:: Culture Vulture ::

All set for a brisk rehearsal this evening, in which the actors playing waitresses play supermarket checkout girls getting ready for a night out at the bar where the waitresses work. It all makes perfect sense to me - what more do you expect when there are only 4 actresses to play the waitresses and all their customers? You'll just have to come along and see it to find out how they (and I) cope.

In a foolhardy bout of insanity, brought on partly by the recent arrival of my pay packet and partly by a litany of drunken promises, I am to commit yet more of my "free" time to the arts. Not content with having three days of rehearsals a week, La Gribouilleuse and I are going to see Young Adam tomorrow. This follows hot on the heels of my visit to the ICA last week with Blondinka B: shunning convention at every turn, we opted to see Iranian heist flick Crimson Gold. This is a film I would certainly recommend, although Tarantino, it isn't. Not content with this, La Grib and I have also booked tickets to see Midsummer Night's Dream at the comedy Theatre next week. By coincidence, this acclaimed production stars Simon Scardifield, my second cousin once removed (!), as Puck. I discovered this at my Great Uncle's birthday a few weeks ago and have never met him, so no chance of a nepotisic conflab. Perusing my diary, this leaves me with astonishingly few occasions before Shakers Re-Stirred in which to socialise, relax and do my washing. I ought to be careful or something funny will happen to my head...

(thanks to b3ta's Bingowings)

Such galavanting gives me less time to compile the regular news digests which form a significant chunk of this blog. A blessed relief for some, I suspect. Here are two silly items anyway: the ever-resourceful Swiss have invented a plate for the spaghettically challenged. And this site restores my faith in the dastardly nature of humanity. Refresh the page for an unending supply of meanness. Actually most of it's pretty lame. So don't bother clicking...

As a way of seeing people I might have neglected of late, I've decided to throw a party in early November. Details are still a little sketchy, but the theme has already been chosen: The Ambassador's Reception!

:: Are You An Illegal Immigrant? ::

In the wake of recent plans to test asylum seekers for Britishness, several sources have already proposed possible online versions. This one said I was "as English as Guy Ritchie" - an epic slight against my character. And a German colleague is apparently "as English as Sherlock Holmes" - shurely shome mishtake?. What do you get, factfans?
Although this is a bit of fun, I think the whole idea (Blunkett's proposals not wasting five minutes on a Friday afternoon on a lame internet quiz) is a bit sinister. A period of naturalisation should be a given for people wanting to live in this country, but teaching and testing in this way leaves too much room for "new citizens" to be modelled according to a political agenda.

As usual, Johnny Foreigner seems to be popping up all over the place these days (Gadzooks! Albanians in Orpington!). Let's take a step and thank god we're not Ukrainians. Swilling in vodka and melancholy, these chaps have set on a new money-making scheme: they're renting out disused classrooms - to the "wrong sort of tenants".

Nearby Lithuania is the source of many of my woes this week. Checking pricing data in the Baltics has turned into a tangled task as the following comment from a researcher proves:

"...this type of beer is popular among the consumers with lower incomes. Plastic packaging is more popular in countryside. Also in the countryside people drink more so 2 litres bottle is very comfortable"

Precisely! So that's it then, I'm going to spend the weekend on a park-bench swigging from cans of Tesco Value Bitter...

:: 28 Days Later... ::

I managed to send a few shivers down spines yesterday when I mentioned it was only four weeks to go till Shakers Re-Stirred appears on the local stage. I'm not falling apart with anxiety yet, but am relieved that there's a plan afoot for the cast to record their lines to ease the learning process.

