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Every time I sent a picture to Posterous it was posted to Twitter twice; blaming bugs I logged a support request with Twitterfeed and there was no double entry in the database and no indication of what might be happening. Following their suggestion I investigated both accounts & it turns out that I’ve configured Twitterfeed to send to Twitter as well as Posterous itself, I’d forgotten it could do that (probably too much wine of an evening) but it simplifies the process & means one less account t manage.

So, Twitterfeed sussed it & lost a customer. Sorry guys.

Now I just need to find out why the weekly tweet summary is posted twice. Hmmm …

• Measure the butter, sugar, eggs, treacle and almonds into a very large bowl and beat well. Add the flours and mixed spice and mix thoroughly until blended. Stir in the soaked fruit. Spoon into the prepared cake tin and level the surface.

• Bake in the centre of the preheated oven for 4-4½ hours or until the cake feels firm to the touch and is a rich golden brown. Check after 2 hours, and, if the cake is a perfect colour, cover with foil. A skewer inserted into the centre of the cake should come out clean. Leave the cake to cool in the tin.

• When cool, pierce the cake at intervals with a fine skewer and feed with a little extra sherry. Wrap the completely cold cake in a double layer of greaseproof paper and again in foil and store in a cool place for up to 3 months, feeding at intervals with more sherry. Don’t remove the lining paper when storing as this helps to keep the cake moist.

• Put all the dried fruit in a large mixing bowl
• Pour the sherry over the mixed fruit
• Stir in the chopped orange zest
• Cover and leave to soak for around 3 days
• Stir daily
• Smell periodically
• Anticipate

I have just consumed my first pea widge in about fifteen years, and I offer the following to allow you to share the experience.

Ingredients:

Time to get the Christmas cake sorted, which is something I’ve been meaning to do. Following a trip to Tesco’s (and a to-do in the car park with a mad woman) I now have:

The hardware:

a big new mixing bowl, wooden spoons, wooden spatulas

The software:

175g (6 oz) raisins
350g (12 oz) glace cherries, rinsed, thoroughly dried and quartered
500g (1lb 2oz) currants
350g (12oz) sultanas
150ml (¼ pint) sherry, plus extra for feeding
Finely grated zest of 2 oranges
250g (9oz) butter, softened
250g (9oz) light muscovado sugar
4 eggs
1 tbsp black treacle
75g (3oz) blanched almonds, chopped
75g (3oz) self-raising flour
175g (6oz) plain flour
1½ tsp mixed spice

& odds & sods to finish and decorate:
About 3 tbsp apricot jam, sieved and warmed
Icing sugar
675g shop-bought almond paste
Packet royal icing mix to cover 23cm/9in cake

Can’t you just taste it already?

Let’s take this from the top, the sleeve is dreadful. The  ‘Lord of the Manner’ portrait (no gatefold, no inserts, we’re hardly trying here) doesn’t hold much promise, even with the pre-Goth undertaker feel to the outfit. After the two year hiatus since ‘Bule Moves’ we were expecting big things, and had spent the interim coping with the possibility that ‘that was it’. ‘Shine On Through’ is a nice enough opening track but I’m not looking for ‘nice’, and things don’t improve much with ‘Return To Paradise’. I don’t think we’re even trying, and Jesus, are those trumpets? I am also firmly of the opinion that any drummer should be shot the moment he reaches for the easy listening brush-things. ‘I Don’t Care’ is a bit more like it but sadly I do, and I’m still waiting. ‘Big Dipper’ comes across as a Tumbleweed Connection reject and I hope that the closing line ‘Another reason for squeezin’ your Big Dipper’ doesn’t mean what I think it does. And even Bernie Taupin can’t convince me that ‘reason’ rhymes with ’squeezin’. Skip on a couple & ‘Part Time Love’ starts the feet tapping, and ‘Georgia’ is almost there but we’ve got that cod-American thing happening again. I can also imagine people (metaphorically) holding their lighters in the air, and that can’t be good. Things are OK until we get to ‘Reverie’, a one-minute instrumental interlude (that’s more like it) Taking us straight into ‘Song For Guy’ – Life … isn’t ever-ee thi-ing, isn’t ever-ee thi-ing. I’m sorry Elton, but it is. Let’s take a moment to think about Guy though. Pity no-one wrote his last name down.

And that’s it (until the extended album rant), I stand vindicated and have no need to investigate the following thirty albums. Elton, go for a drink with Paul McCartney why don’t you. You’ve done enough, and had done in 1976.

So, on to The Who from My Generation to Quadrophenia. Or maybe not.

