Night of the Living Chefs
I often get asked to recount this story, whenever somebody finds out that something odd once happened involving a roundabout, men in chef’s outfits, and Ireland. And I’m happy to recount it, but I always have to give my audience a disclaimer: “You really had to be there”. However, this never cools their ardour for the story, and by the end of the tale, they’re covered in tumbleweed. So to avoid any more such unpleasantness, I’ll lay the tale before you all now.
But I’ll say it again: You had to be there. I can take no further responsibility. You’re free to leave now, and I won’t hold it at all against you.
You HAVE been warned. So, are you sitting comfortably?
Night of the Living Chefs
That fateful Thursday in 2001, none of us could have predicted what would happen. We were simply four young people on a weekend away, far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife, just hoping to have a good time. But we were completely unaware of what fate was to throw at us.
We’d taken a morning flight from Teesside to Dublin. It was a chilly, overcast day, but thankfully free of rain. We had landed in Dublin sometime around noon, and had hung around the city centre for a while until we were able to check into our hotel.
The Travelodge at Castleknock, about 5 miles outside of Dublin. How we still shiver at the memories.
It was a comfortable place, in truth, and cheap enough, that being the hallmark of the Travelodge. But this isn’t really about the hotel. It’s about THAT roundabout, the one where the M50 intersects with the N3. A roundabout that would forever be etched upon our minds, where the nightmare of men in chef’s outifts would eternally haunt us.
Having checked in at the hotel, we went to our rooms. Myself and Nigel in one (twin room, thank you), and Kirsty and Alison in the other. The girls decided to have a bit of a lie-down, But Nige and I, being young gentlemen in search of a good time, decided to venture forth to seek the pubs. We left the hotel, and headed for civilisation on the other side of the roundabout.
And that’s when I saw the first one.
Standing in the grassed area in the middle of the roundabout, by himself, with apparently no purpose, was a man in a chef’s outfit.
He was just standing there, looking around. Why, I wondered to myself, would a lone man, in a chef’s outfit, be standing in the middle of a roundabout on a busy road?
It sent shivers down my spine. And then I saw the second one.
The second man, also in a chef’s outfit. Also just looking around, apparently without purpose. No other obvious connection to the first man – but eerily, both dressed in the same style. Both doing nothing, but with a sense of foreboding. Like those Weeping Angels in Doctor Who. Only in chef’s outfits.
Compose yourself, I told myself. This is Ireland. Maybe it’s just one of those things they do, like Gaelic football, or poteen, or taking the Pope seriously. As we wandered toward the roundabout, to cross the road, I saw the third.
The third man, in a chef’s outfit. But he was unlike the other two. He was carrying a tray. A silver tray. With nothing upon it. What’s more, he wasn’t simply standing and looking around. He was walking. Walking toward the second man. Walking, and pointing at him. And saying something, possibly in some long-forgotten chthonic language; the language of demons. Or maybe just English.
Well, this was more than my mind could handle. I vowed to myself that nothing here could really hurt me, like Danny in The Shining. With great speed, Nigel and I crossed the busy road, avoiding these inhuman monsters, and headed for the nearest pub, stopping only to inquire of a couple of street urchins as to exactly where the nearest pub was.
Reaching the safety of this homely tavern, we refreshed our spirits with some fine local beverages, until we were ready to return to the hotel – fully aware that those men in chef’s outfits would be there. But we couldn’t let that stop us. Those Gourmets of Darkness could, at any moment, bear down upon the hotel in which our friends were innocently sleeping. We were their only hope. We had to return, and keep them safe from a terrible fate.
We left the tavern, the owner having provided us with rosary beads and crucifixes to protect us from any evil we might encounter. Our hearts thumping like a Citroën’s engine in the wrong gear, we advanced toward the roundabout. And there they were, the three of them, standing in the middle of the roundabout, a veritable hive of demonic activity. From a hatch in a van they were taking cups. And passing them to drivers. No doubt goblets of some vile potion, made to induce madness on humanity, whereupon these Epicurean demons would execute some infernal plan to take over God’s green Earth.
I had to do something. I had wooden stakes, silver bullets and garlic bulbs, which had been sent to me in haste by my old university lecturer, Van Helsing of Amsterdam. One must admire the speed of the postal service. With the courage of Hercules, I strode toward one demon, and in a tremulous voice, asked him what his business among humanity was.
Basically, they were handing out free pancakes to motorists as a promotion. So we got one each, and took some back for the lasses as well.
So…yeah.