Otherwise there's not much news to relate. Some doctors have been advising against ice-cube enemas (yes, I know...) and everyone now knows about Microsoft's decision to close down its hotbeds of kiddy-baiting paedo-geddon. The prospect of large numbers of saddo accronym freaks being let out on the streets is terrifying:

I'm all set now for an über-hectic weekend, kicking off with a drink with the soon-to-be-departed Blondinka B tonight (so much to fit in the weekend starts on Thursdays these days). Tomorrow heralds birthday cocktails for Frangelico and Saturday promises more rehearsals and a Way we Live reunion chez La Gribouilleuse in the evening. Sunday is reserved for a more gratifying seasonal pursuit: the annual Sloe Gin Production. I shall be heading off to Old Ma Devukha's pied-à-terre for the harvest and bottling of this year's crop of sloes (the recipe is a family secret nicked from an ancient copy of the Good Housekeeping cookbook). After three months - which just happens to be around Christmas - this nectar is filtered and decanted, with some drunk during the festivities and the rest saved for maturing. This year marks a change to the usual pattern: due to prolonged hot spells, the sloes were ripe nearly three weeks before their traditional harvesting time (usually just after the first frost). Worried that they would have shrivelled and died before the end of September, I picked a large number of sloes on my last visit and stuck them in the freezer. It will be interesting to see if this affects the final result adversely or whether it will replicate the effect of a hard frost before picking. If any sloes are still left in the hedgerows, I'll pick them too and see how the batches compare. Come to think about it, sloe gin has become a bit of a family legend - my Aunt's brother's been making it for years, but this will only be my third batch. There's something very satisfying about making something yourself and supping such a delicious end result three months on. If you're interested in making your own or just have access to a large number of blackthorn bushes, the following may come in handy:

• I've only found two different commercial varieties of Sloe Gin on the UK market: Plymouth and Gordon's. Neither compares favourably with the home-made version, although this sort is used extensively in cocktails such as a Long Slow Comfortable Screw Up Against A Cold Hard Wall With A Kiss. A decent home-made version should be warming and complex and versions vary considerably with age. I won't go into the pretentious world of Goolden-esque wine-speak, but a young one (straight after decanting) is normally more fiery and deeply coloured, whereas one that's been matured for a couple of years will become smoother, more honeyed and a paler chesnut-red.
• Many sites offer recipes and other information about this traditional drink...
  ~ the lowdown from LiqueurWeb. This is similar to the method used to make the Polish cherry liqueur wiszniowka.
  ~ a recipe from Cats Meow 3 including info on freezing!
  ~ detailed information on preparation and aging from JohnR
  ~ simple recipe with photos from Brian Donnan
  ~ Helen Watson's method is similar to mine!
  ~ Even the BBC are getting in on the act now...

Enough of that, methinks. Happy ginning!

:: Who's (Watching) Who(m) ::

Before I start, the pedant muct be exorcised from my soul... Who becomes "whom" when subject to the accusative-dative case in English. for non-linguists this is when the word becomes the object in the sentence. This is the same as the difference between "he" (subject) and "him" (subject):
"Whom did you see?"/"I saw him"
"Who saw the pedant?"/"He saw the pedant"
All clear? The only problem is that historically the verb "to be" does not take the accusative-dative but the nominative (i.e. the same form as the subject), which is why one would ask "Who's he?" and not "Who's him?" This is all a rather complicated way of saying "Who's who" and "Who's watching whom?" are the correct forms, hence the need for the brackets in the header. If you disagree then sue me. I'm only a linguist after all

With all that off my chest, I can concentrate on the theme of today's vignettes. Rather than having a counter, this blog links to a nifty traffic-monitoring site. This is a source of interest, joy and occasional woe, revealing statistics about the visitors here (apparently I got all of hits last week). More interesting is the information about the search terms which have thrown up links to the site - some recent examples which amused me highly were:

- caffeine oktoberfest sausage
- shoreditch twat
- dingy ninja narcolepsy

And, dear reader, I can also keep my eye on you... the site also tracks the servers from which visitors have accessed these pages. I know, for example, that one of my cast for Shakers has been checking this site on a regular basis. Did you really think I'd post lots of gossip about you all?!

Enough of that - those stats get a little dull after about 5 seconds, so I shan't dwell on them. The issue of "surveillance", however, has still not gone away. News piped through to the Devukha Dungeon that in Italy imprudent mobile calls and text messages were catching out many a cheating spouse. There's even a private detective agency which specialises in this kind of work. As a sad fuck with no love-life to speak of at present, this is hardly an issue but, hey, I'll bear it in mind.

