekend, which was excellent. Food plays an important role in the film as the main characters meet over various home-cooked meals, an impromptu lunch created from produce from an allotment, BBQs and copious amounts of wine. We could definitely identify with the main couple with regard to their contented lives. But at the same time, we both individually recognised that there was a time in each of our lives where we had the potential to behave like the lonely, single, needy woman who drinks too much and constantly turns to her married friends for friendship and understanding.

I have to apologise for my lack of blogging this week, but my life has been a little manic work wise and I am too flaked out in the evening to write anymore (despite what the news tells you, public sector workers are busy!). Anyway, today I have the day off and I have started it by dyeing my hair. The bathtub now looks like someone has been dismembered in it due to my mahogany hair dye.

Next I am off to TK Maxx to spoil myself and then for some solitary Dim Sum, my personal treat. Beth hates Dim Sum you see, as outlined in my first ever post. Then it's IKEA to pick up some storage boxes and then off to the market to buy the produce for the Julia Child inspired menu I am preparing for Beth tonight. We are having:

Seared scallops in beurre blanc sauce
Boeuf Bourguignon
Julia Child's chocolate mousse

Beth will let you know how it goes as she's blogging about this weekend on MovieTalk, her work blog, to coincide with Julie and Julia showing on TV.

Right, off to listen to some Demis Roussos whilst I get dressed.....

Don't come dine with me

noreply@blogger.com (Barbarella75) — Wed, 03 Nov 2010 18:02:00 +0000

Someone I went to school with is on Come Dine With Me this week. It was her turn to host last night and she did a great job. Her food looked good, she got excellent praise on its taste and it was neat and tidy.

Seemingly this was a very important point for Claire who has developed, since I last saw her about 20 years ago, an obsession for having things spotlessly clean and devoid of clutter. I guess it was amusing for me as I recall evenings at Claire's aged 11 when we would prepare hot dogs, oven chips and chicken goujons and loll about in her living room under duvets listening to Five Star and Belinda Carlisle or watching horror films, whilst the dirty plates and glasses of Coca Cola gathered the floor and on the side, to be cleared away much later. In fairness, I do share some of her traits. I too cannot abide clutter now, and plates and spills get cleaned up immediately. However, if you go inside my cupboards and drawers, then it's a different story.

This is precisely one of the myriad of reasons why I could never take part in Come Dine With Me. The thought of someone going through my cupboards and drawers and discovering actually how slovenly I am when it comes to tidying things away, would be awful. My house is spotlessly tidy on the surface, but dig deeper then the phrase "out of sight, out of mind" really comes in to play.

Here are the other reasons as to why Come Dine With Me would never grace my humble abode:

I like to convince myself that cooking is my one true gift. It is the one thing that I believe I do really well. To have people actually criticise my cooking would basically make me cry!
Sometimes I cannot be trusted around alcohol in that I become a bit of a liability with regard to what I say and how I conduct myself. I just know I would say something that would unintentionally insult someone, would get a bit loud and would probably end up throwing up in a bush outside. Plus, I have no wish to see myself drunk on TV.
The camera adds 10 pounds. Enough said (although I am rectifying this matter with my new fitness regime...walking up 16 flights of stairs at work, twice a day)

So all credit to Claire for putting herself up for scrutiny. You are a brave woman!

Two fingers or four?

noreply@blogger.com (Barbarella75) — Thu, 28 Oct 2010 17:05:00 +0000

What's you favourite chocolate treat?

I'm rather partial to anything that contains peanuts, such as Cadbury Star Bar, Reece's, Peanut M&Ms. Although my taste for all things nutty does not extend to hazelnut flavour praline....I hate, hate, hate it! The Ambassador would certainly not be spoiling me with his tray of Ferrero Rocher. I would tell him to take his tray of cheap confectionery and fuck off and get me something more dignified, preferably something dark from Montezuma's or Hotel Chocolat.

Why don't they utilise the benefits of more tasty nuts, such as pecans, macadamias, walnuts and almonds. I know there is almond in praline, but its gentle feminine sweetness is trampled on by the aggressive male flavour of the hazelnut. Yes, I believe flavours can be either masculine or feminine. But, wouldn't that be lovely, a Reece's Cup with a pecan or walnut filling, instead of peanut. Hmmm.

Anyway, a chocolate bar played a pivotal role in my burgeoning sexuality at the age of 16. I know what you're thinking and all I can say is don't be so dirty minded! It was in fact a Kit Kat, or rather a bumper pack of Kit Kats. Of the four fingered variety, in case you're curious.

When I was 16 I had a Saturday job at Iceland freezer stores. The stories I could write about that place would fill a book, such as the man who came in and pretended he was blind and who used to gurn at the end of the till. Or the couple that believed that if you scanned an item then it contaminated the food. Never mind that the food they were buying was the worst kind of frozen processed crap that Iceland specialised in. This meant that you had to type in the bar code for absolutely every item that went through the till and if, God forbid, you accidentally scanned something, then the husband sent his wife off to change it with the snap of his fingers. A charming man.

Anyway, whilst I worked in Iceland, a friend from sixth form college worked in a shop down the road. Not that I admitted it at the time, but I clearly had the biggest crush on this girl and when she told me that she loved Kit Kats, as a hidden declaration of my affection I bought her the biggest bumper pack of Kits Kats you will ever see with my Iceland staff discount card and presented it to her during her Saturday lunch break. I think it was that evening that I finally admitted to myself that I was gay. Would I ever declare my love with Kit Kats for a boy, would I hell!

Anyway, the crush disappeared over time when I realised that my friend was impossibly straight and clearly more attracted to boys with long hair who modelled themselves on Rob Newman, someone who straight girls
in the early 90s went inexplicably doo lally over. So I transferred my affections to my celebrity crushes of Kim Wilde and Belinda Carlisle (equally unobtainable, but at least I didn't have to buy them Kit Kats) and started dipping my toes in the London gay scene with my friend Holly.

