Curry Munching and Death by Grouse

I am an ardent curry lover. I can eat curry until it comes out of my ears, as well as other places (which is why a roll of toilet paper sits in our fridge). Whilst living in Oman, I was in Curry Heaven and it was The Real Thing! None of this wishy-washy 'hot' gravy stuff which seems to come out of every small town corner curry house in the UK.

Whilst pregnant with #2, I abused the rights of pregnant women and decided to feign cravings for curry and thus gorged myself on Pav (pronounced 'pow') Bhaji for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Every day. As they were the cheapest curries in the whole world, being made purely from potato, tomato, peas, chilli and onion, (some put cauliflower into it, but that is revolting and we won't go there...) it saved the ex a fortune on food bills, so his only complaint was having to drop into the 'pow barjee caff' each night on his way home from work. Unfortunately, what I saved on food, I lost on Gaviscon, as those curries certainly made their presence felt in the early hours of the mornings...

My very first curry was in the 80s when a group of us staggered from a seedy nightclub in St Helens, called Sindy's, decided we were hungry, and couldn't find a Donner Kebab van anywhere (which is a blessing in disguise when you consider that gunge aside →, from which they SHAVE meat into a warm pitta bread. It's reputedly lamb. I don't think it has ever baaa'ed in its life. Squeaked, maybe. Possibly even gnawed a few electric wires in someone's attic. But never baaa'ed).

So, into Tarik's we went. Being a nube, yet not wanting to appear a gurlie-wuss, as I was out with a group of rufty-tufty blokes who had been strutting their stuff on the dance floor to Mel & Kim and Wham!, I went for the chicken korma. A curry, but a mild one with coconut and mango. Sounded good. Unfortunately, my virgin tastebuds had never managed anything hotter than a Spicy Beanburger from Wimpy. The sweat oozed from every pore, I panted like an ageing incontinent Labrador, swigged back a few gallons of water and used every napkin on the table to mop up my tears. What a Girl! 

Yet, there was something about those exotic spices which addicted me. And I persevered and toughened up. Every week, I would attempt a curry after Sindy's, and when the sweating and tears started to abate, I moved up a spice notch and tried the next one. 

So, by the time I hit Oman, I was a Vindaloo Virtuoso and thus the whole menu had opened up to me and by gum, I hit the ground running...no wonder I ballooned at one point, what with all that ghee and coconut milk!

One summer, when most of the expat wives had fled the scorching heat of Muscat for the cool, wet climes of the UK, I was asked to write a "Challenge the Chef" article for Living in the Gulf magazine in Dubai. So, it was time to collar the bachelors. Those poor saps whose wives had abandoned them, who were living on shish kebabs, samosas and schwarmas, and teach them how to cook. So, what was the best thing to teach them? Yup, how to make a curry. I visited the restaurant, Passage to India, collared the manager, explained that it would be excellent publicity for them, being a brand new restaurant, blagged a free meal for four out of him for that night, and set the date up with their chef, Sanjay. And so, The Curry Munchers' Club was borne from that night.

Dave (the bachelor hosting the challenge) and I went to the shop with Sanjay and gave him carte blanche on what to buy with 20 rials (our budget to feed four starving bachelors, me and the photographer, Richard). All manner of odd-looking vegetables went into our basket which I couldn't name now if you paid me as well as chicken, fish and loads and loads of firey chilli peppers. We sped back to his house where the other three bachelors, which included my ex, who had whinged at me so hard about being left out that he had to come, were well stuck in to their Millers. Richard and I set the shots up, dragged the lads away from the footie on Dave's 42" telly and got them to work. To be honest with you, the lads were so drunk by this stage, they couldn't have opened a packet of crisps, let alone made a Korma, and so Sanjay and I did most of the work.

The food was utterly fantastic, the atmosphere was buzzing and we were all having a whale of a time. Until Dave got his 3-litre bottle of Famous Grouse whiskey out (1 litre left) and started pouring out the drinks. This was around 1am and Sanjay was long tucked up in his bed. I demurred and asked for a Miller Lite instead. But Dave set up a chant of obnoxious insults, to which the others joined in and suddenly my hi-ball was a third full of Famous Grouse. Then it was a case of "Down in One or Show us Yer Bum!". And, always one to accept my own challenges, I acquiesced...time, and again...

