Saturday, August 02, 2003
I'm thinking of starting a mini-diet, just to tone up those parts of the body that are now responding less to regular gym 'n' swim sessions, and more to the sneaky, long-avoided approach of middle age. (There. I've just gone and uttered those two deplorable words, which, apart from "Not on the guest-list", are dreaded above all others on Queer Street. Middle. Age. My, my. Brave little Stranger, aren't we?)
So, how difficult is it going to be? Piece of cream cake, mate. Cut the carbs? No problem. Here, have the buttered bagels I had for breakfast, and - if you really must - last night's beef and oyster pie with chips too. They're all yours. Take the pasta in a creamy wild mushroom sauce, and the rat-kebabs from Ali's down the road: I can live without these perfectly happily. Sugar in my tea? Never touch the stuff. Mars Bars and most kinds of Cadbury's make me sick; and we simply have never, ever, done puddings. And I'm sure that, with a little bit of hypno-therapy, I could even learn to say no to the odd Argentinean red or Stella.
But let's get one thing straight before we start, OK? Don't even think of denying me the crumbliness of a farmhouse Lancashire, or a tangy Derby Sage or a Cornish Yarg. That ripe and stinky Brie on the table, not to mention that tongue-tickling Roquefort, and that walnut and apple Camembert soaked in Calvados, well, they’re all mine. And let’s not forget the salty feta, served with honey and olives. And for afters we're having port and Stilton because that's what we always do.
Hmm. I think we may have problems in the cheese department.