Monday, March 26, 2007

Die. It.

This is not funny. This is only the end , officially, of day one. But there have been days of prep and a full day on Saturday down Planet Organic and Holland and Barrett. Bags of market produce for juicing and smoothing. Carrot Juice. Beetroot. (fresh!). And a box of lemons.
There's a diet going on.




But not just an ordinary, semi-skimmed, can't eat chips diet. No, we've done those already. This is the full detox-water-fasting-veg stock-no alcohol-give up smoking - last blow out Sunday - not a fucking thing in the fridge except more water, juice and lemons - which is due to last seven or ten days depending on just exactly how mad this gets diet. There's apparatus involved too which has a long tube and pipe attached, there are pills of every hue and cry (remember them?) and bottles of stuff that have labels - and I can decipher a Bordeaux label at 50 yards- which I can't even read never mind make sense of.

I know, I know , I know. Support, help, generosity of spirit. Not going to local gastropub and buying a £9 plate of charcuterie and a large house merlot at 10.30pm. But the headaches, the headaches! The sickness and dizzy spells! The need to wee! (And she's not good either, boom boom, ha ha, only a joke)

Out all day tomorrow at meetings; already planned mid-morning croissanty things in Soho, lunch in West End womb of a place whose menu I know so intimately I could telephone the order now, and end of day in some Shoreditch/Hoxton stripped out former warehouse now serving Japanese Tapas or Burmese Oatcakes, who cares. If only this was China. We could have dimsum for breakfast too. Dammit. Suppose I'll have to talk these people between courses. Double dammit.

Day two is apparently bad, but not the worst. We'll see. May telephone from Ronnie Scott's (mmmmmm Bar Italia 2am espresso and hot chicken milanese sandwich!) just to check in advance. Maybe I could bring home a takeaway.

DAY TWO
This is going spectacularly well, although I must confess to a slight touch of the hallucinations having seen in Soho today Clive Owen, Sir Alastair Burnet, and Christopher Biggins. Plus assorted playmates, but they don't count.
A multplatform monetising day with muffins, no lunch sadly, a small Burger King hamburger, chocolate, more chocolate, three beers and a small McDonald's hamburger before boarding the tube, thus arriving home not particularly hungry for a plate of excellent rabbit food (the detox has been changed already, solid foods allowed on day two) before settling down for Life on Mars and The Devil's Advocate.
mmmm sorry, even I don't find this interesting. How about a huge fight with the bank? The bastards chaged me £250 in bank charges today (apparently I was sent a letter) but I regarded it is a fraud and told them. More on this later, as well as the detox.

DAY THREE
This is so bloody fantastic I'm going to stop writing about it. Nobody's dead, nobody's shouting, there are no migraines, there's weight being lost (apparently) and all is sweetness and light in the nationwide shared household. This morning after the vegetable smoothy thing which was quite nice I had a secret sausage roll, £1.39 from the garage, all warm and lovely and juicy and melting and greasy and generally delicioso! Then at lunchtime while the diet queen was having an emergency salad thingy with a sympathetic friend, I rescued the potted shrimps bought in a moment of Morecambe Madness from the back of the fridge and with a biscuit or two had a very lovely snack type thing which tasted all fishy and buttery and warm and biscuity and crunchy and generally beatific. (You can probably tell, I'm a little hungry these days)
But joy Oh Joy Oh joy (a phrase currently reserved for Fish and Chips) we are to spend the evening apart (if you read this pal F this is meant in a good way) after I come back from the pub. The chums down the pub know what's going on and therefore will leave the ENTIRE BOWL of miniature sausages alone while I casually, nay delicately, place them between my lips one at a time, or possibly all at once - who's to say that twelve little chipolatas all have to be eaten separately - and discuss matters of state which will sadly include Scotland's chances tonight which I'm not even going to watch!
No tonight, I happen to know there are pork chop things in the fridge, and a half bag of frozen chips, and between the pub and the nationwide house there is an offie which sells wine........ and I'm watching the telly and pretending to be interested in The Apprentice but actually I'm only watching for the inane rantings of the glitterati and pond life (you know who you are) of Organ Grinder who're doing a live blog which I did a few weeks ago while pissed.
mmmmm pork chop type things......

