Looks like the summer has finally got it’s shit together, thank fuck, and just in time for Doug’s annual Shakespeare festival down at The Globe. Not sure why it has to be July 24th, but it does, apparently. This year he’d managed to get a few of the boys down from Stratford-upon-Avon. Call themselves the ‘Pigeons Who Do Shakespeare’. Frankly, I’m not sure how much of it they actually do seeing as none of them seemed to know any of the words. Just shuffled around a bit looking serious.
Doug rocked though, as always. He chose to do a piece from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Said he wanted to bring a lighter touch to the proceedings this year. Give it a bit of a comedy edge. Have to say, I’m glad he did. Last year’s death of Othello was all a bit much.
Anyway, here he is giving it large:
“Thou seest these lovers seek a place to fight:
Hie therefore, Robin overcast the night;
They starry welkin cover thou anon
With drooping fog as black as Acheron”
And here’s the so-called supporting cast:
Like I said, a bit shit really. This was pretty much all they did.
Saying that, it was a top day. Even Clubfoot Gerry made it down:
Not seen him in years. Turned into a bit of a recluse after the accident. Great to see him out and about, even though he didn’t say much.
There I was, out and about with Mart in Clerkenwell flapping about in the sunshine minding my own business, when we spot this rather lovely thing:
Jesus. Nearly wet myself, so we went in for a closer look.
If pigeons could wank I’d have been in a right mess. Fucking gorgeous she was, till she opened her beak. Oh dear. I asked her what her name was and out came this high pitched noise. No words, just noise. Unintelligible and painful to the ears. May as well have been another language.
I said ‘Pardon?’ and asked her to repeat herself, which she did, and the same thing happened. Using my inbuilt word decoder I think she said her name was Stacey, but I can’t be sure. Realising that she really was only one for the eye, we moved on. Can’t be doing with that. No matter how brief or limited, some level of conversation is essential I reckon, although this is something Mart disagrees with, but that’s probably because conversation isn’t his strong point either.
That said, I couldn’t help feeling a tad disappointed. Oh well.
Yes – the Gordon Ramsay, as in the so-called chef. Thanks to Snowflake, I just found out that he has cooked up pigeon two weeks in a row on his TV show. Jesus Christ.
Here’s one of the recipes:
1. Season the pigeon breast with oil, sea salt and freshly ground pepper. Heat a heavy based frying pan until hot. Add the pigeon breasts skin side down and fry for about 1 minute each side. They should feel slightly springy when pressed, transfer to a plate to rest.
2. For the vinaigrette whisk together the olive oil, sherry vinegar, seasoning and a squeeze of lemon juice. Spoon a little of the vinaigrette on the resting pigeon breasts then cover them with foil to keep warm.
3. Tip out the excess oil from the pigeon pan and add the pancetta. Cook the pancetta for a couple of minutes, then crumble in the black pudding. Cook them together for 3 – 4 minutes until crispy. Deglaze the pan with sherry vinegar and allow to cook out for around a minute. Drain the contents of the pan through a sieve and rest on kitchen paper.
4. Place the salad leaves in a large bowl and drizzle over most of the remaining vinaigrette. Add the bacon and black pudding mix and toss together.
5. Arrange the salad onto serving plates. Slice the pigeon breast thickly into approx 4 even pieces, arrange on top of the salad leaves , drizzle the juices from the cooking pan over the pigeon along with a final touch of reserved vinaigrette. Serve with crusty bread.
What the fuck?
How about we stick some garlic up your arse, Ramsay, pop you in the oven, and just see what happens? Maybe serve you up adding ‘a final touch of vinaigrette’?
Bit of an odd week this one. One minute I’m there consoling Murray – see post below – after Andy Murray got knocked out of Wimbledon, the next I’m heading up to Cavendish Square to go visit Smacky Steve who appears to have lost the plot completely. Totally and utterly marbled.
Turns out he actually thinks he’s in prison, kid you not.
Here he is:
Half an hour later, and here he is again:
Went back the next day, and he was still there, pacing up and down:
All he kept saying was how he didn’t deserve to be behind bars and had so much to give, which would have been true had he not succumbed to the liquid grain and given up working with the foil.