If you remember way back when, I got excited about Rumer’s debut album, Seasons of My Soul. I still think ‘Slow’ is one of the most beautiful songs I’ve heard. It’s a song that can calm me, if only for four minutes at a time, no matter what else is going on in my life. I knew from that very first play I heard on the radio that the girl can sing. Subsequent appearances on Later with Jools Holland (back in 2011 and then again last week) have, to me, proven that I was right to think she’s awesome. Which, of course, makes me pretty badass too. Not ‘badass’ in a Chuck Norris kind of way, but badass in a musical Nostradamus kind of way. That’s me: 12th level black-belt in predicting upcoming cultural trends, and clocking Rumer two years ago was pretty much a roundhouse to your musical face. I’m the talent-finding equivalent of Patrick Swayze's Dalton and I’ve just defeated the future in nothing but dirty sweats and a bad haircut. Don't pretend not to know what I'm talking about. We all know that Road House is quite possibly the best misunderstood drifter, quasi-martial arts film of 1989 with a the tagline 'The dancing's over. Now it gets dirty.' I mean... COME ON!
So anyway, she’s back. Her latest album is called ‘Boys Don’t Cry’ and features 12 songs, comprising ‘a diverse collection of covers, paying tribute to some of her favourite 70s songs.’ The variety of the tracks is interesting, including songs from Leon Russell, Issac Hayes and Bob Marley. But, to be honest, she had me at ‘Hall and Oates.’
Wrap your ears around this, the lead track ‘PF Sloan’ – originally written and recorded by Jimmy Webb in 1970. If it doesn't chill you out, or at least make you smile, I'll eat my stonewashed jeans.
I can't count how many times a day I refuse coffee. Go to a meeting, get offered coffee. Go see a colleague, get offered coffee. Go for a meal, get offered coffee. Starbucks this, Costa Coffee that. From toothless hobos, to penny-farthing riding hipsters, to middle-aged soccer moms and blue-haired, absent-minded grannies...everyone loves coffee, right? Not me. I hate the stuff - and it's not for lack of trying. I’ve wanted for YEARS to like coffee more than I do, and to some extent The Bean and I have had a love/hate relationship since I was old enough to smell.
Lies, all lies.
My mom was an avid coffee drinker, and even though I was religiously opposed to drinking the stuff, I took a lot of pride in being able to make her cup exactly how she wanted it. Well, exactly how I thought she wanted it, anyway. It may have been lovely; then again it may have been like the time I made her a ham sandwich that was more mustard than bread and not much ham at all. I didn’t always get it right, I’m sure – but as a child I loved the precarious two-handed presentation of the overflowing mug that (regardless of the quality of the brew) resulted in a smile and the thanks of someone who really believed that it was the thought that counted.
Even today, I love the dark, seductive scent that surges out and slides smoothly up your nose when you open a new vacuum-sealed bag. I love the drip, drip, drip of the old-fashioned percolator machine as it passes the hot water through the filter. And I love the deep-chocolate colour of the perfect cup of coffee, with just the right amount of milk and sugar to bring the drink back from the bitter edge. That’s the love bit.
What's Sanskrit for 'Alpaca Poo'?
Unfortunately, the hate bit starts just as the taste of that foul stuff hits my lips. It’s truly horrible, and no matter how much my nose and nostalgia try to convince my taste buds that it’s worth drinking, I can’t help but think that the rest of world has been conned into drinking hot muddy goat’s pee and paying £3 a grandé for the privilege. Some ancient food and drink gambles have paid off. Like the guy who first saw a mushroom and thought, “It may look dirty, smell of wee and feel a little like a rotting sponge, but I’ll eat it. What could possible go wrong?” Brave man (or woman); genius. All of my pizzas (and a few good nights out) thank you.
But to the Ethiopian farmer who first thought that it would be a good idea to push hot water through ground-up coffee beans: you, sir, were a fool. Not only have you inadvertently created a coffee subculture of pseudo-snobbery, ruined the breath and teeth of millions of people AND taken professional basketball out of Seattle – but you’ve made liars out of my eyes and nose. I blame you personally for every mocha-based chocolate I’ve spat out in surprise, every tiramisu I’ve left unfinished on my plate and every coffee-flavoured jelly bean that snuck its way into my mouth. Your only saving grace is the coincidental invention of the Chocolate Cream Frappuccino® Blended Crème’ which has no coffee in it at all and (let’s face it) is really just an overpriced watered-down milkshake riding on the coattails of delicious-sounding drinks like the caramel macchiato and espresso con panna. Man those sound good. They sound sexy. They sound important. Then I remember that they’re all jut fancy ways to say coffee, and coffee is horrible. Give me a nice cup of tea any time. No, wait. I hate tea, too. But somehow ‘I like my women like I like my drinks: cold and fizzy’ just doesn’t sound right.
