PIFD ... a day to remember

There's a heap of 'those days' in a typical year.

I don't mean regular days like Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and the rest. They're boring days. I mean 'celebration days'. Look, I reckon most them are a bit of a waste of space. Walk to Work Day is a big one down here. I don't get that one at all. I'd imagine that if you live close enough to walk to work you pretty much always do (work to walk). In most cases, I reckon that's probably why you've chosen to live close to work ... so you can walk to work. I'm not sure that the people who live close to work really need a special day to remind them to leave the car at home.

I work a good 40kms from home. They could offer a whole heap of Walk to Work Days each year and you wouldn't find me getting involved in any of them. Walk to Work Day just makes me feel guilty. Guilty that I can't walk to work. It may as well be called Feel Guilty that your Buggering up the Environment by not Walking to Work Day. Although I guess that doesn't have the same ring to it. 

On the other hand if you are on the lookout for a decent celebration day - if your birthday, Christmas Day, Pancake Day and all the other 'big ones' aren't enough for you - I've come across one that might just tickle your fancy; 26th April 2012.

It's International Pay it Forward Day.

Yep, it's international. It's a worldwide day. Woo-hoo! Pop the date in your diary right now.

I mean it. I really do. I like the sound of this one. To start with it doesn't involve me having to walk 40kms to work. 

Pay if forward. It's a really nice concept. A great idea. A nice way to live. Even for just one day.

I'll explain it, but only because I've only just heard the phrase myself. You might already know what it's all about. Hell, people might have been 'paying it forward' on April 26th for years and years, and I might just not have been told about it.

Admittedly, I have been living under a rock for a few years. I've been lost in my own little world. Picky tells me there was a movie made about paying it forward. It was called 'Pay it Forward'. I do like a movie title that doesn't mess about, that isn't too cryptic and gets straight to the point. I think it had Jennifer Aniston in it*. Or someone. Like I say, I've been under a rock on the movie front. I've not plonked down on me bum at the cinema with a family-sized box of salted popcorn since Pearl was born.  That's almost two years. I thought Jennifer Aniston was only in Friends, and was knocking about with Brad Pitt. That's how 'in the dark' I am. My darkness is pretty dark. 

Pay it forward.

It's the idea that you do someone a favour - help someone out - with whatever resources you have, whatever skills you possess. You lend-a-hand. And you don't expect anything in return. But because you've done something nice for that person, you hope that they will do something just as nice for someone else. Not for you (technically that's 'paying it back'), but for someone other than you. In the future. That's paying your kindness forward.

It's nice don't ya think? You help someone out, give them a break, do a good turn, and you don't expect anything in return. You just hope that they will Pay it Forward. It's simple and cool.  I like the idea that, for one day at least, the world will be full of people who are busy doing nice things for other people and not expecting anything in return. 

Me, Picky and Pearl - the 3 Pichs - have an odd living arrangement. Not odd as in we sleep in different parts of the house or anything. Although that might have crossed Picky's mind from time to time. We live in a beautiful apartment in Manly. Our place has got super views out over the ocean. I say 'our place'. It's not. We just rent it off the parents of some friends of ours. They live in England and they come back to Manly each year for three months to visit family. So, the deal is that we live in their apartment for nine-months and then we move out for three-months. For those nine-months we pay them reduced rent. That's why we live in such a beautiful apartment with great views. We could never afford it if we didn't have this funny '3-months / 9-months arrangement'.

The downside is that for 3-months every year we're homeless. 

We're not complaining. It's a great set up. It works a dream. Of course, it's a bit of a hassle moving out and finding somewhere else to live for three months. Particularly now we've got Pearl. Imagine packing up and moving out and into somewhere temporary, and then - three months later - doing the same thing in reverse. It's a right old hassle.

This year we found a great place to live. For two out of the three months. We struck gold. But we were a month short. We tried everything to find somewhere for the final four weeks; friends, the internet, friends of friends, Facebook friends, friends of Facebook friends. Nothing. Nada. We could hardly blame people. Who really wants three Pichs rocking up on their doorstep with 25 bags bulging with assorted bits and bobs?

Finally as a last resort we decided to pack Picky and Pearl off to Europe to visit her mum and dad for a month. That way at least it was just one Pich and my 25 bags of assorted bits and bobs in need of a place to stay for a month. 

& then I popped down to grab a couple of takeaway coffees from our local coffee shop. As I was waiting for my cappuccino (with a double shot) I told the fella making it that I was packing the girls off to Europe for a month due to our impending homelessness. There was a lady with a pram standing next to me. She'd just grabbed her own coffee. She asked me what my problem was. I told her. She asked for my number & she called later that day to say that she'd chatted to her husband and we could have their apartment for a month if we wanted it. The three of them would move into her husband's parent's place. For a month.

I was stunned. Picky was stunned. Pearl was stunned. Pearl was more stunned at all the new toys she spotted when we popped to see what was destined to be our home for a month.

That was a week ago. I'm typing this from the sofa in our 'new place'. They moved out and we moved in. They cleared some space in their wardrobe, talked us through the set-up of their TV, said we could use their wireless, hopped in their car and said they'd be back in four weeks. Just like that.

Is it me, or is that odd? It shouldn't be odd though, should it? It should be how things are. I think it was how things were back in the olden days. In our grandparent's day. People helping other people out, doing a good turn, pitching in, doing people a favour. Even strangers. Just because they could. I don't think it happens too much these days. Maybe it does. Maybe everybody is secretly helping everybody else out. Under the radar. Maybe. I doubt it.