It's not a good idea to eat firey curries, drink a load of lager and then toss back treble whiskies as though they are Dandelion and Burdock. It's also not a good idea to be the only woman in a group of hardened drinkers who have taken you to their bosoms and decided to make you an honorary bloke for the night.

I wasn't very well the next day. I had an article to write up, photographs to develop, two children to care for and another interview to set up. I just went back to bed and died a thousand deaths.

At 3pm, Dave called me to see how I was. I simply groaned. He sounded lighter than air; all fresh and fun. Reckoned the spices had given him a few grumbles in the night, but had really enjoyed himself, thanks very much and all that. I gently put the receiver back on its hook and covered my throbbing head with the duvet.

There is a saying in the UK that the only way to kill a Vindaloo is with a lager. Take heed of that, fellow curry munchers. Because the only way to kill yourself is with a Vindaloo and many treble whiskies.

The curry I partook of last night (as we have finally found a superb curry house in Northwich) was accompanied by Adam's Ale. Aqua Vita. Water. 

Hence why I am awake at 6.30am, writing this drivel, and feeling tickety-boo.

Learn from my research. That's why I do it. For you...

Stormy Weather

Some of you may have realised that, once upon a time, I lived in the Middle East. I spent almost eight years there, happy as an animal (not a pig: it was a Muslim country) in poo. That was, until the ex decided he preferred my best friend to me and felt I had to clear off as I was cramping his style.

The expatriate lifestyle in Oman is such that you are fortunate enough to meet many new people, from all walks of life and can engender such friendships that last a lifetime. Your social circle is not just quality, but also quantity, and great fun can be had on a daily basis...

The ex worked as a Design Manager for a large construction company, building palaces for the Sultan (who collected them like I collect credit card bills) and came into contact with many sub-contractors with whom we ended up socialising and becoming good friends.

One such couple, Chris and Dave, were firm favourites of ours and we were thrilled to be invited to their wedding, to be held at the British Embassy. It was a small gathering, with only a handful of guests allowed to come and I felt very privileged to have been invited.

Chris had selected the two young daughters of a work colleague to be her bridesmaids and they looked beautiful carrying their posies aloft and attempting to carry Chris's train as she hobbled up the steps in too-tight shoes and a definitely too-tight skirt. My own #1 daughter was in a foul mood because she hadn't been asked to be bridesmaid, but as she was only about six at the time, and a bit daft, I think Chris made the right decision.

As is the bride's prerogative, she was late. So late, in fact, that Dave (Hobbsy) told us we might as well all clear off to the pub and have a skinful as he 'wasn't waiting around for any bloody woman'. He proceeded to chat up all the other women in attendance, liberally poured the Moet & Chandon into any empty glass and started singing Oasis songs. I think he was somewhat disappointed when Chris did finally show in a vintage Rolls Royce as he was having such a good time. Where Hobbsy got that Roller from is still a mystery, but he was a wheeler-dealer if ever there was one - if you needed anything in Oman, Hobbsy was your man...

The ceremony was lovely and we all traipsed outside for the obligatory photographs. Hobbsy didn't want anything formal, and ended up lying on the grass with me hovering over him, my right foot holding him firmly to the ground by his neck. In retrospect, this may have been because he wanted to see up the women's skirts as he had been rather flirtatious all day...Chris's photographs consisted of her in the arms of pretty much every bloke in attendance, and then they all carried her à la Madonna's Material Girl which really tickled her fancy.


The reception, unbeknownst to all of us, was to be held on a dhow, which is an old, galleon-like vessel, and which would set sail for the afternoon with all of us on board, getting more and more drunk as the day wore on.

Well, let me put this question to our two dear readers. When you think of Middle Eastern weather, I am sure the image which is conjured up is one of glorious sunshine, clear, limpid blue skies and searing heat.

OK...it started off that way...but the minute the last guest had got on board the dhow and we had cleared the marina, the clouds closed in...