Now these first forays on to the London gay scene are whole other story, but I will finish by telling you how Holly and I decided to take those first steps on the scene. We identified place to go to by the fact that it welcomed 'gays, lesbians, bisexuals, transsexuals, transvestites, straights and theatrical friends'. Not wanting to admit our true nature, Holly and I both surmised we were indeed 'theatrical friends' and that was a good enough reason to go. I mean we were studying A-Level Theatre Studies, and if that didn't make theatrical, I don't know what did. Don't you just love the power of a euphemism?

Out of interest, Holly is now happily married in New Zealand....to her lovely wife Sara.

Sober up

noreply@blogger.com (Barbarella75) — Sun, 24 Oct 2010 10:32:00 +0000

Beth and I went for lunch with the boys yesterday in celebration of GBBF (gay boy best friend) Richard's birthday.

We went to Roast in Borough Market where we dined on potted salt beef, scotch eggs, oysters, guinea fowl, partridge, pork belly, Goosnargh chicken, potatoes cooked in beef dripping, kale with garlic, spinach with pine nuts, English cheeses, damson Queen of puddings, chocolate banoffee pudding, apple and blackberry crumble, whisky and gin cocktails, champagne, English sparkling wine, bottles of Bordeaux, Sauternes, maraschino liqueur, port and sloe gin. It was seriously decadent!

Being an intelligent bunch - consisting of a psychiatrist, an operations manager, a lawyer, a journalist and a government policy adviser - the conversation flowed with the wine and led on to discussions about the X Factor, licking dogs, spotting the fellow gays in the restaurant, how St Paul's Cathedral looks like a big breast (we could see it from our table), how one of our set of parents are currently hob-nobbing with the lesbian sex shop owners down their local golf club, Dynasty, Dollywood, Lip Service, our individual voting records (why do I have so many friends who vote Tory when I am a die hard Labourite?), the Spending Review, siblings, the benefits of Valium on a flight, men visiting the club buffet after coming out of the dark room at XXL (urrrgh!), school days, how drinks and mixers are so much better served in the US (always crushed ice, never cubed), Oxford vs Cambridge university and can men and women ever really be friends, a la When Harry met Sally.

The answer to that last question is yes, if both the male and female in question are gay. Both Beth and I have GBBFs as do many of our Sapphic sisters. You see, in this situation the GBBFs don't need to deal with all that unrequited love which often occurs with fag hags and us gay girls don't have to deal with our heterosexual male 'dikey likeys' having secret lascivious thoughts about us. It can really fuck up a friendship if you subsequently find out that someone is harbouring romantic feelings and has some misguided belief that you would reciprocate and change sexuality if they just tried it on. It doesn't work like that, being gay is not a choice!

After lunch and two drinks in a pub by the Millennium Bridge, the lightweight boys went home, whilst Beth and I carried on down to the Retro Bar for a chaser and then on to the vigil against hate crime in Trafalgar Square. We heard the inspiring Stuart Milk speak (nephew of Harvey) and cried when they read out the names of LGBT people who have died as the result of hate crime in the past ten years. A sobering end to a not so sober day.

A rude awakening

noreply@blogger.com (Barbarella75) — Thu, 21 Oct 2010 16:57:00 +0000

I received a rude awakening this morning.

At 4:45am my phone starts bleeping with a text message: "Hey. We're in the Cubbyhole with all the Halloween decorations! Singing along to Erasure. Good times xx". It's my friends Sophie and Diane serving to remind me that they're having a fabulous and gay old time in New York for Diane's 40th, whilst the rest of us are stuck at home dealing with the fall out of the Spending Review (I shall be living of gruel soon, forget fine dining). In fairness, we were invited to join the girls on this merry jaunt to the Big Apple, but Beth and I had to decline due to a number of reasons. But that doesn't stop me from being jealous!

However, although the USA, and specifically New York has the best lesbian bar in the world, the country's LGBT rights record leaves a lot to be desired. Take Don't ask, Don't Tell as an example. How ludicrous is it that in this day and age there is still a rule that says you can't serve in the US military if you are openly gay! Speaking as someone who delivers policy advice to the UK government as her job (although perhaps not for long, given the Spending Review), I wonder what the policy rationale is for such a decision? If one exists at all. Anyway, as part of my rant I promised to share a link from Naomi Davis, a blog reader in the US who is developing a film about the Don't Ask, Don't Tell issue as part of her thesis at NYU. Check it out at http://www.dadtfilm.com/home

Anyhoo, rant over and in accordance with my friend Sophie's (hereby known as the Blog Police) observation that this blog should actually be about food, I shall bring the topic round to food again. So on that note, did anyone watch the Apprentice last night?

It was good wasn't it. Thirteen got whittled down to a baker's dozen as they set off to prepare some baked goods for the hungry London masses. All I'm going to say on the matter is that if Paloma approached me asking me to procure her muffins, I certainly wouldn't turn her down! Although, there's something about her steely manner which suggests she would sell you the muffin, then eat you alive! One to watch....both foxy and scary in equal measure.

Doing it Victorian style

noreply@blogger.com (Barbarella75) — Mon, 18 Oct 2010 16:45:00 +0000

I had a messy night on Saturday night. It was good, but messy.

For the past year and a half Crystal Palace has been embroiled in a battle to save our last remaining public entertainment venue from the hands of a wealthy evangelical 'mega church', which has a somewhat questionable history and holds some strong views. This is despite ongoing interest from an independent cinema chain, whose potential presence in Crystal Palace would do wonders for its regeneration and would offer an inclusive resource for the whole community. Consequently the Picture Palace Campaign was born and on Saturday night we attended a campaign dinner with a Victorian theme at, irony of ironies, the St John the Evangelist church down the road.

The Sphinx Dining Club certainly put on a good show and I am kind of embarrassed that I didn't dress up to embrace the theme, seeing that most of the 120 guests had. Those that know me know that this is highly out of character, but we had Beth's mother staying and I didn't really think she'd be too comfortable dressing up in a feather boa, bloomers and a basque. I guess I could have looked to Tipping the Velvet for some inspiration, but seeing as I am not exactly mammarily challenged, rent-boy drag would have required some serious suspension of disbelief. Plus I don't think a leather strap-on would have gone down well with the masses and certainly not in church!