I said to Picky that I'm going to make sure that I do a bit of that myself from now on. Consciously. That I will try to help people out whenever I can, if I can, just because I can. When you think about it, it's really not too much of a hassle to do someone a small favour from time to time. And you never know, to them it might actually be a huge favour.

Cheers Anna, Kris and Hugo. You did us a huge favour and I'll pay it forward - hopefully before the big day itself. Pay it Forward Day. April 26th 2012

*crucial fact check. The movie Pay it Forward (2000) did not star Jennifer Aniston. It starred Kevin Spacey and Helen Hunt. Jennifer Aniston is no longer with Brad Pitt and Friends finished ages ago. Jennifer Aniston was indeed in Friends. Picky brought me up to speed on a few things when she read this post.

Dr Spock (& not the one with the funny ears)

So, I’ve written a book. I’m officially a 'wannabe author'. It's officially not a book. It's only a book when it's published, if that ever happens. Until then it's officially a 'manuscript'.

So, I've officially written a manuscript.

It’s currently with a professional editor being professionally edited (whatever that means), but really it’s done & dusted.  

I thought I’d unveil a small part of my book right here, right now. 


I can’t promise it’ll be anything like the unveiling of a sparkly, new, Apple gizmo (or gizmo mark 3). It’s only my book. It’s quite hard to achieve the elusive 'wow-factor' with the unveiling of a small bit of a wannabe author's first manuscript.

But anyway, it is what it is. My first book. Ah. 

It’s taken me almost 2 years. 


It was like laying an egg. I've never laid an egg. But I imagine it's hard. Not for hens. It's water off a duck's back to them. But to us laying an egg would be agony. Just like my book. I started tapping away on the keyboard the day after Pearl was born - on 5th July 2010 to be precise - and I didn’t stop ‘til a few weeks back. My head was full of ideas and stuff. 


& then it kind of all came together as a story.   

Talking of books, Dr Benjamin Spock died on March 15th 1998. He wrote one of the best-selling books of all time. Baby and Child Care. It sold more than 50million copies and it turned the whole world of parenting upside down. It quite literally changed the world. It was that big. If you’re reading this blog I can guarantee that your childhood was probably influenced by Dr Spock. You might not think that it was, but the vast majority of our parents or carers were influenced to some degree by Spock. & not the one with the funny ears.

It seems so simple now, but guess what he said back in the mid-1960’s?

Parents know more than they think they do. 

That was pretty much it. 

It wasn’t completely it. He said a whole heap more. But really, in a nutshell, what he said was that mothers need to trust their instincts more; that parents are the real experts in parenting. Before he said this, parents were pretty much told that they knew nothing. They were told how to be parents and this mainly involved punishment, discipline, little emotion and limited individualism. All babies and kids were the same, apparently. Emotion was a bad thing. The experts were experts and parents ought to listen to the experts and not to their instincts. It was complete twaddle. 

Dr Spock changed all that. Thank god. Well, thank Spock. 

This small snippet from my book kind of says the same thing as the great Dr Spock (& not the one with the funny ears)  

... 

from ch. 2 of & then there were three by David Pich

... Since Pearl’s arrival I had handled her only three times. On each occasion I had been petrified. My hands felt like bunches of bananas every time they went anywhere near my tiny daughter. The problem was that Pearl looked so tiny and fragile and, when I held her, she felt like little more than skin and bones. I was scared to death. Scared that I would drop her, crush her, hurt her, or inflict some combination of each of these on her tiny frame. My desire to avoid a father-induced, newborn baby catastrophe meant that, on each of the three occasions, I had been forced to rely on the same trusty technique that has been deployed down the ages by a significant proportion of the male population in situations demanding concentration and a steady hand; I held my breath and clenched my tongue between my teeth, with the very tip showing clearly between my lips. It wasn’t ideal but, so far at least, it had worked; Pearl was still undropped. Uninjured. In one piece. Alive. 

I stood, rather sheepishly, next to the bed and watched Dr Dunlop as he examined Pearl. It was chalk and cheese. The way that Dr Dunlop interacted with Pearl was a different kettle of fish entirely. He definitely wasn’t holding his breath. I was absolutely sure about that because, as he was unswaddling my daughter, he was talking to me. Talking! Perfectly normally and coherently. When I had fleetingly held Pearl, anything resembling conversation was not only out of the question, it was the stuff of dreams. I found it hard enough to inhale and exhale when my daughter was lying amongst my bunches of bananas. 


I looked at Dr Dunlop’s mouth. There was no sign of the tip of his tongue. No sign at all. I had to face facts, Dr Dunlop oozed confidence. Knowing that he had handled a fair few babies during the course of his professional life was no consolation whatsoever. This was my daughter; my Pearl. I was a real papa now and I desperately wanted to act like one. I definitely didn’t want to act like a dithering idiot. There would be plenty of far more appropriate moments in my future life as the papa of Pearl Pich for me to prove myself a dithering idiot.  

In the end I couldn’t help myself. There was an expert in the house and he seemed perfectly capable of conducting a conversation whilst doing his job. So, trying my best to sound as nonchalant as I possibly could, I asked Dr Dunlop if newborn babies were really as fragile as they looked. I didn’t mention holding my breath, or my tongue gymnastics. Dr Dunlop’s answer to my question didn’t sound particularly earth-shattering, nor did it feel overly significant. Little did I know that, in the weeks and months ahead, his words would to return to Eileen and I time and again or that, in many ways, they would shape us as new parents and help us to navigate our way through the minefield that was parenthood. 