DAY FOUR
I'm fed up with this now. Too calm. Veggie smoothy type thing for breakfast OK then nothing, wasn't hungry. Too busy moaning about fucking Gordon Ramsay on the F word last night. God that man gets away with fucking murder, I don't know. You take a perfectly good programme (much like Kitchen Nightmares) and then let some oaf who can knock up a dish swear every fifteen seconds and whoa! he's worth £60million overnight. Aubergine (see, we're talking about food here, not telly, media monkeys) used to be brilliant and you could virtually walk in and get a table at 9 after all the American tourists were tucked up in bed, and there would be G Ramsay actually cooking , as opposed to swearing and bullying and trying desperately to be funny (you're not even Scottish, never mind funny) and he'd occasionally pop out and say hi, to the ex wife, not me, he only swore at me at Awards Ceremonies, that's where it fucking started, well how come I swear as much as him and I didn't get paid £60 million for it? Then he walked out of Aubergine and it's all gone, em, something bigger than a big thing and he's got his kids writing for the Observer and his wife on telly and restaurants all over the world and an internet CCTV system for all his kitchens and a Ferrari, at least one, and yet he just fucking swears ALL the fucking time! Jesus H.
If I swore as much as that I'd have been fucking bopped by now or jailed or something, but not worth fucking sixty mill. Bastard.
I'm off to Pal D for dinner, he's a brilliant cook and has promised me high protein high fat luxury food (a pie probably) since he thinks I'm starving and obviously hasn't read this. Fuckim.

DAYS FIVE, SIX and, oh who cares?
I don't. I made an all vegetable fruit medley type dinner which had our wees stinking to high heaven (I knew about asparagus, but not the artichoke) Odd colour too. But then the weekend arrived with a bang.
First mistake, she of the no-drinking veg-only diet says she'll come into E&O to say hi at lunchtime to chums and then go around Portobello Road buying all the fruit and veg it's possible to fit in the trunk of a car, but instead stays for some edamame beans and also to watch me guiltily consume moderate amounts of posh overpriced dimsum and small amounts of wine. For two hours.

Second mistake, having already backed out of entire weekend of new French Cinema at the Curzon Mayfair, exploit wave of euphoria from my excellent broccoli soup to go see one film, A Few Days in September, and get caught in media scrum as Juliette Binoche, the rather attractive star, arrives at same time to get photo taken. The film is utter rubbish, infuriatingly self obsessed and just plain awful. We are so animated in our anger at it that we manage to drive past The Brasserie (mmm steak and chips) without flinching and come back to watch Batman, a very sensible movie as it happens, but where I try unsuccessfully to sneak glas of wine.

Third mistake, go for drinks Sunday lunchtime where people are cooking heavenly lunch they are going to eat after we have left. Realise I am insane with hunger. Sit outside Harrods beside big Bentley with number plate "V POSH" and unbelievably, discover it IS Mrs Beckham's four wheel confirmation of complete lack of class and taste.
Fail this time to make it past The Brasserie. Try hard to make do with omelette, salad and water. Can't. Have wine in front of diet queen and feel guilty (again) as I eat. Buy loads of expensive French fruit juice as compensation (yes this is officially nuts now) but then meet movie chum for guilt free wine, as diet queen drives off.

Get home to insane amount of work, reveal that I cannot stand Brown Rice (final nail in weekend coffin) and watch whole of Louis Theroux who really is having a laugh now, shooting fish in a barrel with mad family of American religious zealouts whose "anti-fag" policy is too ludicrous to explain. End up doing stupid amount of work until, oh, 1.45am. Shit.

2 comments:

Yeractual said...

Good luck with the detox, NW. I have a stomach that is apparently like HFactor's bottom (which she describes in her blog).

My GP said, "Salads & shoots. If it's in your fridge and it's green, you can eat it."

Now, I don't know what his fridge is like, but that is pretty dangerous advice in my case. So my diet is rather like yours; it can't harm you if no one sees you stuffing your face with it. The guilt and fear of being found out creates enough nervous energy to counter the effects of the calories.

Banks, yes - bastards.

nationwide said...

I've often wondered what the phrase "arse in parsley" actually meant. mmmm. Parsley. Sauce. Fish. Bird's Eye frozen foods counter at shop around the corner. mmmmm