Anyway, there was good food, good wine and some 'interesting' entertainment. Plus some ribald conversation on our table about long fingers and pork pies. I'll leave it to your imagination to guess what we were talking about. The venue looked a treat, like some decadent music hall. I half expected Marie Lloyd to pop up and start The Boy I Love in Up in the Gallery. But, the night got messier by the hour. I blame the Hendrick's gin cocktails pre-dinner, the copious amounts of red wine during dinner and the subsequent bourbon and cokes at the after show party at Los Toreros. Crystal Palace's only tapas bar must have resembled some gin-soaked Victorian boozer, with women in feathers, corsets and basques, men with handle-bar moustaches and top hats and plenty of carousing.

The locals came out in force, including our cats' vet. Do you think that with vets you need to maintain that line of professional distance as you do with doctors? I mean it's not like they're examining you. However, I bet the practitioners at our local vets have probably diagnosed me with 'mad cat woman syndrome', such is my irrational devotion to my pussies. I remember I saw my therapist once in Marks and Spencer's and instinctively knew that I shouldn't go up and start engaging her in conversation about some cardigan Twiggy wore on an M&S advert. But, I hadn't just consumed three Hendricks's gin martinis on that occasion and so if there was a professional line to be crossed on Saturday night, then I'm sure I crossed it!

Hopefully there will be more events with more themes. I beg them to hold a Studio 54 night. Now that's a theme I WILL embrace!

Mash it up

noreply@blogger.com (Barbarella75) — Fri, 15 Oct 2010 14:46:00 +0000

It's sausage and mash night tonight. Not that we have a special night for sausage and mash, it's just one of my 'can't be arsed' meals, i.e. a meal you cook when you really cannot be bothered will all the flange of proper cooking. Although, I do have Purple Majesty potatoes for purple mash. I got suckered in by the marketing at Sainsbury's you see.

I know to most people the concept of not being arsed to cook manifests itself in the procurement of a take away. A take away meal in our house is like Dolly Parton's husband - rarely seen. I think we've bought one in three years, which was pizza the other week. Actually it wasn't bad, if a tad strange on the topping choices. We had Chinese chicken, pineapple, jalapeños, BBQ sauce and pepperoni. We didn't make it up, it was an actual combination choice on the menu. Methinks the mad professor who works in my staff canteen moonlights at Napoli Pizza in Crystal Palace.

Given the choice of establishments in South London, it's hardly surprising we don't order many take aways. I really want to know what's the unique selling point of Tennessee Fried Chicken vs. Miami Fried Chicken vs. Mississippi Fried Chicken vs. Atlanta Fried Chicken? Apart from the change Southern state or city name that is. The market is literally saturated....in a huge vat of reconstituted deep frying fat!

So, sausage and mash it is with tomato gravy. I know it's not hugely healthy, but the sausages are quality and the mash (the ultimate comfort food, seeing as work has been manic this week) will be soft and buttery......and purple!

So what is your 'can't be arsed' choice?

A little bit of lippy

noreply@blogger.com (Barbarella75) — Wed, 13 Oct 2010 17:30:00 +0000

Do they not feed their lesbians in Scotland? Are they not aware that the streets of Glasgow are literally bulging with deep-fried Mars Bars and pizzas? Apparently not, given the skeletal specimens on the BBC's new 'lesbian drama', Lip Service, last night. Or, 'vests and non-existent chests' as I am now calling it.

Yes, the ubiquitous tank top made an early appearance and then was on show throughout, adorning the ironing board frontages of a range of characters clearly ripped off from the L Word.

Frankie = moody, skinny, rock chick, female lothario = Shane
Tess = kooky, quirky, femme, blonde = Alice
Becky = straight girl goes experimenting = Jenny
Cat = uptight, control freak career woman = Bette

Plus, do they not realise it's fucking cold in Glasgow? If you're going to walk around in a tank top, low slung jeans and no bra all day, you're gonna get sick!

Despite all of this, I will still watch again next week. Any visibility is better than no visibility.

In the meantime I am going to share a nice Scottish recipe of Cullen Skink to feed those skinny lasses across the border. Well, they need the calories to keep their energy up for all that shaggin'!

Cullen Skink

750 ml full-fat milk
small handful of parsley, (stalks reserved), chopped
1 bay leaf
450g smoked haddock fillets
50 g butter
1 medium onion, finely chopped
200 g buttered mashed potato
salt, and freshly ground pepper

To garnish:

parsley, chopped
4 eggs, poached
croutons

Method

Pour the milk into a saucepan large enough to take the haddock. Add in the parsley stalks, bay leaf and smoked haddock.

Bring to the boil, reduce the heat and simmer for 4 minutes. Remove from direct heat and set aside to infuse for a further 5 minutes.

Remove the haddock, strain the poaching liquid and reserve.

Flake the poached haddock, removing any skin and bones.

Heat the butter in a separate non-stick saucepan. Add in the onions and fry until soft but not browned, around 3-5 minutes, stirring often.

Add in the strained poaching liquid, then stir in the mashed potato until you have a thickened creamy consistency.

Add in the chopped parsley leaves and the flaked haddock and simmer for a further 3-4 minutes.

Season with plenty of black pepper and salt, if needed.

Garnish each serving with a sprinkling of chopped parsley, poached egg and croutons.

A lil' bit of Southern style

noreply@blogger.com (Barbarella75) — Tue, 12 Oct 2010 17:48:00 +0000

I have been in a Southern state of mind recently. Maybe it's because I am reading Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, maybe it's because I am making Southern fried chicken tonight or maybe it's because I reminiscing about the road trip that I, Beth and our friends Richard, Sara and Craig took through some of the Southern states three years ago this week?