Dr Dunlop was partway through the process of giving Pearl a very thorough check from top to toe. He certainly wasn’t intending to offer us any particular pearls of wisdom. In fact, as he spoke he was fully-focussed on Pearl. He only really said three things, but each of them was a gem; a genuine pearl of wisdom. Unintended they might have been, but pearls of wisdom they definitely were. 

Dr Dunlop’s 1st Unintended Pearl of Wisdom

(He took a torch from the inside pocket of his jacket and he looked into each of Pearl’s ears)

'Follow your instincts and common-sense as a parent. Your instincts and common-sense will usually turn out to be right.'

Pearl’s ears seemed to be fine.

Dr Dunlop’s 2nd Unintended Pearl of Wisdom

(He turned Pearl onto her back, wiggled her arms around in circles at her shoulder sockets, and her legs in bicycle-kick motions at her hip sockets)

'Throw all the books that people have given you about parenting in the bin. The baby-book market is based on creating fear and guilt amongst new parents. Books cause parents to stop trusting their instincts and using their common-sense. They make parents doubt themselves.'

Pearl’s arms, shoulders, legs and hips seemed to be fine. 

Dr Dunlop’s 3rd Unintended Pearl of Wisdom

(He directed the light from his torch into Pearl’s eyes and ran his hands over her skull from front to back. He then turned her over and felt all the way down her spine)

'As a parent the worrying starts now and it never really stops or goes away. You have to learn to live with this worry and not allow it to prevent you from being great parents.'

Pearl’s eyes, skull, the back of her neck and spine all seemed to be fine. Throughout the examination Pearl hadn’t made a sound. Neither had I. I had been too busy holding my breath, my tongue was clenched between my teeth and I was acutely aware that its tip was showing between my lips. That was it, the examination was over. Three unintended pearls of wisdom had been delivered. Dr Dunlop gathered Pearl up and passed her over to me.

This was it. My time had come. I knew it. Dr Dunlop knew it. I could see by the look in his eyes as he was passing Pearl over to me that he knew it. I could continue down the same road as before - a complete bag of nerves, with my breath held and the tip of my tongue clearly visible. Or I could leave all that behind. I could trust my instincts. I could let common-sense overcome fear. I could let the force be with me. This really was it. My own personal Luke Skywalker moment had arrived.

I decided right there and right then that it was time for me to become a proper papa. I concentrated. Focussed. Relaxed. And I took Pearl from Dr Dunlop. He smiled. It was a smile of pure encouragement. A smile that told me that I could do it; that he wanted me to do it. I concentrated. I concentrated on concentrating. I focused on focussing. On breathing. On keeping my tongue in. On holding my daughter. And eventually, finally, I gave Pearl Matisse Pich her very first - and the first of very many - papa-daughter cuddles. It was only a gentle cuddle, but for the very first time my hands didn’t feel like bunches of bananas. It was our first cuddle without any obvious sign of fear and it was the happiest moment of my short life as a parent. 

Of course, lurking somewhere at the back of my mind there was still a hint of doubt. I knew it was there, I could feel it bubbling away. But for the first time I was able to control it, to see beyond it. I discovered that right there, on the other side of my worries and fears, was something very different, something new and beautiful; joy, excitement and happiness. 

For a brief moment I caught my first glimpse of the joy, excitement and happiness of fatherhood.

(copyright, of course)

...

RIP Dr Spock


Hope you have a great week.

Pip pip

an idiot's guide to fad diets (pt 2)

cont ... fad diets & superfoods

I spent last Sunday on a mission with Picky. We were scouring Sydney's supermarkets ... for pasta.

Pasta is not something that is normally especially hard to find. Any supermarket worth the name has a fairly decent aisle of the stuff. Sometimes two aisles. If you ask me there's actually too much pasta in your average supermarket. And it's all pretty much the same, only the shape of the stuff differs. Do we really need pasta in the shape of cars, horses and other recent domesticated animals? Probably not.

Anyway, we weren't desperately seeking any old pasta, we were after special pasta. SLIMpasta. Picky had read about it on a blog she follows (I note with interest that she doesn't yet follow this bloody blog, but offer her a blog about SLIMpasta ... and she's hooked!).

SLIMPasta is currently the flavour of the month around these parts. It's big and it's set to get bigger. The blog she was reading listed all the places that sell it. All of them had sold out. It's THAT big.

SLIMpasta is still pasta. But with no carbs, no fat, nothing. It's AirPasta. Invici-Pasta. You think it's there ... but it's not.

'Carb-less carbs' are the latest craze to hit the food world. I freely admit that I'm a bit of a sucker for all these new crazes. It was exactly the same when the whole 'detox-diet' craze hit. It was all for it. I was all over a decent detox diet.

I did the detox that was commonly-known as The Two Fruits Diet.

It was the diet of the day. Everyone was doing it. Celebs - A, B & C-grade. Everyone. I think Mick Jagger did it. And he raved about it. I wanted a piece of it too. If Mick could do The Two Fruits Diet, it couldn't be too hard.

On paper The Two Fruit Diet looked easy-peasy. It was built on one easy-to-understand principle;

'Starving yourself is the road to deep & long-lasting happiness'.

