Keep Your Hands Off My Baby

*As told by 'Ben the Baker'*

One comes to learn that when it is leading up to Christmas, it is best to buy enough ingredients for TWO Christmas Cakes. This is because one will be far too tempted to not eat the first cake when one sees the finished product emerge from the oven. So, the images that follow detail attempt #2 for 2010.

Please note Ben's festive apron.



So, first one prepares the fruit and makes sure it is soaked well in brandy. There is also a number of spices mixed in too, including cinnamon and nutmeg - of course!



Then one makes the cakey part of the mix... Butter, Sugar, Eggs and Flour.



Then one mixes the two tasty mixtures together in an enormous bowl.



The majority of it is scooped into the prepared lined baking tin. The little bit left over is allowed to be licked off the enormous bowl and spoon until one is close to vomiting.



Then it is backed at 150C/300F/Gas Mark 2 for around three hours and when it is retrieved from the oven, not only will the kitchen smell fabulous, one also has a lovely cake too. It needs to stay in the tin for a bit to cool.



Over the coming months, one pours various spirits over the cake to allow it to absorb the alcohol. A good fruitcake matures with age like a good wine.

(I know what some of you may be thinking, but being 'sober' does not mean I can't have alcohol within food. That's my rule!)

If anyone thinks they are going to get a sneak preview, they can think again. That initial cake has already been demolished by oneself. So HANDS OFF until Christmas!

The Hardest Word

So, as it turned out, I did pass the audition for the SBS game show Letters and Numbers and today was the day of the filming.

Yesterday, I finally had proof of two things when I awoke with a stinking cold;
1) God exists
2) He has a nasty sense of humour.

I spent the majority of the day polishing my nose a bright Rudolph hue with a large quantity of tissues - even Aloe Vera soaked snotrags can become abrasive over time - and I dosed myself up with a variety of medications including Sudafed, Lemsip and pizza.

This morning, I was slightly stressed. I sense a waft of muffled laughter at the word 'slightly' and those who chortle are well within their rights to do so.
So, after a night of mucus and bogeys, I awoke to a head which felt as though it was plunged in a barrel of custard. I could barely hear not speak. However, I was determined to be on the show.

You see, one cannot win.
If I had decided not to go on account of the cold, I would have been called pathetic, like all men who 'suffer' when sick.
Going to the filming whilst sick, some may deride me as playing the martyr.
I could not win either way. So, I plumped for the latter because I just knew I wanted to do it. After watching Countdown in the UK since it's birth, I could not miss out on this opportunity. Phlegm be damned!

In the documents of instruction, it advised against wearing any black or stripy shirts. Well, that ruled out most of my wardrobe. I had to forage amongst a pile of charity-bound clothes in the spare room to find something adequate. We, as contestants, were also advised to bring six changes of clothes in case we have to film plenty of episodes during the day. I, being the pessimist (and realist) that I am, only took four.

I ironed and then proceeded to dress in readiness to leave. I thought I ought to sign the appropriate papers before heading out, only to grab the leakiest pen in the house and proceeded to get it all over my hands. I cursed like a wounded sailor with gout and desperately tried to wash it off my hands with mere minutes to spare before my train.
Eventually, I was out of the house and on the train - then it occurred to me I may not have switched the iron off. ARGH!

At the studios, I chatted to the other contestants who were equally as nervous and I was delighted to discover that I was lucky enough to be the first episode's challenging contestant.
I met my opponent (Oliver - hmmm, cute!) and we had a bit of a rehearsal, went into make-up, got my microphone weaved through my garments and set about recording my episode.
I should also add that there is nothing like filming for a TV show to loosen the most severe constipation. What relief!

I can't go into detail about how the game went - I'd probably be sued, like anyone cares! - but it was rather fun. I was terribly nervous; my hands were sweating and I was shaking a bit. Unfortunately, I did not do as well as I would have liked, but at least I got the conundrum in the final round - GO ME!
Some of the word games were just embarrassing and I only got low scoring words - As for the numbers... well, see for yourself when it airs.