A couple of weeks ago, I went to see Dara O’Briain in Manchester. The weekend away with my brother-in-law was a present from our respective wives (sisters to each other), and included two nights’ stay in a hotel, plus tickets to see the bald Irish funnyman. The weekend was a golden opportunity for both of us, if only for the fact that we were going to SLEEP (an event that is all-to-often curtailed by his 3 young boys and my 2 young daughters). Of course there were many other things to do as well: FA Cup Final, Avengers in the cinema, beer. So, with all of the culture and buzz of a big city that Manchester had to offer, I feel obliged to report that the thing I was most excited about was being able to visit one of only three Taco Bells in the UK.
When I first visited the UK in 1992, there were 5 Taco Bells in London alone. Every time we visited the Capital (which was often during that year abroad), we either ate there or at Pizza Hut, and sometimes at both. Even at 21 years old, we were under no illusion that either of these places represented fine American dining, or that they demonstrated any kind of refinement in our palettes. But when you’re eating the canteen version of British food, which is already as soggy and as gravy-laden as British food is, there was something so – comforting – about visiting a familiar place to eat, even if it meant dealing with the intestinal consequences for days after.
And, if I’m totally honest, I fucking LOVE Taco Bell. I can hear my foodie friends' jaws dropping in disgust. Yes, I know what’s in it. I know it’s the shit on the bottom of the boot of pond scum at the bottom of the lake in even the lowest valley of the American fast food pecking order. I know that a 99c taco is that cheap for a reason, and I’m pretty sure they’re playing fast and free with the term ‘beef’. But I still love it. It’s the first place I go to when I land back home. My dad no longer meets me at SeaTac, he meets me at the Taco Bell on the corner of 188th and International Blvd. I ate it every day during my summer as a ‘Landscape Hydration Engineer’ (I fixed sprinkler heads at the local mall), and could eat it most days still if I had the chance. But I don’t have the chance, really - because by the time I returned to the UK in 1996, Taco Bell had disappeared, even from London.
So I waited. And waited. I campaigned to Taco Bell International to bring it back to the UK. I enquired about a franchise. I kept my burrito-loving ears to the ground, living in hope of a triumphant return. I knew it would eventually be back, of course. Subway had come over and was doing well. I no longer had to have the pilot dad of a friend sneak tortillas into the country; I could buy them at the shop. When I served nachos at parties, the beans weren't mistaken for peanut butter or dog food. People were becoming more aware of good Mexican food, so it was only a matter of time before the cheap-and-nasty version of it popped up its Chiuaua-shaped head, too. Sure enough, in the summer of 2010, Taco Bell UK re-opened its methane-producing kitchens on UK soil just the other side of London.
Of course, by that time I’d moved back to Aber, which meant a 6-hour drive to The Border. Plans were made and pilgrimages plotted. Unfortunately, every time I prepared to make the run, something got in my way. Things like the birth of a child, or a car crash, or Christmas…
So you can imagine my joy when I actually arrived in Manchester’s Arndale Centre, looking square-on at the Purple and Yellow cloche that would signal an end to both my taco bell drought and any hope of having a healthy gut. I was ready. I’d taken the top bunk and worn loose jeans for a reason. My moment had come, and I would not be denied. I approached, more patiently than I thought would be possible as the ill-informed track-suited British public tried to make sense of the alien menu. The words stumbled out of my mouth in sheer anticipation as I ordered the same thing I always order in the States: two tacos, two bean burritos and a refillable drink. I handed over my coins, looking around to see if anyone could tell how ridiculously giddy I was to be paying for my whole meal in loose change. I filled up my drink, waited for my number to be called. Finally, I heard those magical numbers: 119. One. One. Nine. I approached the counter and recognised the familiar wrapping of my tacos and burritos. I welled up, and just looked at the spoils of my efforts. I looked to Stuart with what must have been the most pathetic, imploring eyes, begging to be mercifully released from the shackles of social convention. ‘Go ahead,’ he said as he waited for his order to be called. ‘I’ll catch up.’ I found a table. I sat down. I was home.
And you know what? It wasn’t bad. I mean, it wasn’t Nirvana or anything. I mean come on, it’s just Taco Bell.