It was part holiday, part business trip as Beth had been commissioned to write two travel articles on Dollywood and Nashville for Gay Times and Diva magazines. Beth's got a thing for country music you see, primarily Dolly and a lil' bit of Shania thrown in for good measure. Speaking of Shania Twain, have you ever noticed that her and Cheryl Cole look really similar? Perhaps Shania's biological father took a trip to Newcastle and got saucy with a local lass? Seemingly we're not the only people who think this as this Facebook page suggests.

Anyhoo, Beth has got a country music 'thang' going on, which I share when it comes to Dolly and Patsy Cline. Actually, country music has a bona fide out gay woman now, the delectable Chely Wright. I've just read her autobiography, Like Me, which was really quite moving and she's a great spokesperson for the LGBT community. Plus, she's cute as a button.

So, I'm reminiscing about that trip, what we got up to, the food we ate and the multitude of beverages we drank. Here's a rundown:

Arrive at Atlanta International Airport in a haze of Valium and gin. Consequently unfazed by the fact that it takes two hours to actually get out of the airport.
Off to Mary Mac's Tea Room in Atlanta for a cliched meal of fried chicken, collard greens and creamed sweetcorn matched with copious amounts of Mint Juleps. Adds an interesting edge to my already Valiumed and gin addled brain.
Sample the Atlanta gay scene, which has gone Halloween crazy and is good fun. Start on the Seven and Sevens.
Pile in a monster SUV and climb high up into the Great Smoky Mountains to Moonshine Cabin and enjoy a hot tub at sunset whilst the eagles fly and the beer flows.
Enter the hallowed gates of Dollywood, where it's not as camp as you would like and we experience some minor indirect homophobia (well the woman was from Arkansas). Plus it's 'dry'!!! Still, I got to see what I would look like superimposed with one of Dolly's wigs on. Maybe they should have a similar tool with Dolly's cleavage...not that I would need it.
Go back to Moonshine Cabin and meet up with the owners and new friends, Ken and Jerry. Get them gradually drunk and show them how the Brits like to party.
Hop back in the SUV to Nashville with a killer hangover. Hangover is sated with biscuits and beer at the Loveless Cafe, just outside Nashville
Arrive in Nashville and head off straight to the gay scene, which is a blast, if a little thin on the ladies. Drink Whisky Sours.
Make a mental note never to attempt to sing karaoke in a Nashville bar. I haven't got the range....or the talent.
Enjoy huge slabs of meat and Alabama Slammers at Jimmy Kelly's.
Country Music Hall of Fame, check, Ryman Auditorium, check, Grand Old Opry, check, RCA Studio B, check, Jack's Bar-B-Que, then Lower Broadway bars, music and beer...check.
Get complimented on our trendy hair by Nashville tour guide, who surmises we must be European.
Get gnashed and trashed on the Nash Trash Tour with the Jugg Sisters, in a sea of beer, 'horse doovers' (Southern hour'doves which consist of cheese from a tube on cheesy crackers), fake celebrity spotting and ribald jokes about what it would be like to be a lesbian and in the vicinity of Dolly's boobs. If you ever go to Nashville, you must take this tour!
Have a panic attack at Nashville airport and so start on the Valium again. Consequently am the only one not freaked out by severe turbulence, plus Beth, Richard and I are the only ones drinking on the plane. What does it say about us?
Arrive in New York where cab driver takes us to the wrong Hilton hotel. Result, stand up argument with said cab driver in Times Square.
Sort out temper with pizza and beer at John's Pizzeria in the Village.
Meet up with two friends from London and find the Cubbyhole bar in the West Village and remain in situ for the evening. You have to love a bar which plays both Dolly and the theme music from the Golden Girls on their jukebox. Richard manages to pick up a guy in what is predominately a girls bar.
Sample monster sandwiches at Katz's Deli and walk the length and breadth of Manhattan.
Retreat to the Cubbyhole again with a further two friends from London. I know there are more bars, but the jukebox is too good.
End the evening sitting around a piano singing show tunes and drinking frozen margaritas at the Monster on Sheridan Sq. Those that know me, know I am in my element.
Finish trip with cheesecake at Junior's in Brooklyn and more Valium and red wine in order to get on the plane home.

A good roasting

noreply@blogger.com (Barbarella75) — Sun, 10 Oct 2010 17:41:00 +0000

That's what some of the contestants on X Factor could have done with Saturday night - a good roasting. Preferably over a large open fire in the ITV studios. And throw in Louis Walsh and Dermot O'Leary for good measure. Roast leprechaun anyone?

Speaking of roasts, I have one in the oven right now. A rolled leg of lamb stuffed with capers, garlic and anchovies. I'm really looking forward to it. Certainly given that I have a minging hangover, caused by Cava, which only roasted meat and ample carbs will be able to penetrate.

Anyway, back to the show. Last night's programme put me in mind of a Pontin's holiday camp talent contest (Butlins would have been too good). Or at least a very poor year at Eurovision. Let's recap on some of the low lights:

A rapping skeleton from with eyelashes nicked off some ropey drag queen attempting to convince us that Worcestershire is a hotbed of raw urban talent. Move over Brixton, the 'Malvern Massive' is where it's at.
The reincarnation of Margarita Pracatan, but now she is a scary beardy weirdy bongo player from Brazil trying to channel Barry Gibb.
Diva Fever - who might as well have just waved a massive rainbow flag on the stage for two minutes. It would have been more entertaining.They're gay you know.
Storm Lee and his amazing troupe of dancing gimps

I could go on, the material was endless, not least Cheryl Cole's increasingly radioactive hue and the fact that every male contestant seems to have their level of campness cranked up to high octane (a shot of tequila for every time the term 'diva' is used next week...I will be rat arsed by the end). But I shall save myself for subsequent shows.

You're barred

noreply@blogger.com (Barbarella75) — Sat, 09 Oct 2010 08:50:00 +0000

My local pubs have turned into creches. As Crystal Palace climbs the charts as a desirable location to live (check out the Lonely Planet Greatest Little Know Neighbourhoods....number 5 in the World!), so come the Jamies and Olivias with their brood of Arthurs and Tillys to put the mockers on an enjoyable weekend drinking session with bawdy conversation.