Look, I fully understand that this principle has long been discredited. It's been shown to be a right load of old tosh. But, back in the day, in the innocence of my mid-20s, starving yourself - at least in short bursts - was all the rage. It was the in-thing. Everyone was doing it. People were starving all over the place. Especially at the weekends. Basically, when I was 23 and living near London, no-one was eating at the weekends. Saturday and Sunday were food-free zones. And The Two Fruits Diet was the big-mama of weekend starvation diets. If you hadn't done The Two Fruits Diet you weren't fully human. It was as simple as that. Do the diet - starve yourself - feel alive, detox your body.

Or don't and be cursed.

The Two Fruits Diet worked like this; you could select two fruits (hence the name) and you had to live with - and on - them for a whole weekend. From 6pm on Friday evening, to 9am Monday morning.

I suspect you're thinking ... 'that doesn't sound too bad. It sounds bad, but not TOO bad'.

It is & it was.

The thing about the Two Fruits Diet is (was) this. It might sound OK because you could at least eat. It wasn't 'proper' starvation. You could binge on your chosen fruits to your heart's content. Plus, it had variety. It was two fruits, not one.

My two fruits were grapes & pineapples.

We could debate the ins and outs of my two chosen fruits til the cows come home. I didn't pick them at random. I gave them both a good old ponder. My thinking was simple;

Grapes are small, hassle free (no peeling required) and relatively 'filling' (as filling as fruit gets).

Pineapples were a different story. I don't actually like pineapple. I never have. There's a lesson in there somewhere. If you're staring down the barrel of an entire weekend on nothing more than two fruits, don't pick a fruit that you don't like. I picked pineapple because I viewed it as a good, solid, 'meaty' kind of fruit.

It wasn't. It isn't. It was pineapple. Plain and simple.

Pineapple is fiddly. Getting into a pineapple is tough. And it's even tougher when you're starving hungry because the only thing you've eaten since 6pm the previous evening is 3kgs of grapes.

I walked into my friendly local supermarket at 4pm on the Friday and I bought 12 pineapples and 7kgs of grapes. The checkout chick didn't bat an eyelid. I knew she wanted to. She was doing everything in her power to stop her eyelids batting vigourously. There was a bloke standing in front of her with 12 pineapples, and every available grape in the supermarket. I knew she had questions. She also had bright red streaks in her hair. She was way too cool for fruit-based conversation.

At home I lined up my 'meals' in rows on the kitchen bench. Grapes at the front, pineapples at the back. It was 5pm. The Two Fruits Diets started at 6pm. I had an hour. Plenty of time to have a beer and a block of chocolate. But I didn't. I really wanted to dive into my detox. So I had a handful of grapes.

By 9pm I was starving. And I was cursing my rejection of that beer and chocolate way back at 5pm. I was also cursing my choice of fruits. I was sick to death of grapes. I desperately wanted a banana. I'd have killed for a banana. Killing for a banana at 9pm on the Friday evening wasn't a good sign.

The Two Fruits Diet allowed you to drink water on top of your two fruits. So I drank buckets of the stuff.

I was up most of the night taking trips to the toilet. Each time I got back into bed, I realised I needed to go again. And then I realised I was starving. Trudging back and forth to the toilet burns calories. I was burning 6 or 7 grapes-worth each trip. I'd eaten around 200 grapes. By the morning I was so hungry that I woke up chewing my pillow. It tasted of grapes.

For breakfast I sliced open my first pineapple. That was when I realised that I didn't like pineapple. I had expected it to be meaty. I had hoped that it would be the fruit equivalent of a big plate of sausages and crispy bacon. It wasn't. It was the fruit equivalent of pineapple.

By mid-morning on the Saturday I was famished. Ravenous. And delirious. I couldn't stomach another grape, and my only other option were the 11 pineapples I had left.  I was a broken man. I had a glass of water and scuttled to the toilet to pee ... and cry.

That was when the real doubts started to creep in. And the questioning. Why am I doing this? Man cannot live on bread alone. Yes he bloody well can. It's grapes and pineapples alone that man cannot live on. Not this man anyway. I was hungry, tired and tetchy. And thin. I'd wasted away overnight. I could see my ribs. All of them. I hadn't realised how many ribs humans have until I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. I was all skin and bones. And ribs.

I walked back into the kitchen and faced down my nemesis. My nemeses. All 11 of them. And the grapes. There was a good 5kgs of those on the kitchen bench.  They didn't blink. I did. I couldn't do it.  I was beaten. And not only beaten. The Two Fruits Diet had chewed me up and spat me out.

I persevered.

I sat huddled on the sofa wrapped in a blanket in front of the TV with a bowl of grapes and pineapple pieces for company and sustenance. At bang on 3pm I noticed my bowl was empty. I crawled to the kitchen. I was down to my last 8 pineapples. The kitchen was a war zone. There were bits of pineapple everywhere. It was a pineapple disaster area. The thought of 8 more pineapples and 3 more kilos of grapes was more than I could bear. I was as weak as a kitten. I needed help.

I was faced with a stark choice; give up or go on.

I gave up.

I had to. I couldn't go on. I was starving.

I can't stand all that motivational tosh about not quitting and pushing through against all the odds. Stuff that. My view on quitting is simple; if you're going to quit do it properly. I'm not a half-hearted quitter. When I quit, I really quit. I called The Haweli, my local Indian eatery, and booked a table. For 6pm. The Haweli only opened at 6pm. I was waiting outside. I had chicken jalfrazi, pilau rice, a garlic nan bread and a stack of poppadums. And I rounded it off with a bowl of kulfi, the lovely indian-style ice cream. The waiter asked if I wanted pineapple fritters with my kulfi. I did not. I haven't eaten pineapple since.