Dressed in all my finery, and getting merrier and merrier with each bottle of Corona I imbibed, I briefly wondered whether my unsteadiness was due to the ever-increasing, wind-whipped waves (God, my alliteration improves with each blog, doesn't it?), or my ever-increasing inebriation. My balance was starting to go, somewhat, and in order to cover it up, I decided to put on an impromptu line-dancing display, having put myself through a crash course by DVD so I could help a friend out and teach 10 nine year olds the basic steps at a birthday party. The rocking helped me to look almost professional until I tripped and fell heavily into the mainstay mast where I decided that it would be easier to cling on for dear life than attempt any more Fuzzy Duck.

I felt nice and safe holding on to the mast. Unfortunately, other people started to feel the same insecurity as I was feeling, and after a few minutes, there were four of us fighting for the same piece of pole.

Buffet was announced and I considered that if I was going to be sick, I should at least attempt to have something other than Corona with which to feed the fishes. I ladled myself out a large portion of Prawn Cocktail and attempted to eat it. I felt sicker and sicker - so much so that when Hobbsy saw that I didn't have a beer in my hand, was shocked at my request for 'some water, please'.

I felt a trip to the lavatory might be prudent at this stage, but was summarily informed that there was a queue. My only port of call (pardon the nautical pun) was to get to the side of the boat, pronto. I moved as far from the bulk of the guests as was possible, but there's always some bleeding heart liberalist who deems himself your saviour and feels he should be mopping your fevered brow as your rectum hits the back of your throat, isn't there? My 'saviour' was Simon - one of the most handsome, lovely men in Muscat, and I really, really didn't want him there as he watched technicolour yawn after technicolour yawn come hurtling from my guts.

'Urghoahgggoooo aaarghway, Ssimmon!' I growled at him through retching.
'No, no, you need someone here with you, you poor thing,' he replied. 'Where's Anal (this is an anagram of the ex's name, by the way - work it out for yourselves)?'
'Urghodunnnnoooo, anna don currrr, gooo awayyy, pleeeeeeasasse, urghoahghghh!!'
'Oh dear, this isn't good. No, this isn't good at all. Stay there, I'll get something sorted out right now.'

He left me in peace to dry-retch with tears streaming down my face, my hair covered in all sorts of nasty stuff, and feeling very sorry for myself. I pathetically brought my head up to view the horizon where I saw forked and sheet lightning scudding across the skyline, heard the rolling thunder, saw the roller coaster waves and wondered what I had done to deserve this.

We were way out to sea, but on the other side of the dhow, land was still in sight, in the form of Marina Banda al Rhowda, slap-bang in the middle of nowhere.

Simon returned...

'Right, we are putting you off on the outboard. One of the crew will take you to the Marina and you can wait for us there. OK? You can't carry on like this.'

Relief - I was eternally grateful to my saviour. He helped me stagger across the deck - Christ knows where the ex was at this stage - and gently assisted me down the ladder into the waiting inflatable outboard.

I climbed aboard and the guests gathered at the side of the dhow, cheering, jeering, making vomiting gestures and calling me lots of rude things. As we set sail, the sun came out, the wind died down for a few minutes, and a fantastic rainbow appeared in the sky...In the half mile journey, I lay across the sides of the dinghy and vomited while the young Omani sailor stared at me with distaste. At least he didn't charge me five rials for soiling his transport, though.

Suddenly, he stopped.

'You get out now,' he stated.
'But the marina is over there,' I stated rather obviously, at a distant speck.
'No. I cannot get any further up to the beach. You will have to swim now.'

I stared at him, askance, pleaded with him; offered him my wet, vomit-stained body; was refused; and thus walked the plank...

I landed in icy cold, choppy water, wearing some of the most expensive shoes I have ever owned, a Oui Set dress which had cost me my last pay-packet, and a beautiful pure wool jacket. Remembering my Swimming Certificates from Primary School, I trod water and removed the shoes, buckled them together, clamped them firmly between my teeth, and swam for safety, being unable to touch the sandy bottom of the sea. I have never swum in tights before and I must say, I do not recommend it to any of you, male or female.

Ten minutes later, I reached the safety of the beach, and crawled up it, exhausted, still hearing the jeers coming from the dhow which had stayed moored in order to watch me arrive safely...or was it basically to video me for viewing at the party later? I have my own suspicions...

I was bitterly cold. My clothes clung to me and the biting wind made my extremities turn waxy blue and white. The Marina's café was deserted, and I plaintively knocked on the locked door until a waiter showed his face...

