It's the little things ...

So, I was in the butcher's last Saturday morning, and I said "Can I have two chicken Maryland please?"
One of the guys starts to get some chicken breasts, and I said "Oh, sorry, I meant Marylands". He looked at me. Oddly. Very oddly.
"You want what?"
"Two chicken Marylands, please"
"..."
"You know, the thigh and the drumstick together on the same joint ... Maryland"
"Oh, OK"
"Ahhh ... don't you call that cut 'Maryland'?" I ask
"No"
"Oh, OK ... what do you call them here then?"
"We call them Legs"

On beer & glasses

I've mentioned Pints of beer once or twice. For the benefit of my Aussie friends, a Pint is 568 mL, and despite all the themed pubs in Oz, the glasses here don't have dimples or handles, or the little ridge. They look surprising like very big schooner glasses, although the straight bit at the top is a bit bigger. Here's a picture of the sort of glasses they have around here in Cardiff

A pint of lager

PS I don't drink lager, I drink bitter.

Tales from the trough, Episode 5

Super Saturday, Grand Slam Weekend, Saturday 21 March 09.

Cardiff pubs are packed by 1pm. Kick off is at 5:30pm. People everywhere, its a great buzz in the crowds, everyone is happy.

We meet Pam and Glen at the Cottage.

A quick hop around the corner and we luckily manage to squeeze into the Old Arcade. "Hymns and Arias" again. And again, into the gents. Today I'm all decked out in Welsh colours. As is everyone else.

The talk is about the England v France game last week. "Glad that England team didn't come to play us!"

"Yeah, and why didn't that French team turn up in Paris instead of the machine that we played?" I add. Blending in ever so subtly - or not.

"Ohhhhhhhh. Boyo here wants to be a Welshman today"

"Well, my dad is from Barry," which I have to say, as always, as "Baarrrrry" so people don't say "what berry is that then?".

"Barry!?!?!? OK then, bring it on boyo! That's good enough for me!"

Tales from the trough, Episode 4

Friday 20 March 09. Day before the 6 Nations decider. Down the Bay, after a work function, around 5 pm. Irish fans everywhere. Had a few drinks at Terra Nova.
In the gents, this old Irish guy starts speaking to me. "Goingtodagametemorra?"

One of the guys from work just nods politely. Nervous smile. Eyes dart longingly toward the exit as he stands there, not knowing what to say or do. He's a nice enough chap, but can't speak "drunken rugby fan" (in which I am clearly fluent).

I say to the Irishman, "I wish! Never get tickets to the decider over here. We'll just watch some of the earlier games at the pub."

"Whichpubsagoodcraick?
Werestardingdrinkenetnineaclocktemorra.
Whereshudwegotawochdaerlygames?"

"Nine a.m. hey? Price of Wales - a Wetherspoons - will be open then, but since it's a Spoons it won't have TV on. Try the large O'Neils on St Mary's St from around 11"

Anyway, we start talking about the game, and he reckoned that the only reason Ireland were doing well this year was because it was the first time, ever, that a Munster player had passed the ball to a Leinster player.

He then told me that this was his 15th trip to Cardiff to see rugby - but the first trip he'd been to where he saw anything other than the Stadium. He said that today was the first time he had seen Cardiff Bay or Cardiff Castle.

Get back to the table and my mate says "I did not understand a bloody word that he said".

Tales from the trough, Episode 3

But sometimes, Cardiff can be a scary, scary place. Children look away now!

OK, same day as before (27 Nov, France v Wales). Pub is insanely busy, can't move without being sandwiched between five other people. I've been in mauls that were easier to get through.

So, back in the gents. Now, in exceedingly busy pubs, with no room to sit or even stand, each Man eventually faces a choice. "What do I do with my drink while going for a leak?". When there is no room to put your glass down (seriously, it was that busy), my choice has always been either (a) neck it and get one on the way back (b) leave it with a mate. There are others, noting the length of the queue, who take the drink with them. Fair call I say. That queue was long. But I've never been one to Cross The Threshold - taking a beer into the Gents. Kath tells me a lot of girls take drinks into the Ladies - with the excuse "we don't want our drink spiked". Is that a fair trade? Guaranteed filth of the toilets versus one in a thousand chance of a drink spiking?

Anyway, those guys who actually take their drinks into the Gents are faced with another challenge - physics and anatomy. What to do with your beer (nearly everyone drinks beer, lager or cider in Wales, at least on match-day) whilst actually undoing your flys and taking out the old-fella?

Using the window sill, where applicable, seems to be the least revolting alternative.

Resting the beer on the little shelf on top of the urinal (or on some other resting place) seems another popular choice.

There are some surprising dexterous and perhaps flexible gentlemen who can hold a beer and manage the mechanics in one hand - pint glass in one, and flys, underpants, wedding tackle all deftly manipulated with the other hand on both the extract, urinate and replace operations. So to speak.

On this day I saw two new options that I would never have thought of or tried to replicate.

The first was a guy who held a two-thirds full pint glass (568mL) under his chin whilst doing the business. Amazing. Uncomfortable but amazing.

But the second guy, oh my fucking god. He stood next to me. He looked Shocked - he'd made it to the urinal without finishing his beer! What to do, what to do? He looked left, he looked right. He looked behind himself. He looked up, vainly searching for a little shelf. Alas, this urinal at Dempseys was the "suspended trough" type, no shelves.
So he ...

put


it


on


the


floor


between


his


leg


and


the


next


guy's.


Aaaaaaaarrrrgghh! Ewwwwwwwww! Ever see a men's room floor underneath a trough? Spray, splashback, trickle, dribble, poor aim - call it what you want. This guy opted for a communal urine-spray shandy rather than leave his beer behind.

That was the most disgusting thing I have seen in a long time. Hope he washed his hands.

And his beer.

Tales from the trough, Episode 2

My accent doesn't blend in.
The great experiment, Fri 27 Feb 09. Six Nations rugby on a Friday night. France hosting Wales. We get an early start (4pm), hit the Rummer Tavern, the Goat Major, and then head into the scrum in Dempseys. You cannot move in there.
It's a complete moshpit. There's even a queue for the gents.

Anyway, in the queue at halftime, everyone talking about the game, and one of the blokes says

"Jesus, where are you from?"
I said "Pontcanna", with a cheeky grin. And then say "Nah, I'm from Oz".
"Great mate, how long have you been here?"
"Almost a year," I say.
"A year, and you still sound like that?"
"That's nothing, you should have heard me a year ago!"

Tales from the trough, Episode 1

29 Nov, Australia v Wales, last test of the Autumn internationals. Wales squeak home (deservedly) over the Wallabies. We're all wearing our green and gold kit. After the game we start pub hopping around Cardiff. Wit hit the Slug and Lettuce and the the Old Arcade.

So I'm standing at the urinal in the Old Arcade,
one Wallaby jersey in a see of Welsh jumpers, and one of the red clothed Taffies turns to me and yells out

And we were singing hymns and arias,
'Land of my Fathers', 'Ar hyd y nos'.

Not to be out done I reply with a loud and drunken "Once a jolly swagman, camped by a billabong ..." at which point all, and I mean all the men's room breaks out into a welsh-accented Walzting Matilda, and sing the entire first verse and chorus.