Now, so as not to alienate my friends with children, I want to go on the record to say that I have nothing against children, but I do take issue with their posh "we really wanted to live in Clapham, but yummy mummy and daddy got hit by the credit crunch" parents forcing them on me when I go down the pub for a sociable drink. There they sit shoving lamb shanks and Pinot Noir down their gullets whilst Hector and Tallulah run riot. And of course, to the parents, everything their kid does is seen as unbelievably cute in a progressively precocious way and if you don't share their opinion, well then you're just a barren old witch! I love this scene in Sex and the City (start from 8:20 minutes) when Samantha takes umbrage for a similar situation in a restaurant.

Let's be frank, a pub ain't a place for a kid. I never went in them as a child. Well, at least not until I was 15 and could pass for 18 ;) In fact, the only memory I have of going into a pub as a child was in a pub garden in the Summer for a BBQ or the occasional Berni Inn for a prawn cocktail and steak dinner (check out this previous post about 80s dinners). But it's like these parents don't want to let go of their pre-breeding days. They still want to go down the pub and get pissed.....en famille! Now if I had children, I would want to spend my weekend days with them, doing things that we could collectively enjoy. I would not wash my hands of them, letting them do a screaming relay round the pub, whilst wittering on to Jonty and Lucinda over a couple of pints of Hoegaarden and munching on halloumi salads with chorizo.

Is the gastro pub to blame or is it the smoking ban? Bring it back I say or at least force all the posh parents to go to the Harvester down Beulah Hill if they still want to spend all weekend in the pub and have their kids in tow. That will soon take the appeal out of the occasion!

Mrs Slocombe has a lot to answer for

noreply@blogger.com (Barbarella75) — Fri, 08 Oct 2010 05:33:00 +0000

Beth and I have a pair of fat pussies. At least that's what the vet told us last week. In fact, she told that she too has a fat pussy. It's an epidemic!

You may have gathered that we are talking about our cats, but one can't help but slip in the the odd 'pussy' joke. I never tire of it. I blame Mrs Slocombe for that. In fact, I've often thought that if I ever had a band I would call it 'Mrs Slocombe's Pussy'. But then realised that it makes me sound like some dreadful 90s student who worships at the altar of the Mary Whitehouse Experience and Viz and who thinks it's funny to be 'ironic' about camp comedy and pop culture.

Th vet called our cat Jasper a 'big girl's blouse' the other day because he was shaking like a leaf during his annual check up. It was an amusing thing to say to such a big pussy who is normally full of bravado in the security of his own home.

Anyway, the upshot is, Jasper and Aslan are on a diet. Which displeases them immensely. For Aslan, that means she no longer is allowed tidbits of cheese when I open the fridge or gets to sample Mummy's baking. That cat is a whore for cinnamon! For Jasper it means special food for fatty cats, for he is one big bugger. It's not that he is fat per se, just big boned and well built. You see, I'm sensitive to his feelings, I am making up euphemisms for his weight problem.

He has to go back in six weeks for his weigh-in. It's quite an amusing sight seeing the veterinary nurse use a tape measure round his waist to measure his girth. What next, Cat Fat Fighters support group with Marjorie Paws?

The fact is, some of our friends have much bigger pussies, ours are slimline in comparison. And if they are reading this blog, you know who you are......

Do you want Sugar with that?

noreply@blogger.com (Barbarella75) — Thu, 07 Oct 2010 05:44:00 +0000

I am inviting you all to play 'spot the Apprentice cliche' game. The rules - every time a contestant utters a cliche phrase such as "Lord Sugar, I will give you 110%" (like that is actually possible!) or "I am dynamic and I think outside the box", then you must reward yourself with shouting the word "twat" very loudly at the TV.

Seriously, did you watch it last night? It was a veritable shower of twattishness. My observations so far:

I vow not to order sausage and mash anywhere in Portobello Road in the near future, should I run the risk on chomping down on something that consists mainly of lard, sawdust and water.
How can someone be described as an unemployed head of communications? Surely, a job title would be defined by the fact that you need an actual job to warrant the title?
Melissa Cohen. Gay? Discuss.
If Stuart Baggs is "The Brand", then why the fuck have I have never heard of him.
Cliche alert re: the boys suggestions for team names. Synergy or Fusion. I think they just pick them from whatever shower gel or deodorant they used that morning. Maybe the girls should follow suit...mmmmm Impulse.
What sort of name is Raleigh, although pronounced Rawley with extra plums in your mouth....

So, will I be having Sugar with my evening tea again next Wednesday night? You betcha!

Has Nigella gone to seed?

noreply@blogger.com (Barbarella75) — Wed, 06 Oct 2010 05:38:00 +0000

Having missed it last week, Beth and I caught up with Nigella Lawson's new programme on Virgin catch up TV.

Nigella gets her baps out...

I've missed Nigella and her saucy satin black dressing gown, shoving king prawns down her throat (shell included) like a Belgravia dwelling version of Diana from V. Those of you that are children of the 80s will hopefully get that reference.

My friend Sophie recently passed commentary on Nigella's girth, "I saw her on Jonathan Ross the other night and no amount of short denim jackets and long black skirts are going to hide the fact that she looks like she ate all the pies." Well as the saying goes, 'real women have curves' and I think her curves are just dandy. Mix that with a fabulous cleavage, liquid brown eyes with endless lashes and a mane of tumbling brunette locks, then you have quite a tasty package. Plus, she looks great for 50 and she cooks!

I think womanly curves are a bit of an anomaly on the London lesbian scene. On the rare occasions that Beth and I venture out on the scene to places like the Candy Bar, all we ever witness is a sea of tank tops and baggy combats or jeans with canvas belts and arms toned within in inch of their lives. Seriously, what is it about lesbians and tank tops? Is there a secret rule that implies that everyone should dress like an extra from a Vietnam War film?

I wager that Nigella probably wouldn't suit a tank top. Women with a generous cleavage never do. She and I are in the same boat there. But where we may be lacking that 'temptation in a tank top' look that is so desired by gay girls globally, we certainly triumph should the occasion arise where we can wear a long evening dress with a plunging neckline. Take that, tank top temptresses! You and your sinewy arms and non-existent chests are no match for our beautiful breasts. We are women, hear us roar!

