My chef journey started many decades ago. Impressing the fairer sex with fine food and finesse in the kitchen seemed like an obvious choice. Pru Lieth’s school in London’s wanky Chelsea demonstrated how simple skills can transform basic ingredients into something that fancy words or a fat wallet cannot compete with. My MasterChef journey began many years later when I witnessed someone serving raw fish and liquid cake win this with a book deal and a couple of hundred G’s. Holy crap, I can pretend to wave a bit of fish over a pan and mix up some eggy mess with flour, let’s go! Sadly, my vision and fish prowess didn’t resonate with the judges and I got punted at the auditions. Fast forward a couple of decades and the entitled trio have now gone the same way as season 1’s winner should have. The father of one of my favourite trance artists with a Michelin star or two is a judge and refuses to use his fingers for eating. God forbid how he manages to give the starfish a clean with a spoon! No home cooks involved anymore and definitely not a fan of some unknown imbecile setting a five hour dessert challenge, how the fu(k is following a 120 step recipe some sort of indicator of skill. Could have been worse, could have been the poor chap that got shafted with grapes as a main ingredient by his mum and dad! Heads up, grapes are for wine or pegging at unsuspecting diners in wanky establishments. Gunna be a fun Xmas dinner in that house.
Netflix and the pickleball circuit have taken a bit of a beating recently, so time to get the passports out. Thailand seems like a giggle so off we go. The Mrs gave my upper body, back and arms a pre holiday shearing, so I returned the ‘favour’ by giving the her unruly hair a straightening. Probably too much to ask anyone to venture below my belt line so I treated the meat and two veg to a personal trim session. Care, is the only word here, nothing funny about a bleeding ball bag or a snagged helmet. Nothing funny either about serious nether region itches on the pickleball court. That gentle itch became far more distracting as the yellow ball raced past my backhand courtesy of a grinning Jackie.
Popped round to see Megs in Coolum the next day to borrow the keys of her swanky DY gaff. Sadly for freeloading visitors like us, the gaff has been flogged so this will be our last visit.
House painting is now complete and the child abuse wall has morphed into a photo wall. Somewhat over a year late, Sam and Nic’s wedding photos are there on display. Shiny and glamorous, it looks epic. Couple of pics with Sam and Nic in there too.
Smashed out our Tuesday Pickle session whilst JT popped off for a nail pamper, then whizzed home for a feisty takeaway vindaloo and few refreshing ciders in front of a roaring wood fire.
Predictable delay at MCY in the makeshift bar, before the short hop to SYD. Holy sh!t, we must be 100 feet up from landing before the imbeciles are jumping up to grab bags! Thank fu(k I never taught any of you to skydive, a smack to the side of the head or a small ball bag tweak generally got the message across somewhat faster than pointing at the alti. This is about as pointless as wearing a mask on your own in a car. Maybe whack a condom onto the hampton before jumping alone into bed, just in case! Dear God!
Knobs insulted then avoided, we get to wait for our bags just outside the Redspot car rental desk. I can’t help wondering if I am still blacklisted with this mob after renting a car some years ago and going AWOL. Rozzers were on the hunt whilst said rental vehicle sat under the hotel in Noosa. Oops!
Hopped onto the train for the waft into town. I wonder if the dickheads in charge here ever consider why these things became almost empty when they applied a hefty levy for hopping on board at the airport. Took our choice of 100 or so seats and settled in for the 6 stop ride. “Doors closing please stand clear” This sounds like a red rag to a bull as last night’s vindaloo announces its unruly and unwelcome presence. “Speak up Brown, you’re through!” Another valid reason to avoid the train
Jackie was lucky enough to be the recipient of a Cartier watch for her 18th birthday, before the brand became full wanker. The watch however has the maintenance price tag of a Bugatti. Simple clasp tighten, sorry Ma’am, you need to contact Cartier for that. Oh, that is in Sydney CBD and you need to make an appointment to drop the watch off. Fu(k me, I have never seen so many obsequious little pricks mincing around with little red trays. Actual value of most of the rubbish in here, probably a few hundred bucks. Actual cost, 20x that to cover overheads and the salaries of a small army of Larry Emdur lookalikes standing around doing nothing. To the utter disgust of the door minder, we arrived half an hour early and were promptly parked in the waiting area. Parked that is with a small glass of French bubbles to increase the invoices of the knobs queued outside. Top up Sir? OK then. My, my that lift looks tempting! A death stare from the Mrs suggests that the lifts and associated duck stomping behaviour are off limits in this establishment.
For 20 something years, the Northern Beaches of Sydney were our home and our playground. Many neighbours have been offended over those years on the receiving end of boisterous trance music, bonfires, violent foose table hilarity, high powered lasers, bubble machines, drones and an endless stream of bodies sploshing into the pool in the middle of the night. Feeling slightly strange being back here. Nothing strange however about smashing out a few beers and pizzas in DY RSL with some of our dear chums who popped in to join us. Many thanks to those that did. Certainly, nothing particularly funny about a 5.30am alarm before a scamper to the airport. Wafted through to the lounge for a bacon sandwich and spot of shuteye. Thai Airways were epic and accommodating, shame that the immigration process seemed to take almost as long as the flight. Cleared customs and headed to the cab rank. BKK Cab rank is a collection of highly honest looking humans waiting in numbered bays. Any attempt to select a semi clean looking car and driver are thwarted by a machine that spits out a bay number, cross the fingers and head on over. Oh dear! A bloke missing a large percentage of his front teeth with an unwashed mass of something vaguely resembling hair is asleep in the boot of an equally filthy car. Things go further South from here. The gear stick is some sort of 2 foot long plastic dildo and our smelly chariot driver spends most of the journey flicking through videos and ringing potential dates. Maybe a wash would be a starter for 10. Better still, eyes on the road please. I really don’t fancy getting up close and personal with 48 inches of plastic schlong. The meter hidden by a carefully placed towel, didn’t help. Will be grabbing a Grab car next time.
Somehow, the grim reaper missed us and we arrive in Bangkok CBD for a week with Jackie’s Dad, awesome!