And so, to bed (I wish)... with a smug grin at the media's belated attention and predicatable reaction to one of my former LOTDs. Sick cartoons are unlikely to give me nightmares (unless they happen to be of the pervy manga variety). At the moment, I'm far more likely to wake up in a cold sweat dreaming of this foul excrescence.

Oh I can't end with a bad taste in my mouth... so I'll just have to recycle some stereotype reinforcing amusement from b3ta as ever:

:: "I'm Bringing Red Wine & Metaxa" ::

Well... I've been invited to dinner chez Taxloss and Hypatia. The above exposition of generosity was met with the mildly defeatest text response from Taxloss: "Oh blimey. Ok then". Fear not, dear heart! Although not completely a joke, the bottle of Metaxa about to gurgle its way to Taxloss Towers is a mere 200ml. That should provide us with a decent snifter each and nothing more...

On to more pressing items. Today's multi-segmented news review starts off with :: Politics :: - a rare occurrence! Salem Pax (aka the Baghdad Blogger), whose posts I've been reading since before the Iraq War, is in London. His report in the Guardian on the Hutton Enquiry and recent parliamentary questions on Iraq has made timely and engaging reading. The most telling quote is:

"...being an Iraqi and seeing that and the bit of the Hutton Inquiry yesterday, is quite strange. It is like listening to your parents discuss how they should bring you up; it is your life, but you are not making the decisions."

It has also emerged that everyone's favourite purjuror and schlockmeister, Jeffrey Archer might yet be bundled out of the House of Lords. The only objection I have to this is that it is likely to leave him with more time to write "novels".

Moving on swiftly to :: International News :: As a welcome addition to the range of hearty fare on offer at this year's Oktoberfest, a German butcher has invented a power sausage. I was slightly disgruntled to discover that this was nothing more than a wurst with added caffeine, but amused by the name nonetheless. Regular readers may have noticed this is not the first time innappropriate sausage translations have tickled my fancy...

:: Society :: The heartwarming tale of Julie Walters doing a gritty northern accent and bearing in another Britflick has also "captured the imagination". Not mine you understand, but that of my sometime alter-ego, Vanessa Feltz. Let me explain: the overbearing ex-talkshow hussy has fronted a competition for people inspired by "hit-movie" Calendar Girls. The bint has simultaneously managed to revolt the nation (not for the first time I fear) with pictures of amateur soft-porners and desecrate the name of my ex-College magazine. Uplifted by the WI strip-off of 1999, we strapping students decided to replicate their cunning stunt a year on. Sold entirely for profit, the calendars presented a tasteful tableau of each of the more illustrious subjects (Modern Languages was particularly popular). I call on you all to boycott this fetid frenzy of lust (but only after you've had a quick peek at the gormless gonks who've posted their cheeky pic on a national website).

If that wasn't enough to induce vomiting, perhaps your personality is defective. Luckily my new :: Self-Help :: section promises to diagnose and treat the wort affected. Yes, it's Dr Kennedy's Personality Quiz!

It just remains for me to remind those non-b3tans amongst you that tomorrow is International Talk Like a Pirate Day. Eye-patches at the ready:

:: Early Start ::

After a suitably vodka-saturated celebration of Sphynx's birthday (at the sublime Na Zdrowie - see Taxloss' blog for a parallel write-up!), one might have expected a frail shaking Devukha to scrape into work at 9.35am. As if to confound the hangover-spotters amongst you, I could be witnessed striding over Denmark Hill at 8 o'clock this morning, gym-bag in hand. Before I become reduce my readership by half (by giving one of you a heart attack), I probably ought to explain. It was the third day without water in large parts of South London. The gym bag did not contain running shorts and trainers, but a bath towel and my toilet bag so I could take advantage of the newly installed shower at the office. Relieved of 3 days' stubble, I arrived at my desk at 9.10am a much happier man. I just hope the water will be back on when I get home tonight...

