Fish. I don't trust 'em. When I was little, you got them from fairgrounds, in a bag. They gaped at you for a few days and then expired. Then your Mother got a bit upset and flushed them.
My Dad, always fond of a psychologically damaging spectacle, once took me to, I think, Blackpool Tower. I must have been three or four. In the basement there was an aquarium, built into the walls, which continued across the ceiling. A darkly-lit tunnel of twisting fish. As you toddled towards it in your little velvet-collared coat, a thumping great finny Something would suddenly emerge from shadowy waters and glare at you.
Difficult to remain soignee, you will agree.
We used to go to Southport, where the sea was a distant rumour, at weekends. The idea was to run wildly and hopefully towards it, with your tiny plastic bucket full of starfish shapes. After a while, your small legs gave way,and you collapsed on damp,rilled sand. Then you would be gathered up by a parent and have said legs abraded with a wet towel in a biting wind.
The sea, when I finally met it, in Woolacombe or similiar, I liked. I was taught to swim by Mrs Robinson, who ran our local Mental Home, as they were called then. The pool in the Cottage Homes in Fazackerley was vast and pre-War. Mrs Robinson was a friend of my Mum's, and my Mum wanted me to learn to swim, so she offered me lessons on Saturdays (after the library shut at noon and they kicked me out). I was five, shortsighted and clumsy. Swimming was, and remains, the only physical activity at which I am any good. No, really.
The GB was exposed first to the warm waters of the South of France, very early in his life. It was quite a shock when he met the Irish Sea. Nobody French could quite believe that these mad pale drunk people swam in it,and lived.
I went to Brittany for a week with my friend from school. She was getting interested in Proper Cooking at the time, and I fancied a break from Angry Boys. The weather was marvellous, one of those early September freak weeks of warmth and sunshine. I went swimming and she did Tai Chi on the beach. However,she had pledged to immerse herself in the local cuisine.Which was marine-based to a fault. I don't eat seafood at all, it is like eating wet insects. Fish should be square, white, and battered. And of course, when the French aren't eating live meat, they are eating seafood. I had a great many omelettes that week, was green about the gills and a stranger to the bathroom. Still, I was having fun and did not complain. Until we went to a rather fine restaurant, notable for its seafood. And my pal ordered the Seafood Platter. Ignoring the waiter's misgivings;he had been trying to impress upon her that this specialite de la maison was generally for five people or so, she exhorted him to bring it on. When it arrived, it was whistling defiantly. A two-foot tall tower of denizens of the deep.wreathed about at the base with murky bladderwrack, it was the Jaques Cousteau special. A brawny lobster arched around the pile of mussel shells that formed the foundations. After that, it was langoustines, greater and lesser crabs, and a selection of creatures neither of us had ever seen before, some with whiskers.An assortment of hammers and pincers were provided,so the punter had a fighting chance. The entire restaurant was staring at the two crazy Les Fuckoffs (a favourite French term for sweary Brits) who has recklessly ordered this immense dish. They stared even more when they realised that it was One Fuckoff who intended to eat it all. I had an omelette, and a lot of wine. My friend took a deep breath, and rose to the challenge.
The subsequent scene was directed by Terry Gilliam. Crustacean parts flew, carapaces were shattered, bits of shell landed in glossy French hair, juices splattered..
I am noted for the sweetness of my nature. I endured this scene with smiling patience,until a large prawn hit me on the forehead.
I rose, with dignity, and stalked off for a cigarette. Luckily,I was,even then,used to being laughed at by Mediterranean types. If you are lint white of complexion and scarlet of hair and lip, you attract roughly the same reaction as would the sudden appearance of a burning clown.
Anyway, she finished it. AND had a pudding. I had several Calvados and a shower. So you see why,when seafood is suggested, I become a little thoughtful and withdrawn. I come from a long line of seamen, as I never tire of telling people, but there are limits.
My Dad, always fond of a psychologically damaging spectacle, once took me to, I think, Blackpool Tower. I must have been three or four. In the basement there was an aquarium, built into the walls, which continued across the ceiling. A darkly-lit tunnel of twisting fish. As you toddled towards it in your little velvet-collared coat, a thumping great finny Something would suddenly emerge from shadowy waters and glare at you.
Difficult to remain soignee, you will agree.
We used to go to Southport, where the sea was a distant rumour, at weekends. The idea was to run wildly and hopefully towards it, with your tiny plastic bucket full of starfish shapes. After a while, your small legs gave way,and you collapsed on damp,rilled sand. Then you would be gathered up by a parent and have said legs abraded with a wet towel in a biting wind.
The sea, when I finally met it, in Woolacombe or similiar, I liked. I was taught to swim by Mrs Robinson, who ran our local Mental Home, as they were called then. The pool in the Cottage Homes in Fazackerley was vast and pre-War. Mrs Robinson was a friend of my Mum's, and my Mum wanted me to learn to swim, so she offered me lessons on Saturdays (after the library shut at noon and they kicked me out). I was five, shortsighted and clumsy. Swimming was, and remains, the only physical activity at which I am any good. No, really.
The GB was exposed first to the warm waters of the South of France, very early in his life. It was quite a shock when he met the Irish Sea. Nobody French could quite believe that these mad pale drunk people swam in it,and lived.
I went to Brittany for a week with my friend from school. She was getting interested in Proper Cooking at the time, and I fancied a break from Angry Boys. The weather was marvellous, one of those early September freak weeks of warmth and sunshine. I went swimming and she did Tai Chi on the beach. However,she had pledged to immerse herself in the local cuisine.Which was marine-based to a fault. I don't eat seafood at all, it is like eating wet insects. Fish should be square, white, and battered. And of course, when the French aren't eating live meat, they are eating seafood. I had a great many omelettes that week, was green about the gills and a stranger to the bathroom. Still, I was having fun and did not complain. Until we went to a rather fine restaurant, notable for its seafood. And my pal ordered the Seafood Platter. Ignoring the waiter's misgivings;he had been trying to impress upon her that this specialite de la maison was generally for five people or so, she exhorted him to bring it on. When it arrived, it was whistling defiantly. A two-foot tall tower of denizens of the deep.wreathed about at the base with murky bladderwrack, it was the Jaques Cousteau special. A brawny lobster arched around the pile of mussel shells that formed the foundations. After that, it was langoustines, greater and lesser crabs, and a selection of creatures neither of us had ever seen before, some with whiskers.An assortment of hammers and pincers were provided,so the punter had a fighting chance. The entire restaurant was staring at the two crazy Les Fuckoffs (a favourite French term for sweary Brits) who has recklessly ordered this immense dish. They stared even more when they realised that it was One Fuckoff who intended to eat it all. I had an omelette, and a lot of wine. My friend took a deep breath, and rose to the challenge.
The subsequent scene was directed by Terry Gilliam. Crustacean parts flew, carapaces were shattered, bits of shell landed in glossy French hair, juices splattered..
I am noted for the sweetness of my nature. I endured this scene with smiling patience,until a large prawn hit me on the forehead.
I rose, with dignity, and stalked off for a cigarette. Luckily,I was,even then,used to being laughed at by Mediterranean types. If you are lint white of complexion and scarlet of hair and lip, you attract roughly the same reaction as would the sudden appearance of a burning clown.
Anyway, she finished it. AND had a pudding. I had several Calvados and a shower. So you see why,when seafood is suggested, I become a little thoughtful and withdrawn. I come from a long line of seamen, as I never tire of telling people, but there are limits.
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