I did have the option of staying all day for free lunch and watching the rest of the filming, but I felt so full of cold (my usual tones are not as blissful as normal, so when/if you see the episode, I may sound a bit odd) that I opted to return home and snuggle up on the couch and do some well-earned recuperation.

All I regret is not getting Oliver's number. He was definitely my type.

Oh, and I hadn't left the iron on - hence my ability to post this blog in the comfort of my own non-flambéd home.

Children of the Revolution

On Thursday evening, I had an audition for the SBS TV game show Letters and Numbers. This game show is based on an original French game show but is commonly known to people in Great Britain as Countdown (I guess the Australian network decided to go with the original French name because there had already been an iconic music show named 'Countdown' for many years and did not want to confuse the average Joe!)

Countdown was the first programme to air on Channel Four when it began in November, 1982 and has become a long-standing favourite of the British public. For those not in the know, it has a simple premise:
Contestants have to pick nine letters, choosing vowels and consonants, and then have 30 seconds to come up with the longest word possible. It's like Scrabble or Boggle for a TV audience. There is also a game involving numbers in which the contestants have six random numbers and have to reach a specific target using only addition, subtraction, multiplication and division. The end of the game, there is a nine-letter 'conundrum' and the fastest person to get it, gets a bonus ten points.

For those who consider themselves above such trivialities, it all seems a bit twee. But for those like myself, who like nothing more than playing word games and solving puzzles, it's a fine source of entertainment.

The audition was fun. I was in a room with a bunch of other nerds and most of them reasonably well dressed, but I assume it's because they had just come from their jobs. As soon as they opened their mouths, the nerd-alert alarm went off. Imagine 'Comic-book Guy' from The Simpsons with an Australian accent.

However, before I go on, may I state categorically that I live freely in this realm of nerd-dom, as any of my friends will be able to attest. I just think I have a little more nouse when it comes to social behaviour than some of the less hygienic members of this put-open inner-society (or do I?)

It was a lovely group of people and the common interest for something a little bit anally retentive was certainly a social solvent of sorts. I always know when I am in the right sort of circles, because they tend to get my humour. It is true to say that the majority of people at my office often look at me blankly when I come out with one of my bizarre witticisms, but I am not exactly high-brow.

I shan't go into great detail, but after my rather poor attempt at the practice quiz, it is sufficient to say I won't get asked onto the show as a contestant.
Maybe I spoiled my chances when, upon referring to my answers on the questionnaire, the following exchange took place...

Interviewer: "Ah, so you want to be a doctor..?"

Ben: (pointing to the exact words on the sheet) "No, The Doctor... from Doctor Who!"

*ahem* That probably didn't go down too well.

On Friday night, my friends had bought me a ticket to see Joss Whedon at the Melbourne Writers' Festival. He was giving a talk at the town hall. I attended with Louise, Adam and Michelle and a horde of nerds, geeks and losers. Whoops, sorry, I didn't mean that last one.

Whilst in the hall and waiting for everybody to take their seats, I did stand up and have a glance around to see if I could find a "Normal" amongst the mass of Hobbits, but I had no luck. It was the largest collection of Minotaur customers in one room ever. ('Minotaur' = pop culture specialists. Think 'Forbidden Planet' if you're in the UK.)

There were some people wearing black, others wearing... black. But some were more inventive and they wore something they made themselves after they accidentally fatally-injured Tim Burton's wardrobe in an X-wing fighter crash.
Thankfully, there weren't too many smelly people there, apart from one man who smelt of used cat litter. Yes, he was sat right in front of me.

Gawd, I love a nerd. I love the way they feel it necessary to dye their hair purple just to prove that they are non-conformists. They even have conventions of purple-haired, black-wearing non-conformists and sit about laughing at the irony.

Some of the crowd went a little bit spastic as the lights dimmed. Initially, I thought they were simply afraid of the dark, but it turns out they were just moistening their knickers in anticipation of their god-like hero entering their midst.