No pictures today. The effects of last night, followed up by a day spent researching Malt Whisky brands have made me feel quite queasy. I'll just follow the usual pattern and nick something wholesale from b3ta. But seriously... it's well worth a look if you haven't seen it already. Hand puppetry has rarely been more "eloquently" expressed. A meatier value-added post should be winging its way webwards later in the week.

:: Cool it, bi-yatches! ::

I arrived home to discover pools of water on the kitchen floor and a new fridge-freezer in position. Sadly the old one was still there (hence the defrosted dampness) and loaded with a sad collection of once-frozen-twice-shy foodstuffs. I pulled open the new BEKO (Turkey's finest) to find that it wasn't on and most of the interior was still plastic-wrapped. Gawain J obviously hadn't had time to deal with it in his busy lunching schedule so I gave it a quick wipe out, turned it on and transfered the few salvageable items from the incontinent old one. I have yet to discover if the thing is still going, but I have no reason to believe it will have given up the ghost by the time I get home. Yay! Now the trips to Iceland to buy pikey reconstituted potato shapey things can recommence...

On another bright note, Taxloss has at last posted photos of his sojourn in Amsterdam. By the look of things he and Hypatia spent much of their time sleeping and fondling his sister's cats...

The sorry story of David Blaine gets more tedious by the day. Having reported on Tuesday that attempts had been made to distract "the world's greatest showman" (and prevent him from sleeping), I now read that his girlfriend, the delightfully named Manon von Gerkan, has taken revenge on the egg-throwers. Somewhat predictably, the slack jawed gonk has also been the subject of this week's BBC caption competition.

The final piece of exciting news is that the flyer is ready for Shakers Re-Stirred (play I'm directing in October). Book those tickets now!

:: John Craven's Newsround ::

Badger impersonator John Craven brought us bite-sized chunks of newsiage in his eponymous Children's BBC slot during my youth. I remember well the 80s title sequence: pulsating music and letter blocks colloding centre-screen (with a satisfying lightning bolt at each impact), finally coming together to spell "Newsround".

TV cream also provides a succinct write-up on this page. Long since replaced by glammed up twenty-somethings and sexy graphics, Craven can now be found presenting the much more sedate Countryfile a gentle Sunday morning ramble through rural concerns which I'm unlikely to see unless waiting for the 'Enders omnibus in a hungover stupor.

Naturally, this brief delve into wanton nostalgia has a vague purpose: I'm going to give you a news round-up of the past few days' events, whether you like it or not...

  • First up is :: Me News ::. This is a slight chapter to add to the Devukha events tome. A trip to a mate's gig on Friday with Blondinka B was followed by rehearsals on Saturday afternoon. However, on arriving home from leafy Peckham I discovered that Hypatia had texted to ask if I wanted to see her and Red Rum/Taxloss that evening. After the previous weekend's crushing disappointment, when, freed from my social shackles I failed to catch up with the bitches, who were in Amsterdam, anticipation crackled through my brain. Everything nearly went awry when the cashpoints of Brixton told me my card was "unreadable". A further disturbing point on the faulty cashpoint scenario was that as a group we were warned off using two separate machines because both appeared to dispense less than you asked for... Kindly couple that they are, Hyp and RR subbed me a few pints and we had a good old natter. Sunday brought no surprises: I was expected at my great uncle's 80th birthday celebration; I duly went. And I've spent most of today in the inevitable wrangle between my requirement for sleep and the need to spellcheck numerous spazmo brands of fermented sauces.
  • In :: International News ::, I bring you the supreme white-trash have-a-go hero: McDonald's Hold-up Thwarted By Tray-Wielding Biker. My instant reaction was to laugh - not at the slapstick antics but at how the guy claimed to fend off the felon with his "profane language". Thoughtful Japanese transport bosses are trying to think of ways to make wearing a kimono more comfortable when getting about. This all seems a little strange when the operators of the bullet train notoriously employ "stuffers" to force extra people into each carriage. Oh and in case you didn't know, German ist sexy.
  • The final section is :: The Most Predictable News Item That You Can't Believe Hasn't Yet Been Mentioned On Devukha's Blog ::. Yup, it's "chirpy" old David Blaine, suspended halfway between postmodern window-cleaner and medieval torture chamber victim near Tower Bridge. Although the prospect of him shitting into a nappy as the Mayor peers out of his office amuses me highly, I can't say I'm particularly overwhelmed. For one, I've been unable to watch Channel 4 recently as the monotone drone of his self-promotional piece has been shown to saturation point. He was pelted with eggs at the weekend and I wonder how long he can hold out before someone entices him out with the smell of frying bacon. Needless to say, the opinion boards have been full of this gubbins, which is probably just as well - otherwise we'd all have to talk about our Great Uncle's Birthday.