So, Nigella you can be queen of my kitchen anytime. Actually, scrap that, we'd probably fight over who wants to cook. I can just imagine it, wrestling on the kitchen floor with flour flying everywhere, clothing torn, breasts and legs akimbo....am I painting a vivid enough picture for you?

In praise of the staff canteen

noreply@blogger.com (Barbarella75) — Tue, 05 Oct 2010 05:50:00 +0000

I got in to work yesterday to find out that we have new caterers running the staff canteen. Most people would be concerned as to what the implications of this change will mean with regard to pricing or portion sizes, but not me. All I want to know is whether the new caterer’s menu is going to be as obscure as its predecessor.

The combinations they used to dream up were simply mystifying. It was the kind of canteen where they would have something like smoked salmon with haggis dumplings in a whisky sauce just because it was St Andrew's Day and they wanted something Scottish on the menu!

Actually I did once have haggis rissoles in a Drambuie sauce when I was in the Highlands, at the Badachro Inn. And they were lovely. Our friend Richard, who was with Beth and I at the time, has an irritational fear of haggis, in that he thinks it is simply the worst thing you can ever eat. He's never actually tasted it. It's the concept of offal that throws him, but seemingly he will shove any old sausage down his gullet, and who knows where they've been and what they consist of! One day I am going to make him a Shepherd's Pie with some haggis mixed in with the mince. I bet he won't even be able to tell.

Seemingly this culinary madness isn’t just restricted to my government department. My former boss who recently transferred to another department, sent me these two emails the other week:

“Just in case you thought it was only your canteen - Cumberland sausage ring and vegetable jambalaya. That is, they come served together as today’s ‘special’, they don’t just happen to be on the same menu.”

“In catering news, today is British Food Week. So today’s special is beef enchilada.”

What? Are we all not aware of the town of El Paso del Norte, just off the Huddersfield ring road. Best enchilada in the country apparently….

Another cause for concern was whether the same Eastern European serving attendants would be retained. Ordinarily I wouldn’t be bothered, but one of them is right tasty, which does a lot to brighten my Monday lunchtime.

Actually when I was at university, the serving wenches at my halls of residence were all drop dead gorgeous Danish au pairs. Still, it didn’t detract from the fact that the only dish the canteen ever seemed to serve was a dish of chicken legs sticking out of a range of multi-hued gravy like sauces.

Anyway, after perusing the new work canteen menu, I discovered that indeed, the mad food professor is still in residence. On tomorrow’s menu:

'Spiced chocolate & cinnamon nachos'

And I thought it was joss sticks I could smell in the canteen this morning ;)

Let them eat cake

noreply@blogger.com (Barbarella75) — Mon, 04 Oct 2010 05:40:00 +0000

What is about women and sweet treats? In particular chocolate and cake?

I don't know what you think, but Beth and I have a theory that a craving for sweet treats means that you don't have enough female loving in your life. Think about it, straight women seem to go doo lally over a slab of chocolate, whereas straight men seem more focused on things like pizza.

I tested this once with a group of my Sapphic sisters by initiating a discussion about our particular food cravings. What came out of this was that we all observed that heterosexual women were forever bringing in cakes, donuts and chocolate to work, but at the end of the day we agreed that we would all probably prefer a nice bit of pork pie! Is this because like straight men, we are the receivers of some female lovin', which provides us with the emotional sustenance that straight women (and many gay men, just watch my friend Richard devour a packet of chocolate digestives) seem to get from chocolate and cake?

However, someone who bucks this trend is my friend Hannah. When she and her husband got married this year they had a three tiered cake consisting entirely of.........pork pie!

Although, I have been getting into my baking of late and I have the Great British Bake Off to thank for that. Did you watch it? It was fabulous and it had our hilarious Sapphic sister, Sue Perkins, as host along with her comedy partner, Mel Giedroyc. The right person also won in the end, Edd Kimber, a lovely boy who bakes. Check out his blog.

Anyway, as we speak and contrary to my lack of interest in sweet things, I have some cranberry and raspberry muffins in the oven with a nice crunchy pecan topping. I am very particular about muffins. They have to be actual muffins and not overgrown fairy cakes. This means that they need to be made with less sugar and a nice rustic flour. Actually, one particular bug bear for me at the moment are cup cakes. I mean what is the fucking point? They're not sold on the taste, but rather how pretty they look. Look if I want to taste something pretty, then I'll seek out Cheryl Cole, not a cup cake!

On a final note, I'm attending an afternoon tea party on Saturday which is ironically being hosted by lesbians. However, one of them is a heavily pregnant lesbian, so she can be excused for her sweet cravings as she obviously needs emotional nourishment. The question is, what cake do I bake to take along? All suggestions welcome.

Gå som katten kring het gröt

noreply@blogger.com (Barbarella75) — Sun, 03 Oct 2010 06:34:00 +0000

Loosely translated, the above title says 'walk like a cat around hot porridge', which is a Swedish figure of speech for 'beating around the bush'. See, you didn't know I was a cunning linguist did you?

Beating around the bush, i.e. talking around the issue, but not really getting to the point is a bit like blogging. You talk and talk, but what point are you actually making? Does there need to be a point? Well my discussion point today is neither bushes, cats or hot porridge, but Sweden.

I love the country and spent a very happy study year living there back in the mid-90s. I also love the food and in fact I pulled together a favourite dish last night, Toast Skagen, an elegant combination of shrimp and other ingredients on a small piece of sautéd bread. Jamie Oliver does a great version.

Sweden has been on my mind of late because, as per the rest of the world, I have just read Stieg Larsson's Millennium Trilogy. I just love the way he wrote, going in to intricate detail about who did what, what they ate, what road they took, what they bought. Nora Ephron wrote a wonderfully humorous piece for the New Yorker magazine, which is a pastiche of Larsson's writing style.