'I have no money, but I can open a tab, and when they come to collect me, I will settle up with you. Can I have a black coffee, please?' I begged forlornly, looking like something the cat had dragged in.
'Yes, ma'am. No problem, but you will have to stay outside as we have Pest Control in at the moment and the buildings are off-limits, hence why the café is shut.'

So, I sat by the beautifully-lit swimming pool as the sun set, soaked to the skin, shivering with the icy wind, sipping my coffee and choking as the DDT fumes were pumped all over the premises, inside and out, to eradicate Malarial Mosquito.

With a spirit of adventure, I wrote this event up for the happily married couple, who actually managed to consummate their vows on board without regard for their guests, and published it for them using Microsoft Publisher. I framed it and presented it to them a few weeks later.

What's the bets it's now hanging on their toilet door?

A Flashback in Time...

I had actually started writing a very different blog when, out of nowhere, these memories came flooding back. Why, I don't know, as I hadn't been thinking of men's willies for a change (and I'm not providing any links there!), but I suddenly recalled all the times I had been flashed at when I lived in Oman.

For some reason, Oman had a lot of flashers. They were mainly the Omani men but a few of them were from the sub-continent. If a flasher was caught, he was severely punished, but they rarely are as most of his victims are usually so gob-smacked, they just stand there and gibber mindlessly. My friend, Debs, however, was on the ball, so to speak (!) and helped catch hers. When she identified him, he was hauled off to a very nasty prison in an area called Rusayl. You really don't want to end up in prison out there - everything you read about Middle Eastern incarceration is true...Debs was told by the police that she could decide his punishment. She was offered anything up to, and including, castration. She was quite mortified by this, and having seen him in the dock at sentencing time, by which stage he had languished in his own filth for three months and was completely emaciated, she felt he had served his time. As it was, he got deported back to Pakistan.

As far as I am aware, neither of my two most memorable flashers were caught...

We had just had a new superstore open in the 'shopping district' (I use that term loosely as it was rubbish then) and everyone was rushing down there to buy their huge sacks of rice, drums of ghee, half a side of goat etc and the expats were there because, for a change, we actually had a proper shopping mall! I only had #2 daughter with me that day as #1 was in nursery. #2 was off due to chicken pox and was three sheets to the wind, which was lucky for me. While we walked around the store, we bumped into a friend, Kate, and her daughters, who were also off colour. Kate was married to a work colleague of my ex, so we had a bit of a chat and a gush about how 'simply marvellous' it was that we now had a big shop in which to while away our time.

I got to my car to load up the boot with my shopping and had just strapped #2 into her car seat. I was parked at the forefront of the carpark and, across the little access road, I noticed an Omani man squatting onto the floor. My first thought was that he was taking a leak over the drainage grid and I was somewhat indignant...then, as I focussed more (I had just had eye laser surgery!), I realised that he was having a jolly good tug at himself. I nearly crashed the car, my dear reader! Behind him, busy shoppers were going about their business, ignoring him, probably assuming the same as my initial thought. I quickly looked at #2 who was not of this planet due to all the Calpol with which she was dosed and turned back to my very own personal Flash Dance...

Well, I declared to anybody that, in an identity parade, I wouldn't have recognised him by his facial features, but his appendage was so huge that initially, I thought he was polyorchidic and gazed in amazement...then it dawned on me. I shot the Jeep out as quickly as possible, pointing out various goats and sheep on the neighbouring mountains to #2 so she was distracted and drove off, intermittently chuckling, laughing out loud, and then shaking in fright at what I had seen.

My first phone call was to the ex...I told him and he was gobsmacked. My next call was to Kate.

Kate? Did you see that flasher in the carpark at the Sultan Centre?
Bloody f*ckin' hell (Kate was a dreadful potty-mouth!) did I SEE him? F*ckin' Jesus Christ! He was right next to my f*ckin' car, had his pull, wiped himself off with a f*ck-off leaf, moved across the way and STARTED AGAIN!!!
Did your girls see it? I asked.
No! For f*ck's sake, they were in the back eating Willy Wonka sweets and I'm in the front watching Willy Wanker!

An hour later, the ex called to say that Kate had called her husband, Simon, to tell him of her experience. Kate had told him she had never seen anything so huge in her life and the ex had retorted that this Agnes had said it was minute...