Euro 2012 – A Cynic’s Predictions
A cynic, of course, being what an optimist calls a realist. As the England team approaches the Euro 2012 competition, we can expect the usual waves of senseless optimism from the press and fans who’ve yet to learn any better. So to counteract this, I bring you the expectations of a hard-and-fast, dyed-in-the-wool cynic.
Let’s start with the squad: We start the competition with a new man in charge, good old Roy Hodgson. A man who, admittedly, has some European pedigree, but also too much of a resemblance, in looks and demeanour, to Commandant Lassard out of Police Academy. This is quite apt, given that his caretaking predecessor in the hot-seat (Stuart Pearce) was a haircut away from being Zed from the same films, and Fabio Capello, the last full-time incumbent, was basically Sweetchuck with an accent. Hopefully, one day we’ll have a Tackleberry in charge, then we might actually get somewhere.
And what a squad we’ve got. A week or so to go and players are already dropping like flies (or more accurately, like Christiano Ronaldo in a penalty box in injury time), ruling out Gareth Barry and others. But we do have Mr. Potato Head, aka Wayne Rooney, our star striker who’s banned for the first three matches (theoretically half the tournament, more likely three quarters of it, if we’re lucky). We have that indefatigable role model John Terry. Yes, you might think he’s a violent, mysoginstic, cheating, lying and smug racist, but he did win the Daddies Sauce Dad of the Year award in 2009 so that obviously makes everything okay. We have Captain Fantastic Steven Gerrard, who this season bravely led his team to 8th in the Premier League and a trophy that even Middlesbrough can win if they try hard enough, and I’m not talking about the North Riding Senior Cup. Gerrard is accompanied by his Liverpool team-mate Andy Carroll, a man who seems to model his looks, charm and general usefulness on Guy of Gisborne out of Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. Like Gisborne, Carroll was backed last season by a boss over-taxing his subjects (in that case, Kenny Dalglish taxing the minds of fans wondering why they’d spend £35 million for someone to stand in the penalty box, hoping that things bounce off him in the right direction now and again). There we have it – the Golden Generation, ready to bring that trophy back where it belongs. Because we invented football.
So now that we’re familiar with our set-up, onto the predictions. Firstly, the group stages:
England vs France: France are the Old Enemy, when Scotland, Germany and Argentina aren’t around, that is. England fans will expect us to beat France, not just because we invented football, but because we’ll raise that fighting spirit that saw King Henry V and his tiny army defeat the French at Agincourt, and because we’re much more civilised than them – we don’t eat snails or frogs, and we don’t go on strike at the slightest things, like the government removing workers’ inalienable human rights (what children they are). The fact is, Agincourt was a tiny moment of light for England in the whole of the Hundred Years War (actually 116 years; they even had Fergie Time back then) and the French will simply muster the fighting spirit that saw them win the rest of it. I think England will actually do quite well on this one, they’ll be up for it: first game, grand opposition, and the team will pull their fingers out. A French goal in the first half will be cancelled out by an Ashley Young header in the second half after a decent spell of pressure from England. Thus it’ll finish 1-1. Post-match press conferences will state that it shows how well we can compete on a world stage, even though it’s really a North-west Europe stage. We’ll have lots of positives to draw from it, obviously, but hopefully not in the random drugs tests. In the other group match, Sweden will beat Ukraine 2-1. And so to…
England vs Sweden: A team we’ve met in competitions on numerous occasions. England fans will expect us to beat Sweden, not just because we invented football, but because Sweden is a country made entirely of lakes (which would make it a sea, technically), and its only inhabitants are moose, flat-pack furniture makers and ABBA, and none of them are good at football (although Agnetha from ABBA allegedly had a trial at Doncaster Belles in her younger days. Seems she didn’t fare too well and kept asking what the Name of the Game was. Thankfully, a record producer was watching, and the rest is history). However, the same thing always seems to happen when we play Sweden, and I expect this to be no different. We’ll score after three minutes, and spurred on by that, go on to lose 3-1. Sweden’s first will come after 44 minutes, cueing footage of Roy Hodgson frantically scribbling a new half-time team talk. The next will come around the hour mark, and will be the token goalkeeper blooper that England are obliged to have in every tournament – a lame backpass from John Terry going through Joe Hart’s hands like an Audi through a 30mph zone. The final goal will come with about five minutes to spare, whereupon the England team will be looking at each other with incredulity, and hoping that Ukraine beat France. France will win, though, 2-0. So, France on four points, Sweden on six, Ukraine on none and the Golden Generation on a single, wondrous point.