Does the Sweden depicted in the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo reflect the Sweden I remember? Yes and no. I don't remember any bisexual, cyber-punk, multi-tattooed riot grrrls, but I did do my food shopping at Konsum. Actually I could write a whole book about my experiences on the rather limited gay scene in Linköping, the small university town I lived in. Here I was, young, fresh faced, newly out, taking my first steps into Joy, Linköping's only gay bar. Knowing that Swedish women were quite beautiful, I had high hopes for a feast of feminine fantasy made flesh. Imagine my horror to discover that every rough woman in Sweden had convened in Joy that night and for some reason they all seemed to share the same leather waistcoat. Actually, so did the women in Telia, the place where you went as a new resident to set up your phone line. As my friend Julian said at the time, "you don't have to be a lesbian to work at Telia...but it helps!"

Well the evening wore on and I settled myself in the company of the gay boys. Then I received a tap on shoulder, and there stood one of the many waistcoated women. "Dansa med mig, dansa till Nordman". Basically she was asking me for a slow dance to what was Sweden's equivalent of Phil Collins (the singer whose music would play in my version of hell). Well I had to oblige and my fate was better than my friend Anna, who had been the target of a waterfall of vomit from a waistcoated one...from the top of a spiral staircase.So I had my dance, which was ok and then made a hasty retreat.

The other thing that amused me about Joy was that the same song was always played at the end of the night, 'This is it' by Melba Moore. Suffice to say the line "this time I know it's for real" never did ring true for me during my forays onto the Swedish gay scene. I certainly made up for it when I got back to London ;)

On a final note, did I partake of the wonderful Swedish cuisine when I lived there? In short, the answer is no. I didn't have a pot to piss in money wise and the money I did have went on beer. The following outlines the food I did eat:

Pasta, made with cheese and tomato ketchup
Packet noodles with tinned sweetcorn and cucumber
Potato chips and dips
Goument rulle - basically a piece of flat bread filled with mashed potato, fried onions, sliced beef and burger sauce.
Hot dogs
Kebabs with an unknown, but delicious purple sauce
Pizza and pickled cabbage salad -yes together!
Herring
Semla - a cream bun filled with an almond paste

How I was only nine stone when I lived there and even thinner when I left I have no idea!

Excuse my hiatus

noreply@blogger.com (Barbarella75) — Sat, 02 Oct 2010 10:39:00 +0000

Yes, I know it has been nigh on a year and a half since Lezzie Lickin's taste buds were tapped and as the title says, you have to excuse my hiatus.

Busy times at work led to a need to put on my PJs as soon as I got in and throw myself on to our super duper comfy sofas along with a tumbler of whisky and episodes of Glee, anything with Mary Portas in or Coronation Street (especially now it has a gay girl storyline). Plus Beth was all blogged out with her work blog, MovieTalk.

Anyhoo, all that sofa surfing, plus some dramatic changes at work have resulted in me feeling somewhat creatively challenged, so hence Lezzie Lickin's is reborn!

Where do I start? Well we've been on annual leave this week and that has manifested itself in a series of culinary delights and disasters. On the delight side, being pampered by trainee chefs and waiting staff at the Vincent Rooms. Six courses for £24 cannot be sniffed at, and they are being trained in the Escoffier technique (Fanny's favourite apparently, Fanny Cradock that is). So, huge white plates dotted with tiny food with a bit of foam on top. But it was good and I would recommend it. On the mediocre site was Hix Oyster and Chop House. A gay girl never really knows what to do with a big meaty portion, and it left me feeling decidedly queer all evening....

Beth and I visited a rainy Oxford yesterday and she took me to one of her old student haunts, the Nosebag. Here, simplicity was key and she informed me that the menu and ambiance had not changed since the late 1980s. A trio of chopped cabbage salads in a Turkish style with fresh herbs and a chocolate brownie placated my temper seeing as it took two hours to drive into the city centre after a somewhat disappointing trip to the Roald Dahl museum in Great Missenden. Let's just say, why do adults have to pay more to enter when the whole museum was geared towards encouraging kids to run riot, as opposed to actually learning something about the great man and his books? Rant over.

Thursday involved some sloe picking in order to make sloe gin. We used to do this with my Nan when my parents lived in Essex. Beth and I took a trip down memory lane with my Mum by visiting Linders Field in Buckhurst Hill where the sloes used to be abundant. Imagine our horror to find that all our bushes had been trimmed! Sloe bushes I mean. Anyhoo, we found some and we now have some sloes gently marinading with sugar in a bottle of gin to be consumed during the festive season. We also made blackberry whiskey, which should be fun!

On a final note, we visited Gay's the Word on Monday where I stocked up on literature to help research the book I'm writing. Yes, I have finally got round to putting pen to paper to write that wartime lesbian love story that I've wanted to write for years. I have only written one passage so far, but if you want to see it to provide your critique, then message me. I also tried my hand at a sex scene, but keeping that under wraps right now...

Cheeks and lips

noreply@blogger.com (Barbarella75) — Sat, 21 Feb 2009 18:52:00 +0000

I've had the week off work this week to celebrate both our anniversary and my birthday. Naturally for me this goes hand in hand with some decadent dining....and a few bottles of wine and a couple of martinis.

Have you ever sampled braised ox cheeks or tulips? These were just some of the delights on the tasting menu at Club Gascon. I know in these days of the credit crunch it's highly frowned upon to be splurging out on such extravagances at £75 per person (inclusive of wines), but I just felt the need.

Well, I can highly recommend it.....the menu is divine. Plus, a bonus of the credit crunch is that service in restaurants and shops seems to have gone up ten notches, so I don't resent that 12.5% service charge so much when the waiter genuinely seems to care about his product.

The Come Dine With Me Dream

noreply@blogger.com (Barbarella75) — Sun, 19 Oct 2008 18:25:00 +0000

We were watching Celebrity Come Dine with Me recently and that got us thinking about who we'd love to be dining with if one of us were a celebrity who'd been invited to feature on that show.