Fad diets can suck you in. They can also chew you up and spit you out. They're not sustainable. Sometimes they're not sustainable for a weekend.

The SLIMpasta? It was a bit disappointing really. It tasted just like pasta but without that nice 'carby' taste that pasta is famous for.

To compensate we smothered it in a creamy sauce with mushrooms and bacon. That helped on the taste front. But not, I suspect, on the SLIMfront. Kinda sums the whole subject up if you ask me.

Pip pip

friday, I'm in love ... green sludge

i don't care if monday's blue 

tuesday's grey and wednesday too

thursday i don't care about you

it's friday, i'm in love

It had to happen at some point. In fact, I’m a little surprised that it took this long. I’ve run slap-bang into a topic that’s too big for a single blog post. 


The attention span of an average blog reader is said to be around 120 seconds - that’s 2 minutes in old money. When anything is quoted in seconds you know it’s a very short time indeed. They pop it into seconds to make it sound impressive; to make it sound longer than it actually is. If they said 2 minutes it’d throw bloggers the world over into a panicked frenzy. I suspect there’s nothing worse than a blogger in a panicked frenzy.

My very first 'two-blog topic' is a good one. It’s guaranteed to get the juices flowing. Literally. Fad Diets & Superfoods.

But today is Friday ... and Friday I’m in love. So we’ll dip into diets from a healthy vantage point. Green sludge. It's the stuff that me & Picky have for breakfast most mornings. 


Pearl doesn’t. Pearl refuses to have anything to do with green sludge. Even when we tell her it’s breakfast and it’s healthy and despite the fact we say ‘num-num’ twenty or thirty times. We can tell that she’s not convinced. 


Well, to be fair to Pearl, she is convinced. She’s convinced it’s green sludge and as such she's convinced it's inedible.  

The green sludge is green because of kale. When Picky first announced that she was making a smoothie for breakfast with kale, I told her it’d be far too salty. She looked baffled. Salty? Yes, salty. She disagreed. I stuck to my guns. 


I thought that kale was seaweed. I still do. Even though I now know it’s not. Even though I’ve bought it myself in the supermarket, chopped it up, blended it and guzzled the damn stuff in a smoothie. I still think it’s seaweed. It’s in my head as seaweed. It’s like I still think that Bonn is the capital of Germany. It's not. Berlin is. Berlin replaced Bonn a while back. Poor old Bonn, I say.

Kale isn’t seaweed. Kelp is. There's the confusion. Kale is a vegetable that’s found in the supermarket amongst all the other vegetables. I’ve no idea where kelp is found in the supermarket.  

Kale is the new wonder-food. It’s one of those new-fangled 'superfoods' that everyone is raving on about. 


Superfoods are good for everything; brain function, bowel movement, blood flow and anything else your body is supposed to do that begins with a ‘b’. Kale is a bloody belter. 

When Picky first had it for breakfast I wasn’t convinced. I still thought it was seaweed. I also didn’t think it was a 'proper' breakfast. To me it looked like green sludge, and I didn’t think green sludge would fill me up. I love a good brekky, and ‘that’ didn’t look much like one. 


Picky did the usual thing. She made a few 'mmm's' and 'ah's' - enjoyment noises - ... and I immediately needed to have a taste. It was great. Better than great. It was awesome. And it wasn’t salty. Even though it was full of seaweed. 

Look, I don’t know about all these superfood thingies. They're probably just the latest food fads. Things have a habit of being a superfood one minute and then, a few years later, some bright spark in a white coat tells you it causes a wide variety of very nasty diseases. 


Back in the old days my gran used to say that butter and cream would ‘put hairs on me chest’. Now we're told the same stuff will put fat on our thighs. Who knows! 


Pomegranates, blueberries, goji berries, quinoa, chia seeds, acai powder. They're all supposed to be foods that'll have you hunting for the nearest phonebox and stripping into your Superman gear. 

All I know is this; the green sludge that I have for breakfast each morning tastes great. It’s not remotely salty. Even Pearl has started to appreciate it. Some mornings she'll come running up saying ‘num-num’ and demanding a few gulps herself. 


Green sludge fills me up a treat and I always feel great after I’ve had one, or even two, in the morning. Here’s the recipe. Grab yourself some kale and give it a whirl sometime to see for yourself;

Green Sludge

A good fistful of kale 
or feel free to use silverbeet or even spinach (don't use kelp, that’s seaweed)

Half a mango

1 peach

1 banana

Half a cup of water (or coconut water - another alleged superfood)

A little bit of fresh ginger (for added zing)
A squeeze of a fresh lime
A few ice cubes
Optional - add half a cup of oats to bulk it up a bit

What to do ... 

Chuck the lot in a blender and press the ON button. 
Pour into a glass. 
Drink. 
Feel great.

Have a great Friday and a super weekend

pip pip

Ps ... On sunday i’ll be dipping my toe further into the world of fad foods and fad diets. I’ve done a few in my time and one in particular stands out from the crowd. It didn't end well. Do Fad Diets ever end well?

in the day ... 7th march 1933 - the best pub quiz question of all time

I was at a pub quiz a while ago and the chap at the front - the one with the mic and the power - asked the best pub quiz question of all time. 

I think it was the way he started it that got everyone. 

He said, ‘Has anyone played Monopoly?’. The room was full of 20-somethings, 30-somethings, 40-somethings and 50-somethings. You could see everyone in the room sitting back in their chairs, stretching, relaxing, chilling. You could hear the click click clang as people put their pens down and picked their pints up. 