My second memorable flash happened, once again, in a supermarket. I was in Al Fair to purchase a birthday present. All the toddler-aged prezzies were located on the bottom shelf, so I was squatting down looking at My Little Ponies, Polly Pockets and Lego and wondering which item the child would most be likely to choke on when an Omani chap came towards me down the aisle. Out of the corner of my eye, I registered that his dishdasha was being carried upwards like a bride walking down the church aisle to meet her intended. So, I turned to stare at him. There he was, prancing gaily down, baring his masculinity for all to see! My squat over-balanced, and I ended up sprawled on the floor. Sod the present, I thought, I'm off!

I got my trolley and sped over to the frozen food aisles. My head was spinning, but after checking my list, I realised that I had to purchase frozen veg...Well, the bugger followed me and held his willy out for me over the frozen peas, just as I was reaching into the freezers to grab a bag (pardon the pun!) and I yelped!

As I yelped, he scarpered, and I was left with managers swarming around me...one lovely Pakistani manager had just been on a pilgrimage and had his hair hennaed bright red and it was somewhat difficult to take him seriously. His English wasn't fantastic and I resorted to sign language...Have you ever considered how to sign 'flasher' as a woman?

I gave up...I went home and called the ex to tell him of my latest escapade. He found it utterly hilarious, as did my friends when I told them. They started to ask me when I was going out shopping as they wanted to experience it too. At one point, there was even a Flash Agnes Fan Club as I had way more than the two I have related...

I was flashed by mobile phone a year ago...via one of those dreadful dating sites. We had arranged to meet, exchanged mobile numbers, and then I got a mucky picture of him having solo fun. I was not impressed at all and gave him very short thrift. He went onto the website and slagged me off to high heaven and sent me very rude messages until I reported him...

I like men, believe it or not, but I don't like knobheads. I will ask to see your willy when I am ready...And not before!

I Want a Holiday!

I have not had a holiday this year, and believe you me, it is showing in the percentage of grey hairs which are emerging through the (now permanent) Raven Beauty hair dye with which I periodically slather my head. With one of the work nutters being very demob happy as she is off to one of the Costas this weekend, my body is crying out to be sun-baked and rested, but it isn't meant to be.

It is almost four years since I had a proper holiday - I went to Barcelona last year with the last ex for four days, one of which was spent in hospital having X-rays and leaving with my neck in a brace, but apart from that, all holidays have been off limits.

The first holiday I went on without parents was when I was 18 (the age of majority in my father's eyes, and not a day before) with my then, lovely boyfriend, Mike. Please don't anybody ask why I didn't stay with Mike...I often wonder that myself! We decided to go to Devon and scoured the newspapers for hotel accommodation. One particular hotel caught our eyes and extolled its luxuries such as heated outdoor pool, jacuzzi, private beach, en suite bathrooms (this was in the 80s when en suite was so upmarket and not standard as it is these days) and live entertainment - woohoo!

We sent off for the hotel brochure and were utterly dismayed at the prices of the Sandy Cove, but were relieved to find it had a cheaper, sister hotel in Ilfracombe, not too far away. So, we booked our en suite double room (I told my father we were in separate rooms and thankfully, he didn't ask for written confirmation of this) and set off one very hot, sunny day in July 1988.

It took ages to get there and we tried not to make too many stops as we were eager to arrive, get unpacked and hole ourselves up for our first legal love-in.

Well, to say the hotel was underwhelming is an understatement itself. I remember the staircase vividly - it was painted dried blood red and was so steep it was like climbing the face of the Eiger. Our 'en suite' was actually a toilet and bath down the end of a corridor, but as there were no other bedrooms in the attic, we had it to ourselves - in theory; in practise, anyone wandering about, lost, could dive in for a quick wash and brush up if they so wished...

Our 'view' looked out over the neighbouring pub - not the sea...well, had I squinted and squashed my face up to the far left of the window, I might have caught a glimpse of it. And the bed - which was what Mike and I had been very fussy over - dipped dangerously in the middle. I'm pretty sure former guests had got lost in that dip, never to be seen again. In the corner of the room was a huge plate fungus, thriving on the rising damp. I am not sure if the hotel had left it there in case guests wanted to use it as extra shelf space as it was so enormous, because I could have quite easily stored my hand luggage on it.

