Perry plays to win

The London Irish is a once yearly festival celebrating the fine art of rugby football, played by juveniles representing the many clubs across the uk and Ireland. A crowd of nearly 10,000 people gathered to watch these troglodytes batter seven bells out of one another, while their competitive fathers, raining obsceneties down on their hapless offspring, relived their glory days - before the guinness added a shade of puce less bucolic than shambolic.

Margaux, as is her wont, bullied me out of the house at a rudely early hour, still, once the Bentley had been coaxed into life by Greaves, (still nursing a broken wrist from the last encounter), the rugs and hampers loaded into the back, we sailed along the country roads to Ealing, home of the famous London Irish club, there to while away the day in tranquility….

Arriving, and successfully parking beside the practice pitch, we were rudely accosted by a member of her majesties constabulary and advised to produce road tax documentation for the Bentley! Have you ever heard such rubbish - the man, barely literate and thoroughly over excited instructed us in no uncertain terms to remove ‘that banger’ to the parking lot and present ourselves within 24 hours bearing documentation at Ealing police station. Margaux was inexplicably quiet throughout this exchange, fixing me with a look that the casual bystander may have interpreted as malicious.

We struck out for the pitch ‘A’, Greaves staggering about in our wake with the rugs and hampers, buffeted at every turn by hobnailed urchins clad in rainbow hued shirts - Margaux patiently explaining to me that these represented the various clubs on display. Choosing a suitably sunny spot, I turned around to instruct Greaves in the precise layout of the rugs, only to find the infernal man had disappeared - casting an anxious eye across the horizon I saw him tottering across the field surrounded by a phalanx of jeering, red faced guttersnipes. Margaux’s restraining arm prevented me from assailing the bloody man - much more of this blithering incompetence will test my patience to the limit.

Opening the hamper should be the crowning moment of a properly prepared picnic, so my astonishment on finding that Margaux had provided only vegetarian fare of the most apalling and utilitarian kind was only exceeeded by my fury when I discovered that instead of the expected creamy magnificence of french cheeses, there was only shrink wrapped cheddar in bite sized lumps.

Grumbling unhappily to myself I opened the refrigerated wine cooler with trepidation, half expecting to find Elderflower cordial or some such nonsense. Thankfully Margaux’s well intentioned meddling had fallen short of interfering with the choice of wine, so chewing grimly on a Falafel, I uncorked the Vignoble Du Sud Chardonnay and passed an appreciative nose over the bottle. Slightly flowery, with the merest hint of peach and refreshingly brisk on the palate, this wine could rescue the most drab and undigestible fare - the afternoon quickly passed in succession of incomprehensible tourneys, played out between the expatriate offspring of the Irish hordes - my attention was absorbed by the extraordinary sight of a female referee, whose ample thighs provided an eye watering diversion from the trench warfare unfolding around her.

Greaves was found, as usual, drunk as a lord in the public bar - that man is a liability, so banished to the boot, while Margaux drove, the only blight on the day was the cacophonous sound of the bloody fool’s snoring as we meandered our way back to Buckinghamshire.

Shamoli - Royal Mile, Edinburgh

Wednesdays come and go, but, springing up the steps of Fleshmarket Close, hot foot from the Aberdeen train, harboring visions of Fetuccini washed down with copious amounts of fine Pinot Grigio, my day was plunged into disarray by the sight of a gaggle of youngsters of forbidding aspect loitering with malign intent in the doorway of the splendid Pizza Express on North Bridge. With mounting dread and a sense of overwhelming despondency I turned and stumbled back to the Royal Mile.

Shamoli is not an Italian Restaurant and the Wine List, though painstakingly set out, is poor. Wine does not generally benefit from being teamed with spicy Indian food and tonight’s Cabernet Sauvignon was no exception. Bland and odorless, it left no trace on the glass and less on my palate - served up at a temperature more suited to a Beaujolais, it failed to excite in any way. The wine was redolent of Eastern Europe under Russian rule - cold, characterless and cruelly disappointing.

The food was ideally matched to the wine - for an indian restaurant, the use of the microwave and the deep fat fryer represent an innovative approach to food preparation, delivering fare to the table that once bitten, flash fries the palate. Perhaps this was in preparation for the main course - microwaved to within an inch of its life, the bullet hard peas and runner beans resembled nothing more than a supermarket bag of mixed vegetables, while the chicken was, I would hazard a guess, a stranger to the tandoori oven.

The second glass of wine was, if anything even grimmer than the first and so, hoisting the white flag I paid the kings ransom and trudged dejectedly back to my hotel.

Le Rosbif

Billeted in le Mercure hotel in Paris la Defence, I arrived late and hungry on Sunday evening, bitterly regretting not taking the Eurostar after suffering a journey of hallucinatory severity - the dark forces of Easy Jet, French immigration and apocolyptic weather combining to change my normally gentle disposition to something altogether darker and more forbidding.

Electing to eat in the hotel, my expectations were low - and duly met. But lower still was the experience of the waitress at the hands of five english women seated at a neighbouring table. At least one of these women would have been called Ivy, another Hilda - they hailed from Lancashire by accent and a byegone age by demeanour.