Joss came onto the stage and the crowd went wild. He was interviewed by a suck-up whose neck needed massaging after craning up to the pedestal she put him on throughout the talk (yeah, he's a fantastic bloke, but come on...) and the two people signing away for the deaf members of the audience did a superb job, although it did make me think of the episode 'Hush' from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I was waiting to see what action they did for 'slayer' (see episode for gag).
Isn't it great that they get people to sign at these things. With both of them there flapping away to convey the rapid speech of our entertainers, they also doubled up as handy air-conditioners.

The talk only went for an hour as we had to vacate the hall so the cleaners could mop up the sweat before the following morning.
Still, we all had a great time. It was fascinating to hear Joss talk about his work and his career - it was less exciting to hear the banal questions some audience members asked, apart form the woman who implied Joss was mentally ill. Bless her. I am sure that is not what she meant to say. Though she may be right. He does keep employing Eliza Dushku, after all!

So, nerds. I have to love 'em, for I am one. I love that need to be different, that need to be involved in the things I adore, the need to be special, the need to be absorbed and the need to be needy.

Is this generation of nerds the product of those crazy drugged up Baby-boomers who swanned through the sixties and seventies on drugs and high ideals of peace to all mankind and then fell into the materialistic Eighties with apathy on their minds? These revolutionaries who eventually grew up and produced a whole bunch of kids who yearned to be something different? Are we the children of that revolution?
Or am I just trying desperately to justify my use of the Kirsty MacColl song title in the name of this post? I am such a nerd!

Judge for yourselves.
And while you're at it, go dye your hair purple... it'd be soooo coooool!

Titanic Days

On Thursday evening, I went to the Melbourne Museum with my dear friend Michelle to see the Titanic Exhibition.

I can't deny that part of the reason for attending was so I could use this specific Kirsty MacColl song title for the blog entry.

I met Michelle outside the museum and as we had about ninety minutes to kill prior to our allotted time entry, we went and had a bite to eat at Mrs. Parma's where I had a lovely chicken parmigiana with salsa and jalapenos.


It was quite a filling meal, but at least we were able to walk it off for the rest of the evening. We headed back to the museum...

When you arrive at the exhibition, you get handed a boarding pass with details of a real-life passenger who sailed on the Titanic.




As you can see, I was Mr. David John Barton from Cambridge. I was supposed to have taken another ship, but due to a failed medical exam, I had to wait and catch this ill-fated vessel.
Michelle was Mrs Ida Straus - a rather important character on the boat as she was First Class and one of the 'featured' wealthy passengers in the exhibition. I was, as in life, rather unimportant and insignificant! Still, I made up a story that she and I were having an illicit affair spanning the generations and the classes. I was 22, she was 60-something. Forget Leo & Kate, this was far more raunchy.
Speaking of that atrocious movie, there was not one reference to it. I was so pleased. I had promised Michelle that if I heard the wailing banshee that is Celine Dion at any point in the day, I would scream and possible start punching random people, but thankfully there was no such reaction due to the wonderful absence of such atrocities.

During the tour, you also have the opportunity to have your picture taken to purchase at the end.







Don't we look splendid?

At the end of the tour (prior to the little shop - oh how we love a little shop) there is a wall of names listing those who survived and those who died.
I, apparently, died. But I believe I saved myself with my secret jet-pack.
Michelle died. She stayed behind to be alongside her husband - mad woman! (Not very romantic, am I?)

Queen of the High Teas

Today, my lovely friend Michelle drove me to Sassafras so we could have lunch at Miss Marple's Tea Rooms.
For anyone who doesn't know Michelle, she is the epitome of all things classy - she's like a Disney Princess in many ways - but not at all like Princess Clara from Drawn Together.

We have a lot of things in common, but one of our strongest bonds has to be our love of a decent cuppa.

As Miss Marple's Tea Rooms is always phenomenally busy, we had to leave our reservations and return an hour later. We whiled away our time by visiting the lovely shops in the surrounding area.

Firstly, we entered another favourite place of ours, 'Tea Leaves' - a shop dedicated to tea of all varieties and the vessels which pure and serve them.