I have to admit I was a bit concerned before we started out. There’s always a possibility of something dreadful happening, or me doing something stupid in front of colleagues which will become one of the stories recounted at future office dos. In the event it all passed off very nicely, with spectacular stupidity and drunkenness shown by others for once.

Chris was very excited, Jay, John & Mark looking forward to it. Rich had pulled out (to be replaced by Chris) so we were at the recommended maximum which seemed sensible for a maiden event, but I suspect the lack of window boxes on our roof would allow us at least an additional crew member. The first disaster was John forgetting to bring the gas bottle for his portable barbecue, so mark was dispatched to source emergency disposable barbies. We unloaded at Holme Pierepont & waited expectantly for mark, the barbies & the Coors that he was bringing (out of date apparently, but it seemed rude not to). Once we were all aboard we were off. Nothing much to report, we bypassed the canal entrance the first time to take the opportunity for Chris to take us under Trent Bridge. By this time the cheapo barbies (which were apparently from  a garage & quite expensive) had singularly failed to light so we moored up to address the situation and failed miserably.  Plan B was to use the grill which behaved impeccably so the two Js & C sorted the burgers while me & M handled the lock. By now everyone had steered & we arrived at Via Fossa and commenced the first beer run. Without discussion we camped out opposite the pubs and watched the world go by. And what a world, one that forced my companions to question my decision to stay there for the night. It started about a hundred yards away when one of two women threw a guys wheelchair into the canal. He managed to retrieve it but the first woman, who was now naked from the waist down (?) tried to make him follow it. He defended himself heroically and she ended up wet instead. We really shouldn’t have watched, but it was difficult not to. By now she was out, the wheelchair back in and the second woman watching from the bench. Once wheelchair man was safely reseated he seemed to take pity on her and donated his jeans which left him propelling himself with his remaining pasty leg, which was also now minus a shoe. The two women became best mates & left together.

By now I was actually a bit drunk, Mark S had joined us and we drank the rest of the night away. I’ve been ordered to arrange a sequel, possibly over a weekend. It would be fun but I’m not sure I have the energy.

I have also just been told that I smell of beer, sweat and urine so perhaps I ought to address that.

Oh dear, it seemed like such a simple suggestion at the time. It has long been the custom at work to nominate the first Friday after payday as a ‘Boozy Do’ (the first rule of the Booze Club? Don’t talk about the Booze Club). In times past I was young enough and hard enough to keep up, and didn’t mind dropping fifty quid on a Friday to feel dreadful and be neither use nor ornament on a Saturday. They were surprisingly formal affairs in their way, albeit a lot of fun, with an agenda before the event and minutes published afterwards. Age brings wisdom however and I’ve long accepted that I don’t need to prove my groove with the office youngsters still in their thirties. I have after all been to Alien Sex Fiend and Xmal Deutschland gigs and I am comfortable with my cred-entials.

The marina to the traditional pub gathering is a trip of about 15 minutes by canal and initially I thought I’d offer a few people a lift between those two points, by way of being sociable. That didn’t seem worth the effort though, so maybe Holme Pierrepont to the pub would be better? About an hour and a half, a stretch of river and a couple of locks to get us there by early evening on Poet’s Day. A beer on the way, one in town and then home to bed. I thought I’d have a couple of willing (?) volunteers and would be able to drum up a couple more with a bit of email begging (or bullying), but I was immediately over-subscribed. Add to that the insistence of a strict dress code by the participants and a new vocabulary and I think I it might be about to get messy.

So Sunday will be spent moving the boat to HP in preparation, aided and abetted by Jason Mason and Jason Mason Junior.

After that let’s see what Friday brings, eh?

I grant you that on the face of it buying a Jaguar might not appear the sensible option, but look at it from my point of view. It’s not an S-type and the original shopping list included leather everything, all the toys and nothing less than a full SE model. Sadly the budget wouldn’t stretch that far for anything that I could be confident would last me the year and as part of my research I thought I’d have a look at a local X-type for comparison purposes only. I’d already seen an SE and a Sport with no histories but all sorts of buttons and lights which were oh so tempting, but the cloth seats made this one a definite no purchase viewing. And there it was, the cleanest and most cosseted thing I’d ever sat in, the fullest service history imaginable, a clutch less than three month old and (though it pains me to say this) a comforting lack of buttons on the console. I think I grew up at that moment, became sensible and gave the man a deposit.

Having said that’s it’s the fastest thing I’ve ever driven, is a 2.5 litre V6 putting out 194bhp and it scares the willies out of me.

I think I’m in love.