That’s poetic licence. We don’t have 'pints' down here in Oz. We have schooners, middys and, the curse of all beer drinkers worth the name - the very devil itself - the dreaded 'schmiddy'. 

For the benefit of readers outside of Australia a middy is small. Think thimble-sized. In terms of beer, it's hardly worth bothering with. It's gone in a gulp. Less. If you're in a pub and you order a middy, the entire place will fall silent and everyone will turn to look at you. If there’s a TV on the wall, it will automatically mute just as you order your middy. Everyone will then hear the order and heads will shake in unison. If you live Down Under you try not to order a middy. It’s embarrassing. It’s embarrassingly small. 


A schooner is OK. In fact, it's better than OK. It’s better than a pint anyway. A pint is too big. I didn’t know that a pint was too big until I came to Oz and noticed that they didn’t do pints. If you're a tippler and you enjoy a tipple, a schooner is the optimum size for a refreshing glass of beer. 

& then there's the 'schmiddy'. 


It's a total abomination. A curse. There it is in the picture looking just like the perfect glass for ... an orange cordial.


The 'schmiddy' lies partway between a middy and schooner. Between embarrassment and perfection. It's slap-bang in beer-drinking no-man's land. It's dreadful. The main reason that the schmiddy is so universally-hated is that when all the trendy bars introduced it they had the temerity to charge the same price for a schmiddy as a they once did for a schooner. You got less beer for the same price, Just like that. How they got away with it I will never know. But they did. 


I’m also not quite sure how they got away with calling it a 'schmiddy' either. It's a dreadful name. They may as well have gone the whole hog and called it a 'Fairy'. You can just imagine your friendly, local, 8-pints-of-lager-drinking, English skin-head walking into The Bulls Head in Romford, Essex and ordering a 'schmiddy of Stella please, guv'nor'. It wouldn't happen. There'd be a brick through the window of The Bulls Head in Romford, Essex quicker than you can say 'schmiddy's a silly name'.

Meanwhile over at our friendly, local pub quiz ... 


We’re all relaxed and cocky cos we’d all been through a decent Monopoly-playing phase in our lives, and we reckoned that the next question was in the bag. It was destined to be a doddle. 'Get it asked and move on, you muppet'. Glances were exchanged within the teams, between the teams, between the teams and the barmaid, between the teams and the chap asking the questions. You could cut the tension with a knife. We were all silent. 


We were all silent Monopoly aficionados. Until he asked the question. 

‘What is the ‘odd property out’ on a Monopoly board?’ 

That was it. 


Well, not quite. He qualified his question. He had to.  Since it was invented Monopoly has been licensed in 103 countries and in 37 different languages. There are literally hundreds of variations, each based on different cities and with different street names, different railway stations, utilities and other bits and pieces. The question was specifically about the original game. The London version. The one with Pall Mall and Old Kent Road and the rest. The one with Mayfair and Park Lane in dark blue, just before Go. If you owned those two posh streets and built a couple of swanky, red hotels on them, you were basically king of the castle. You were, for a brief moment in time, Al-Fayed, Branson, Buffet and Soros all rolled into one. You were rolling in it. ‘It’ was only Monopoly money. But still.

The chap asking the questions, had asked the best question I've ever heard in a pub quiz. He then sat back and looked smug. After a while he trotted off to the bar to order a drink. I suspect he ordered a middy. Or a schmiddy. He looked like a schmiddy drinker. It was a schmiddy-drinker’s question.

‘What is the ‘odd property out’ on a Monopoly board?’

I sat there in silence. My team sat there in silence. The entire pub sat there in silence. We had been stumped into silence. We ran through all the properties. There were 5 of us. Between us we got them all. It’s not hard to list them all, especially if there’s five of you. Getting all the railway stations took a while. 


The smug, schmiddy-drinking, question-asker was back. He asked if we needed more time. We did. He’d never asked that before. He was loving every minute of it.

It’s a cool game, Monopoly. We’ve got two sets at our place. I’m not sure why. It’s the kind of game I’m looking forward to playing with Pearl when she’s a bit older. It demands a bit of a strategy, a bit of thought and I reckon it’s not a bad way to introduce kids to the idea of ‘value’ and buying things. Talking of value, the most expensive Monopoly set was made by Sydney Mobell in 1985 to celebrate the 50th Anniversary of the game. All the bits and bobs are in 23ct gold, and the coolest thing is that the entire hoard of cash in ‘the bank’ is real money. Real US dollars. Still, only one set was made and it sold for $2,000,000.

To date, more than 250 million Monopoly sets have been bought. Not bad for a humble board game. I wonder how many you have? One ... two ... more?

Monopoly - the world’s best selling board game (not counting chess!) - was officially invented on 7th March 1933.

Of course, you’re still wondering about the pub quiz question aren’t you - the ‘odd one out’ on the Monopoly board. You’ve had a stab and thought ‘Free Parking’ or ‘Jail’ or ‘Go’. Afraid not. There’s nothing 'odd' about those. They don’t stand out. They’re supposed to be there. 

Angel Islington isn’t. It’s an anomaly. It’s not a street (like Pall Mall or Whitehall) or a landmark (like Trafalgar Square). 