Food was treated as if a plate of poison had been produced - frenzied whispering broke out at the completion of the order before one seized a fork and gave a glass an almighty clout - horrified at the prospect of an outbreak of the famous english hooliganism the waitress hurried over - “Ketchup! Vinegar! Whoever heard of chips without vinegar?”

“Oui Madame”

“Don’t ‘we’ me - fetch the bloody vinegar and look sharp…’

Vinegar was duly produced - horror of horrors in a dainty bowl with a spoon. Passed around the group, each one breathing in the acrid fumes with porcine snout - vinegar was in the end declared to be vinegar and not mercury or worse, it was applied unsparingly and with relish to the chips.

The coup de grace was the coffee “Cafe Olay” was produced to universal approval - until they spied on my table a superlative cappuccino, accompanied by lavish amounts of meringue and biscuits, topped with an almighty tower of whipped cream, sprinkled with chocolate. Ogreish fingers were pointed, waitress summonsed - explanations offered and loudly rejected, eventually in appeasement a plate of biscuits was produced and devoured.

At last the bill - as one notebooks and pencils were produced, complex calculations that made my head spin were debated and proofs proven - finally they announced themselves satisfied - waitress summoned, as one they chorused “Tray Bon” and left.

Perry Goes to Disneyland

As assignments go. this one was about as welcome as a warm beer, god only knows why the editor decided to send me to write about Disney’s Magic Kingdom - a petty act of revenge perhaps for the mysterious disappearance of the magnum of Bollinger from his office - he should know I can’t abide the stuff, effervescent fruit juice for the nouveaux riche.

Getting up at the crack of dawn to reach the airport was a detestable expeience, Margaux bullied me into her appalling rattletrap of a motor car and pitched me out at Gatwick with quite unnecessary relish. My ticket being business class (at least some standards have not been abandoned) I was able to breakfast in the Virgin Lounge where a quite charming young lady served me a rather pallid cup of Assam and a proper english breakfast - when will Margaux get over her infatuation with ‘continental’ breakfast - a traitorous abandonment of a magnificent institution.

On the aeroplane another delightful young lady greeted me with a glass of champagne - it seemed churlish to refuse and so after surrepticiously tipping the contents into some dreadful woman’s handbag I graciously toasted her good health. About the rest of the flight the less said the better, fortunately a semi decent wine list was produced and I spent several happy hours mulling over the comparitive virtues of a slightly too fresh rose and the Custoza which while extremely average, at least slipped down the throat without too much trouble.

Arriving at the resort, my patience was immediately tested by the asinine attempts of the desk staff to amuse me with their disney inflected smalltalk - ‘my friend mickey would like you to sign here’ - indeed - I wondered briefly how my friend Mickey would respond to being poked in the eye with an antique Shaeffer fountain pen, but remembering the awful experiences of dear Bertie at the hands of the american judiciary I abandoned the thought.

Dinner was a challenging experience - happy clappy revellers celebrated some octegenarian’s birthday on an adjacent table - Gomer or Homer was clearly under the impression that death had overtaken them at last and that this ghastly venue was in fact one of the seven circles of hell.

Attempting to discover the origin of the Pinot Grigio advertised on the menu proved to be a task too far for the amiable Patti - the cheat sheet issued to all the waitresses confirmed that it was in fact Italian - in stark contrast to the Californian variety served in the bar that had more in common with a fruit syrup than a dry white wine. A request for a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon to accompany the second course threw the unfortunate waitress into a terrible quandry - the cheat sheet instructed her that a Californian Merlot should be recommended with the steak - clearly used to a clientele that would accept whatever ‘my friend Mickey’ decided was appropriate, the arrival of a diner that would be concerned with the origin of the wine and then decide for themselves what wine would be served with each course was causing the poor girl severe difficulties.

The Sauvignon was in any case a filthy brew - syrupy and over oaked it begged comparison with the worst excesses of the French experiment with anti freeze - a long nose and powerful finish more suited to gunpowder than grape.

House Red, Chateau Vincent, Nottingham

HOUSE RED, Chateau Vincent, Nottingham

From the tasting notes of my colleague Mrs Bunty Bacchant:

They say that God made wine to gladden the hearts of men, so I can only assume the Devil Himself was responsible for the hellish brew I was served at this establishment. Being red, and overpriced, it was obviously a Burgundy: until then, I had only ever tasted three really good ones, and that sadly remains the case. After only one sip, the taste evoked rustic scenes of origin: third-rate fruit mouldering in musty old barns, dirty vats and ancient presses surrounded by flies. The finish was blunt and curiously rancid, like being hit in the mouth with a farmer’s slipper. Not recommended.

House Merlot, Trattoria Venetia, Edinburgh

An absolutely shocking example of the malodorous slop currently masquerading as Merlot in a certain type of establishment. Top notes redolent of the River Tees and a nose that delivers a weighty argument in favor of capital punishment. A heavy and tannic concoction, this filthy brew leaves an unpleasant aftertaste and a patina on the tongue that can only be shifted with the aid of surgical intervention. In short a wine to gift to clients you would like to lose, detested relations and small children.