All in all, a great disappointment...and as is my wont, I moaned. I moaned so much that Mike went to the management to complain. I think he complained about the moaning, to be honest - something along the lines of, There is an irritating whine in my room, can you do anything about it? They came up to see what I was moaning about and had to agree that under the Trade Descriptions Act, it wasn't really an en suite bathroom and pest control would be called in to destroy the new cure for syphillis being cultivated in the corner of the room. This wasn't really good enough to shut me up, so I stepped up my whinging until they relented, went off to make a few phone calls and informed us that tomorrow, we could transfer to The Sandy Cove hotel without any further charges. Hurray! I was most pleased that we were able to move to a decent, clean hotel and so we went out to celebrate in style at the pub across the road.

The next morning, we got ourselves up bright and early to get washed, dressed and ready for the transfer. Mike decided to go for a bath down the corridor, and I started running the water in the sink in our bedroom. He'd trotted off for his bath, and forgotten his towels, so he was butt naked and yelled for me. I couldn't quite hear him, and went out of the bedroom, leaving the taps running, and shouted for him to repeat himself. As soon as the words were leaving my mouth, our bedroom door slammed shut, locked to everyone but those with a spare key.

I stared in realisation at the door, looked at my naked boyfriend, looked down at my then more than ample figure, clad only in a pair of knickers and panicked. In the bedroom, I could hear water starting to overflow.

What are we going to do? I flapped, of absolutely no help to poor Mike whatsoever.
Go down to reception and ask them to open the door up for us, he snapped at me.
I'm not going down there - I've only got my knickers on! I retorted hotly.
Well, I'm not wearing anything! he pointed out, rather obviously.
Tough! There's no way I am going down there...

We argued back and forth about who would suffer the most embarrassment in displaying their 'bits' to reception and as I spotted Mike's flannel on the edge of the bath, I pointed out the logic that there was one flannel, he only had only one thing to cover up, and I had two, ergo, he went and got help.

He held the flannel over his groin, and scaled the downward slope of the staircase, which was quite difficult with only one hand. I hid in the bathroom and waited for the spare keys to be produced. A few minutes later, Mike was let in, red-faced and mortified. The bedroom floor was soaking from the overflowing sink and you could almost hear the fungal spores rejoicing at this new area of dampness to reproduce in.

Like a coward, I skulked back to the bedroom once the coast was clear. Mike was not impressed by my lack of help, and the finger of blame was pointed squarely in my direction. By this stage, I had seen the funny side of it and told him that one day, when I was rich and famous, I would recount this in my memoirs. Well, I'm not yet rich and famous, but one part of the prediction has, indeed, come true!

The Sandy Cove was a much nicer place to stay at and we were fortunate enough to have a glorious two weeks of sunshine and so were actually able to experience the outdoor heated swimming pool, which was like ice, and the private beach, which involved ropes, harnesses and abseiling, so precarious was the descent.

I have not been back to Devon since then, although it is a beautiful part of England. I prefer to holiday overseas now as the weather is guaranteed, generally, and the only time I have felt like complaining about a room was when I stayed at the Al Buraimi Hotel in Oman - the sauna was out of order, the paving slabs around the pool were broken and a veritable broken ankle/split head waiting to happen, the evening's entertainment ('Housey-Housey' NOT bingo, of course, as gambling is illegal in the Sultanate!) started at 2am under my bedroom window, and the "Indonesian cuisine" was a portion of chicken drumstick in a pool of oil...However, as I was there to write a hotel review for a magazine, and as the hotel was owned by the government, I was under strict orders not to complain and NOT to write a bad review if I wanted to remain in the country as a guest of HM Sultan Qaboos...

So, as Autumn is now here, my summer holiday for 2007 has passed without trace and I shall therefore have to dream of sandy beaches, sunshine and relaxation until next year. If any of you are going to take a late holiday and would like a travelling companion, I am very good at providing non-stop witless conversation and will always get the round in if you lend me a tenner. Let me know the itinerary, and I shall be there...

PS. It has just occurred to me that here I am, having just accepted a new job, and all I am bleating on about is wanting a holiday - there's no pleasing some people, is there?