:: That Time Of The Month... ::

Boring, boring, boring. Work that is - the apotheosis of tedium. Perhaps my time would be better spent finding more obscure words on dictionary.com to find more smart-arsed words to bolster my posts. Perhaps not... having "lacuna" and "apotheosis" in successive posts is already over-egging the pudding.

The good news, however, is that I'm going to this tonight:

Hurrah! Time to shake my booty like crazy and bankrupt myself at the bar. This should be a bit more bearable than the sticky pleasures of last month, when the sweat ran down the walls and every punter looked wet through within 2 minutes. I didn't see anything like this however:

Thanks to Limpfish.com for that one (b3ta's Chicago_Dave?).

Hurumph... Still an hour left to go - back to manky milk products, I suppose.

:: All in the best possible taste... ::

Well, life's a breeze when you're researching cheese. And chilled processed fish and fermented sauces. I was supposed to be finishing the Packaged Foods project this week, but there's been a "technical hitch" of monumental proportions and all the dairy's gone a bit wrong. Sound like the premiss of a far-fetched but delightfully addictive platform-based computer game? I think so:

Oh No! Princess Parmesan is about to die in a shower of curdling dairy goods. Guide Devukha through pools of probiotic drinking yoghurt to fight the Evil Lord Quark and save her! Collect Mini Babybels for strength along the way - get ready for a buttering!

Enough of that. The yawning lacuna in my work schedule has led to some interesting discoveries as I concentrate on other areas in more detail (far be it from me to surf the net all day at my employer's expense!). Exhibit A is a brand of South African cheese biscuit - I would be surprised if this hadn't appeared on Graham Norton's Show:

On the trail of the ultimate foreign food innuendo (there are too many to mention), I discovered a German wurst manufacturer with the immortal slogan: "Meica - Deploys the Sausages". I love the fact that that works on so many levels - except the very meaning they wanted to convey.

Although they "speak the same language as us", Americans must claim the top prize for all round consumer site stupidity. During my trawls through the likes of Chef Boyardee ready-to-eat pasta-in-a-can lasts-for-three-millenia type products I frequently encounter "recipe sites". That country has turned convenience food into an artform (where else could you buy Uncrustables - pre-made frozen peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?), but there still seems to be a residual need for "culinary creativity". Hence the sprouting of the branded recipe website as an adjunct to the commercial one. Not content with just telling the consumer what is available from their company - usually some brightly coloured, overpackaged, nutritionally questionable box of mush - they now tell us how to remove it from the box and serve it. Usually this involves adding extra flavour (tabasco to mask the plastic taste) or texture (to disguise the insipid consistency of a product designed to keep for decades when frozen).
Even the less processed items end up with some fairly stupid recipes. Hunts manufacture a range of ketchups and tomato sauces. Most of their recipes could be surmised as:
Boil pasta, drain, pour in Hunt's© pasta sauce, add basil/chopped sausage/toenails and serve with something else from a packet.
The prize for "Dumbest Recipe" on their site goes to Hunt's® Antipasto Style Pasta. Beyond the obvious inanity of the recipe presented (which fits the above formula perfectly), the author has completely ignored what ANTIPASTO means - it's the course you have before pasta.

Enough... I must stop talking about food before I get hungry.