Angel, Islington is an 'area' of North London, but in 1933 it was a pub. The Angel, Islington. It's the pub that Victor Watson - the inventor - and his secretary - Marjory Philips - met in when they were out scouting for the names to go on the very first Monopoly board. They met in The Angel, Islington to discuss the names that should be included. In the end they were missing one last street name. They decided to use the name of the pub rather than a street. 'The Angel, Islington' became simply Angel Islington and it stands as the odd one out - it’s the only pub name to be included on the Monopoly board.

I can guarantee you one thing; The Angel in Islington didn’t serve schooners or middys. And it certainly didn't serve schmiddys. It wouldn't have dared.

Happy birthday Monopoly; 79 today!

pip pip

Things that make you go Mmm!

I think there's something called a Magical Musical Moment. A Mmm.


It's not an official term. I made it up. You might call it something different, or you might not even have given yours a name. But, officially named or not, I reckon that a 'Mmm' is that one single moment in your life when you realise how special music is. When you suddenly witness the power of music. POW! You’re hooked. You’re in. Like Flynn. Or someone else.

Mine was at exactly 6.41pm on July 13th, 1985. Live Aid.

I’d liked music well before that. Me and my old schoolmate Chris were Mods in school. Back in the day we both wore green army parkas with woolly lining and a fish-tail at the back. Our parka's had the iconic red, white and blue target painted on them, and we would sit for ages painting 'The Jam' and 'The Who' all over them. Then, when the paint had dried, we pinned loads of badges down the front. 

We thought we were the bee’s knees. The bee’s entire legs. We were too cool for school. Well, too cool to go to school on days when we were kind of required to be there.

I loved The Who, The Jam, and the movie Quadrophenia. All I wanted to do was cruise the streets of my hometown on a Lambretta, or perhaps a Vespa, its poorer cousin. And I wanted heaps of mirrors attached to the side. Heaps and heaps. More mirrors than a scooter really needed. That was in the days before scooters became hip. I was 15.

Then one day, when he was out in his Mod gear, my mate Chris got badly beaten by a bunch of body-boppers. Being a Mod didn’t appeal to either of us after that. Mod music was great, but it wasn't worth a bloody nose from a gang of blip-blip lovers in possession of a piece of lino and a ghetto-blaster. We took our parkas off ... and moved on up.  

& then I went off to University and without any warning the whole 'Madchester' thing happened. Just like that.


Manchester. Madchester. It was crazy.

For about five years Manchester was - music-wise - the coolest place in the entire world. Seattle’s grunge moment would come & Liverpool's had long since been and gone. The early 90's was Manchester’s turn. Madchester. You really had to be there. Or better still, be from there. And I was. Yes!! As the famous T-shirt from 1992 rightly pointed out '...And on the sixth day God created Manchester.' For that short time it felt like he had.

The Smiths, The Stone Roses, The Happy Mondays and, of course, the one and only, the great, the greatest, the quintessentially 'Manchester', Joy Division (who would later become New Order). They were the bands I listened to, watched live and grew up with. Oasis think they were the best thing that ever came out of Manchester, but the truth is that they were the just the encore. (Don't tell the Gallagher brothers I said that).

So, music has always been there for me. I’m sure that many of us could put a soundtrack together for our lives (there’s probably an App that does it for you in 30-seconds flat) ... our first kiss, our first love, our first broken heart, our first drink, our first 'one-too-many' drinks. I'll let you into a secret ... I can’t hear George Michael’s Careless Whisper without drifting back to one of those 'firsts' - and no, it wasn’t my first drink, that was Duran Duran's Rio.

But my Magical Music Moment - my Mmm! - the moment that the penny dropped, when it all suddenly made sense, when I realised the beauty, the power, the...well...the everything, was Live Aid. Not the whole thing. It went on for days - well it felt like it anyway. It kind of did. Live Aid started in London at Wembley Stadium. There were 72000 people there. But it also took place simultaneously in Philiadelphia in front of 100,000 people, as well as at venues in Germany, Australia and a host of other places. (Phil Collins famously played in London, and then hopped on Concorde to Philly to play there too. That was when Concorde was still flying ... and Phil C was still fairly mobile). 

The gig


Status Quo opened Live Aid at 12.02pm. They did 'Rocking all Over the World'. Say what you like about Francis Rossi and Rick Parfitt, but opening Live Aid with that song was perfect. 


Then The Style Council did their thang (The Jam had split-up two years before, and Paul Weller had formed TSC. He still walked on water in my book. My parka was still hanging in my wardrobe).

& then at exactly 6.41pm my life changed. 


Not outwardly. It wasn’t a religious experience or anything like that. But something happened and it made a difference. It mattered. Inside. In my head. 


Freddie Mercury happened. 

I wasn’t a huge Queen fan. I’m still not to be honest. I don’t mind some of their stuff. I own a few albums - mainly Best Of’s - and I listen to a few songs here and there. A Winter’s Tale is a really nice Xmas song.

But on July 13th 1985 at 6.41pm Freddie Mercury sang 'Bohemian Rhapsody' in front of 70-odd thousand people at Wembley Stadium and I was totally, completely, and utterly blown away. Musically-speaking It was the best thing I had ever seen ... It was magical. It was a Kind of Magic! 

It was my own personal magical music moment. My Mmm!

In that one single moment, that one song, that one performance - all 7 minutes of it - I understood the power of music. Not in a political sense - although I suppose Live Aid did have a huge impact politically. It was more the power of music to have an impact. I can’t even say exactly what the impact on me really was. It doesn’t matter. It just hit me. Like a brick. And things were different afterwards. The world - my own little world - had tilted a little on its axis.