Obviously, the ideal fellow contestants are celebrities who are fun, have great conversation, who won't cause an argument and who can cook.

These are the four we were both in agreement on - yes, we know only one of us could be the fifith diner and neither of us are celebrities anyway, but this is just a game:

Stephen Fry - great wit, highly intelligent but not condescending, and we're sure he'd mix a fabulous cocktail.

Dolly Parton - witty, warm, charming, pre and post-dinner entertainment, boob jokes and great southern cooking.

Larry David - funny, potentially heated conversations - Charlotte always worries that she says the wrong thing, but he would undoubtedly eclipse any faux pas she might make, and he loves food even though he may well not be able to cook.

Sue Perkins - another hilarious wit and following her stint on The Supersizers Go, tasting the stomach-churning delicacies of times gone by we know that the foody conversations would be fascinating.

Let us know who you'd choose. We'd love to know.

Fancy a tipple and a dance?

noreply@blogger.com (Barbarella75) — Mon, 06 Oct 2008 18:31:00 +0000

Do you sometimes watch a film that has a bar or club scene in it and think "I would really like to go to that place!" I'm always doing it. Maybe it's because I like the demon juice too much or maybe it's because I'm always on the search for the perfect watering hole or place to dance. Here are some of my favourites:

The Kit Kat Club - Cabaret
Putting all that horrible pre-World War 2 Nazi business aside, the Kit Kat Klub looks like a great place to let loose and down a few. Liza with a Z performs nightly, exotic clientele rule the roost and wild horses would have a drag me away from wanting to get up on stage to do a turn. Willkommen, bienevue, welcome indeed!

Chez Lui - Victor/Victoria
Another bar which is as camp as a row of tents and has July Andrews doing drag! "When people speak of gay Paree,They think that when they say Paree is gay,They mean that gay Paree is gay!"Cabaret is provided by the insatiable Toddy who loves a warm hand on his entrance and greets his guests with equal aplomb "Thank you, thank you, you're most kind. In fact, you're every kind."

Odyssey 2001 - Saturday Night Fever
For the soundtrack and the fact that the dance floor has those flashing chequerboard lights.

Studio 54 - 54 and Last Days of Disco (loosely based)
The ultimate disco. Wall to wall celebrities (Truman Capote...check, Liza Minnelli...check, Debbie Harry...check, Any Warhol...check), fabulous music and probably the best fashion decade ever(1970's).

Coyote Ugly Saloon - Coyote Ugly
If only to dance on top of a burning bar in cowboy boots.

I am sure there are plenty more, but where would you like to go?

Hot sausage

noreply@blogger.com (Barbarella75) — Sat, 04 Oct 2008 09:33:00 +0000

The boys next door invited us to partake of their hot sausage last weekend. It was fat, juicy and delicious. We, in return, let them sample our marshmallows, which they found most moist and tempting to the tongue.

No, we were not engaging in some kind of sordid orgy, but rather sitting around a bonfire in the back garden roasting and toasting the above products. M and his partner D like nothing more than a good burn up, M being particularly adept at lighting a fire. Perhaps there was nothing else to do growing up in Poland in the 70's and 80's than to set fire to things?

Anyway, we tasted some lovely kielbasa, some vegetables cooked in a Dutch oven in the fire (cabbage of course, with it being a Polish party) and we provided the marshmallows. On D's recommendation we ate them between two 'wine biscuits'. No, we weren't too sure what he meant either, but it turned out that 'wine biscuits' is just a New Zealand word for rich tea biscuits.

Many people have questioned whether it is permitted to have a bonfire in the back garden, but our council states that it is ok as long as it isn't disturbing anyone. So seeing as the neighbours don't complain, we go ahead.

And I am sure the heat warms the cockles of the men 'cruising' in the woods at the back of our houses! Perhaps we should go with D's suggestion and open a tea stand at the end of the garden as well. Nothing like a bit of warm sustenance after being 'exposed' the elements!

Lesbeans

noreply@blogger.com (Barbarella75) — Mon, 22 Sep 2008 17:59:00 +0000

Beans are great. Which are your favourites?

French beans: Les beans, Charlotte's favourite.

Runner beans: a bit stringy and boring in my opinion and far too athletic-sounding.

Black beans: best known for that Chinese restaurant favourite black bean sauce.

Broad beans: these delecterble beans have another name. Click here to see what my alter ego (with a suitably foody name) has to say about them.

Butter beans: I love these - my favourite. Do them Greek style in tomato sauce and serve with stuffed vine leaves and tzatziki. Ambrosia.

Haricot beans: better known as baked beans; store cupboard essential. But don't buy Heinz.

Lesbean: a misspelling of the word that describes us Sapphic sisters.

Has bean: was a lesbean, but now prefers meat and two veg.

Says bean: says they like les beans but really they prefer les saucisson.

Baby, now that I've fondue!

noreply@blogger.com (Barbarella75) — Sat, 20 Sep 2008 10:49:00 +0000

We went to a fondue party last night. Who would have thought that a warm pot of melted cheese could cause such mirth....especially when I spilled a load down my cleavage.

I can't even blame it on the drink, seeing as I was on the wagon after a somewhat over-indulgent previous evening at a regional communications managers meeting in Birmingham. Well, it would have been rude not to join in with tequila slammers on offer from the Cambridgeshire representative. I tell you, those East Anglian women can drink! At the end of the night it was only Norfolk, Cambridgeshire and me standing. Plus I was born in Essex and my parents live in Suffolk, so I'm East Anglian by default. And they always say it's the Northerners that have staying power!

Anyway, back to fondue. We had a steaming pot of Emmenthal and Gruyere mixed with white wine, kirsch, lemon juice and tiny bit of garlic, a pinch of nutmeg and black pepper. Very retro and actually very filling. I felt the need to release the top button of my jeans from their tight grasp and collapse on our friends' sofa with their menagerie of cats.

Match that with a "name that tune" board game, a long conversation about trumping (it must have been the veg we dipped in the fondue) and more cava for the girls, it turned out to be a very memorable night.

And the cheese didn't give me nightmares!