Monthly Recap May 2023

The totals for the month: a pitiful 80 miles running, 14 pubs, 3 kebabs, 6 fish and chips, 1 short reviews. The food related resolution (26 each kebabs and fish & chips posts by year’s end) was completed. Here’s the cartoon of the month (not necessarily a monthly feature):

At the start of the month, I had a look at the Google Maps aerial photo of the back garden and was pleased to find a newer shot than that which went up two years ago. The new shed is in place (so at least September 2021) and the bicycles are covered near the back of the house (shifted slightly from there after the brick delivery in September 2022), and we sent the blue table to a skip in August 2022 so that narrows this shot to an 11 month period.

We deemed Debra’s visit, the focal point of the month, to be successful. Besides Jackie, this was the first time I have spent time with anyone our advanced age and it made me realise just how old we actually are. As that sinks in more and more, I am finding it a little depressing but unlike the chronic depression this one has not only a reason but a good reason and is a bit easier to swallow.

Sandwiched by Manchester trips to welcome her in and see her off we showed her sights along the canals (which she had in her head to be dry canal beds) where she added many species to her birdwatching diary, took her to the Bedlam of the Bullring Market, taught her how to manage herself on various forms of public transit, cooked her several new dishes, and introduced her to her little cat-nephew Jimi (who already seems to miss her). She had her first curries in her first Desi pub a few hours after seeing her first ever cricket match (quote of the day: “next time I’m bringing binoculars so I can see which one is going to be my girlfriend;” dream big, sister, dream big).

61

My grandmother’s birthday was a few days ago. She would have been 134 had she not been taken from us at the tender age of 95 back in 1984. A 134 year old grandmother is not what makes me feel old.

Grandma’s favourite song that I knew of was “Only The Good Die Young” by Billy Joel.

I’ve gotten a new cap so I’m getting rid of two old ones.

I made a carrot cake from Molly Katzen’s recipe. Happy Birthday.

Short Scientific Editorial Review: Chad Cook on ‘Publication fraud, dishonesty, and deceit’

It’s an excellent synopsis of a rife problem. You should read it.

My own experience with this phenomenon is limited to these two examples:

–redacted, but available to some by request–

The Pub at Bearwood

Pub #2568:

There’s a wonderful Italian deli across and down the street from the Pub at Bearwood so I entered the warm, friendly confines carrying a horde of sausages the likes of which Brits simply would not tolerate (no filler, no nitrites, and containing a wealth of — what’s that weird thing other cultures like in their food? — flavour).

There are a couple of cask ale taps but they weren’t running this visit. There were three hard-to-choose-from pale ales on CO2, though, and the one I had was divine. Didn’t bother to write it down as this won’t be my last trip to the deli.

The Head of Steam, Birmingham

Pub #2567:

Head! Who said head?
I’ll take some of that,
And I did, and it was good,
And there was much rejoicing!

I’ve strolled past the [Skull] of Steam for years largely because that HHH chant gets stuck in my cranium and reminds me not to use THAT word for the foam at the top of the beer.

The bar is a bit of a yuppie hipster site, as well, but one with a vast array of beers to choose from and, in the end, I’ll tolerate the Dido-esque muzak in exchange for the industrial architecture and beverage offerings.

And then we fucked.
We fucked for hours,
Uprooting trees, shrubs, & flowers,
Scaring small children and woodland animals,
We fucked like Vikings,
With horns upon ours heads!

Head! Who said head?
I’ll take some of that!
We don’t want women with good taste,
We want women who taste good!
(alternatively: A good man is hard to find,
A hard man is good to find!])

The New Inn, Erdington

Pub #2566:

Rather a pleasant spot for a Guinness, the New Inn is. The landlady said it had been hectic for a week (this was over the Easter holiday) but I was alone this lunchtime break. The front bar is slightly smaller than this back lounge but only just. I had a bit of a mooch but couldn’t find my way to the garden.

I could see out there, though, and spied the quartet of gnomes that simply must be epoxied to the roof out there…lest they would be in someone’s garden right now…if they were able to get out to the garden.

The Pheasant Plucker, Erdington

Pub #2565:

The name Pheasant Plucker is dreadful but the building looked interesting from without and felt a bit like home inside.

Perhaps a bit too much like home, considering the lighting and tiles match our kitchen (link for comparison here, especially the last two photos):

I still haven’t added the “Shale is gay as fuck” graffito to our bathroom, yet…yet:

All good things, as they must…

Me, Jackie, and Jimi are all going to miss our Debra. But, her week overseas came to an end today as two of us rode with her to Manchester Airport to start the journey back to North Carolina.

Digital Camera

We figured that the last time we saw each other was during the 2016 election. I was at Debra’s on the front end of that trip and a Hilary Clinton campaign worker came to the door and was confronted with the two of us demanding he go and fetch us some Bernie Sanders paraphernalia. Drugs may have been a factor.

Not a dry canal

She hadn’t been on a bus in decades and never a double decker; nor, ever a tram; nor, ever a train. She knew cricket existed but none of the rules and had never seen a game. She’d never had fish pie, a pub lunch, or any proper Indian food. She thought our talk of canal walks meant we would be hiking dry canal beds. We set a those things to right and still she was like a newborn marvelling at the variety of people and things about England she was, pre-trip, misinformed about.

Her cat had to be put down about a year after our last visit to the States and she still grieves; but, Jimi warmed her heart and, after acclimation, her cot. She returned the favour with all sorts of affection and a couple of seagull feathers she found on canals.

Debra took lots of Jimi photos

And, so she’s gone. It’s back to work for us tomorrow while Debra is off until Sunday. It will be nice to have the house back — we haven’t spent a night in the mostly finished pile alone yet — but I already miss her. Safe journey, sister.

Central Sparks vs Northern Diamonds at Edgbaston Stadium

Neither Debra nor Jackie have ever sat through cricket but both love baseball so a T20 match had to be on the agenda for Deb’s UK tour. We picked the women’s match between the Sparks and the Diamonds because women’s cricket is my favourite, T20 lasts about the time of a standard baseball match, and Deb probably would enjoy watching fit young women run around in the sun.

The crowds were unbearable

Not many people there if you discount the school kids (day out at end of term so there were a multitude of carriages dumping the fuckers off). Too bad as it was a cracking match with Diamonds bowled out with 2 balls remaining then Sparks needed 10 runs on their last two balls which would have been a 4 and a 6 but they only managed a 6.

Loads of fun even with being menaced by the cocaine bear.

Colosseum Shaworma, Erdington

Kebab year continues.

“Do you want sauce?” the guy at the Colosseum asked as he spooned up some mayo.

“Not that. JUST chilli sauce, please.” He looked at me then spread a heaping big shit swipe of mayo on the pita. Despite that abomination, the food was good. Not as good as if he hadn’t poisoned me with the Devil’s Cum Bucket, but good.

The veg was crunchy and the jalapenos sharp. The chilli sauce sublime. And the shaworma (as they spell it) was divine and a “small” starts with 500 grams of it (enough for a family by the general health recommendations).

Go there; but, start by getting them to sign a statement renouncing the mayo.