Freddie Mercury died of an HIV-related illness (AIDS) on 24th November 1991. 


I feel the same way about Freddie Mercury dying as some people feel about Elvis or John Lennon or Kurt Cobain or Michael Hutchence. You didn’t need to be a Lennon fan, or even a fan of The Beatles, to know - instinctively - that when John Lennon was killed it was a really sad day. Imagine what might have been. Imagine what he might have written, how he might have performed. After 8th December 1980. Imagine. 

I think the same thing about Freddie Mercury. All from that one very special seven-minute moment at Live Aid

If you’ve never seen it, here’s a link to my Mmm! Even now It sends shivers down my spine like only a good 'Mmm' can. It goes on a bit. It’s a real pity that Freddie didn’t 'go on' just a little bit longer. 


I feel privileged to have seen him strut his stuff on stage at Wembley. RIP Freddie. 

I wonder what your own personal Mmm! is?

have a super sunday

pip pip

friday I'm in love. ps I'm also an addict

i don't care if monday's blue 

tuesday's grey and wednesday too

thursday i don't care about you

it's friday, i'm in love

hello my name's dave and i'm an addict!

I tried to give up coffee once. I lasted 2 days. After 48 hours without 'the bean' I cracked and ordered a cappuccino. With a double shot. I also popped to Coles and bought a packet of chocolate-covered coffee beans. Just to be on the safe side.

I'd had a banging headache since 10am on the morning I gave up. The headache went away when I was about halfway through the packet of choc-covered beans. I finished the packet anyway. Just to be on the safe side.

I swore I'd never do anything as silly as giving up coffee again.

For what it's worth, I don't smoke and don't really drink that much (those of you who know me or have seen me dancing naked on a table in the middle of a pub might beg to differ). So coffee is really my only vice. Having said that, I've always found those people who smoke 40-a-day and then say, 'yeah but I don't drink, so smoking is my only vice' a bit odd. It's the 40 a day that'll kill you, mate. The fact that you don't drink whilst puffing your way through that lot is neither here nor there! Ha ha.

Well, I don't drink anything like 40-a-day. I'm strictly a 3 to 6 cups-a-day addict. Admittedly, on those rare 3-cup days, the first (and often the second) is a double-shot. So please don't be misled by the apparently low cup count.

Australia is - and Australians are - obsessed with coffee. Obsessed. With a capital Ob. It's a religion down here.

So, to throw the cat amongst the pigeons, I'd like to state for the record; no-one does coffee like the Aussies.

That statement will cause a storm of protest from Rome to Romiley (my humble place of birth just to the south of Manchester) and beyond. But I reckon that the Italians love coffee, the Brits drink coffee, the French do strange stuff with coffee (like dip their croissants in it) and the whole of the Middle East doesn't do coffee, it does thick tar that masquerades as coffee. (I haven't mentioned the USA because I just can't bring myself to class a two-litre bucket of brown, flavoured-water as coffee!). But the Aussies really DO coffee.

Getting your caffeine hit is really serious stuff down here. Baristas are the new demi-gods; the cocktail waiters of the new millenium. DJ's were the coolest dudes of yesteryear, then came the cocktail waiter with his fringe down over his eyes and all sorts of shiny silver tools tucked into his pants, but today it's the hot-looking barista who gets into all the good bars and snags all the nice girls who wannabe models. It must be the smell of the coffee on him, or her. A good barista is worth his or her weight in gold. Or coffee beans. And a good coffee shop, when discovered, can quickly become habit-forming. People will detour for miles and for days, to stop at a decent coffee joint. And people get very snobby about their coffee. I will cross the road rather than walk past some places that have served me a bad brew.

There are books telling you where to go to get your favourite fix. They rate all the coffee shops and give them scores out of five. The scores are illustrated by little coffee cup symbols. Get 5 symbols next to your name and the world's your oyster, the girls will be swooning, the nightclubs are yours to rampage through until early morning and the addicted masses will be worshipping at your feet.

Coffee.

It was first brewed and enjoyed in Ethiopia in the 15th Century, and it eventually spread throughout the Middle East before arriving in Italy in the 16th Century. The Pope tried to ban it claiming it was a 'Muslim drink', but he eventually gave up and got stuck in - probably after a decent cappuccino. The first European coffee house opened in Italy in 1645 and the Queen's Lane Coffee House opened 10 years later in Oxford, England. That one's still there today. A 350 year-old coffee shop, no less!!

Even today, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints - Mormons to you and me - feel the need to prohibit the stuff. Apparently it's 'spiritually unhealthy'. To be honest I've never found that to be the case. I always feel great after one of my six daily coffees. My spirit is well and truly enlightened. Without coffee I'm right old misery guts.

But here's a fact that's worth pondering over your next double shot latte. If Mormon Mitt Romney gets the nod from the American public on Nov 6th 2012, there'll be a President sitting in the Oval Office who will very likely have no moral or ethical issue about going to war with Iran, North Korea or whoever might be out-of-favour at the time, but is, for moral and ethical reasons, unable to knock back a decent double-macchiato whilst making that decision. Go figure!

It's a funny old world, don't ya think?!

With that thought I'm off to grab a cappuccino from Barefoot Cafe to cheer myself up.

Coffee or not, I hope you have a super weekend.

Ps ... a few words about Manchester, Mods, Live Aid & Queen are coming your way on Sunday. That's Queen, not The Queen. I'll leave her - and her funny hats - for another day.


photo by picky.