England vs Ukraine: So, we come to the crunch match. England have to win, and hope that France lose (which they won’t. 1-0 to Les Bleus). But of course, England fans will expect us to beat Ukraine, not just because we invented football, but because they have no points (compared to our awe-inspiring one), and their country has only existed for about 20 years. Nobody in England had heard of Ukraine before 1993, and that was only because Manchester United winger Andrei Kanchelskis happened to play for them. We’d heard of Chernobyl, but like anything East of Poland and North of those Arab countries, we thought it was Russia. We’d heard of Kiev, but only in the context of mechanically recovered chicken covered in breadcrumbs and stuffed with garlic-flavour cholesterol. So we’ll go into this game as cocky as you like, and proceed to trounce the former communists 0-0. To be fair, we’ll have a good share of chances, but these will all go to Andy Carroll, who’ll show the shooting skills of a blindfolded ostrich in a panic. The TV camera will shows numerous shots of Wayne Rooney, sitting there with his most tuberous po-face, wishing that he was out there, because he knows it wouldn’t be like this if he were playing. Commentators will point out that “this wasn’t in England’s script” as though it’s an entirely original metaphor. Post-match interviews will all include the phrase “Y’know, all credit to Ukraine, they really put in a shift”, without anyone actually willing to take any blame. Back home, the Daily Mail forecasts a slump in house prices in light of the deafeat.
A day or two later, the England team are plastered all over the back pages arriving at Heathrow looking gloomier than Doncaster railway station. But the tournament isn’t over yet…
Quarter and Semi-Finals: This year we seem to have two Groups of Death, and fearfully, Croatia and Portugal will be the teams falling at the first hurdle in each. Ireland will undergo their obligation to never do better than England (a pact reversed in the Eurovision Song Contest), so will slip out at the group stages too. Poland, despite being co-hosts, will simply be outdone, as will Denmark and Greece, leaving us with some usual suspects. Quarter-finals will see us lose Russia, the Czech Republic, Sweden and France, which will please some disgruntled English fans. The structure of the competition seems to work out so that semi-finalists might will have met each other at the group stages, so I’m expecting Germany to be playing the Netherlands, and Spain to play Italy. The first match will be won by Germany on Penalties, but not before Nigel de Jong has become the first player to be sent off three times in one game (and not because Graham Poll was refereeing). The first two red cards will be for the same “tackle”, just because it was so bad, and the third for a second yellow card after removing his shirt (how very dare he) as he walked off the pitch. Van Persie will miss the crucial penalty, sending Tottenham fans into raptures.
The second semi-final will be a stark contrast to the first, in that the first game was full of players you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley, and the second will be full of players you wouldn’t want your girlfriend to meet in a well-lit main street, just hours after you absent-mindedly hesitated on the “does-my-bum-look-big-in-this” question. It’ll be a hard-fought game between these two super-powers of world cuisine, only marred by Xabi Alonso’s constant attempts to better his record 70-yard goal, not realising that a fumble-footed Geordie bench-warmer isn’t between the sticks this time. Spain, however, will pull through, winning by a single goal.
The Final: Germany vs Spain. Germany, that country of super-efficency, methodical work and cars for people who want them to last. Spain, that country of cruelty to bulls, afternoon kips and cars for people who think The Fast and the Furious is compelling cinema. A true clash of European cultures. A perfect end to this grand tournament. Spain’s flair will show from the off, and within half an hour, they’ll grab the game’s first goal. However, their flair will not last much longer, as the Germans’ ruthless efficiency (nicked from the Spanish Inquisition, oddly) will begin to tell, and an equaliser will follow shortly after half-time. Then, with about fifteen minutes to go, Germany’s Schweinsteiger (which I’m sure was used as a euphemism for a gentleman’s member in Young Frankenstein) will grab the winner. Cue wild scenes of celebration from Berlin and Munich, and shots of Spanish fans, their faces painted in red and yellow, crying like Gazza after being kicked out of a kebab shop. Scores of English commentators will say, “well, we always say ‘Never write off the Germans'”, even though they wrote them off completely at the start of the tournament due to their age and lack of flair, as is traditional in British broadcasting. Adrian Chiles will sign-off the coverage with his trademark unfunny “witticism”, and that’ll be it for another couple of years.
So there you have it, another roallercoaster of a tournament, with the usual thrills, spills and other things that rhyme and might just about mean something appropriate. So my money’s going on Germany, and anyone who plays England. Let’s face it, we know it makes sense.
Small Black Flowers That Grow in the Sky 