I’m in Leeds, hung over, blogging in Virgin Megastore on a coin-operated computer. We went out to celebrate Nick’s birthday last night, and it was a remarkably restrained affair – we didn’t end up stumbling in to any one of the usual places I remember from when I lived here, so the night was all the better for it. On top of that I didn’t break anything this time – last time I went out in Leeds I ended up with a spiral fracture in one of my fingers, which caused it to point 45 degrees in the wrong direction when I closed my fist. Luckily a nice girl called Christine fashioned a splint from a hair band, a cocktail stirrer, and a length of toilet roll – highly effective.
It must have been a quiet night in Leeds last night – I only saw two hen parties.
I’ve been wandering around town, thinking how I would be perfectly happy were I to live here again – Leeds is a very familiar place, and seems to get better and better all the time. I had breakfast in the Corn Exchange, which is full of shops that sell things that are just bordering on completely useless, but which are at least not homogeneous chain-store crap. I bought a clock for my kitchen, a giant fried egg with a bacon pendulum.
The subject line is down to Gordon Ramsey. I meandered into Waterstone’s a minute ago and was confronted by his crinkly face on the cover of his latest book of recipes. It’s ironic that I now have all the time in the world for Jamie Oliver, who I used to think was a smug fat lipped bastard, but I now have a developing hatred for Gordon ‘fuck this, fuck that, fuck you’ Ramsey. When did chefs become more important than the food, or has it always been this way? Was Fanny Craddock the reason people tuned in, not her cakes? Ramsey’s latest book has not food on the cover, but his smirking face. There’s something wrong with that.
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