Then we tottered a little further along the road to a beautiful gourmet food shop entitled 'Cream' which is run by Leenah and Mark.
Mark is the king of the upsell and his enthusiasm is rather contagious, especially when he has found a kindred spirit when it comes to marmalade (yes, that's me)
Just look at the range of goodies on offer... drool!



I ended up taking away some Australian Harvest's Spicy Garlic Mustard, Cunliffe Waters' Hand Cut Cumquat Marmalade and some incredible lemon curd made by a woman named Leanne whose personal industry is simply making "Unforgettable Curds".

This is Mark, performing his superb salesman techniques on another customer.



After popping into a number of gorgeous antique stores and the occasional wacky-fruitcake stores (crystals, unicorns, baby sacrificial alters etc.) we returned to Miss Marple's.

We had a brief wait by the bookcases until a table came free. Here is Michelle almost fainting with anticipation...



Every year, they do a 'Christmas in July' theme and they decorate the place and carols play. As you can see, the place is packed.



One of the waitresses took our picture, much to the chagrin of the other staff who were busy trying to squeeze in and out of the tables - but we didn't care!



We had a massive pot of tea between us, some chips and garlic bread for starters, I had the vegetable pastie and Michelle had the Chicken cottage pie thing for mains and then it was time for dessert.
Michelle had the scones with jam and cream, but I opted for an old favourite of mine. Christmas pudding and custard!



We were rather stuffed afterward, but we managed to stagger back to the car and get home in one piece.

Michelle is a wonderful friend and she certainly knows how to do things in style.

Can't Stop Killing You

When I was young, the first novels I read that weren't written for children were those written by Agatha Christie. I have a vivid memory of reading Sleeping Murder, The ABC Murders, A Murder is Announced and Curtain amongst others.
It was the eighties and I was very fond of Joan Hickson's portrayal of Miss Marple on TV (which I still believe to be the best, bar none) and I was also an unashamed fan of Murder She Wrote.
Clue was aired on BBC2 for the first time ever and I watched it with my brother - we almost died laughing at the singing telegram. I have since watched it well-over a hundred times. Sad, but true.
Then, as the 1990s approached, David Suchet became the perfect Poirot and my friend William and I were, at that time, rather keen on making our own films and after three gloriously barking epic chronicling the adventures of Rupe and Ollie, we made the murder mystery classic The Butler Didn't Do It! - one can see the influence of films such as Clue and Murder By Death.

So, as you can see, there was a theme running through my life at that time. Now, although dates in my personal history tend to be a little hazy, I am reasonably sure that it was in 1989/1990, for my birthday, I had my very first Murder Party!

It was held at a house in Matlock Bath which belonged to the family of my friend Tamsin. I don't remember the entire plot, but I know that in attendance that night were a bunch of excitable young teens (Hannah, Emma, Tamsin, Gemma, Aaron, William and myself - there may have been others) all with silly names and mad motives. I played Dr. R.E. Meur (see what I did there?) and, no, I wasn't the murderer - that turned out to be Hannah.
(Gemma, Aaron, William, Hannah in this pic)



I had even made a life-size dummy to play the corpse.

From then on, I began hosting a number of Murder Parties, sometimes renting out large places like Lea Green so we had lots of rooms to run amok in.



Some parties were much bigger than others, with up to 40 people attending - and each needing a character to portray.
I'd orchestrate the evening and enter into a kind of 'zone' - I'd be so focused on making sure everyone was enjoying themselves, staying true to character, understanding the plot; that I would actually forget to enjoy myself. By the end of the evening, I would be a wreck - totally drained emotionally and physically.

The whole thing became rather stressful even prior to the night because one had to deal with personal politics. Due to the nature of the parties, it was necessary to have limited numbers invited and that meant not inviting some people. There were, on occasions, times when I had to be strict. If I knew a girl who was great at dramatic improvising, I would tell her she wasn't allowed to bring her meat-head boyfriend simply because he wouldn't get into it and ruin it all.

Anyway, I could reminisce and make vague attempts at conscience-clearing regarding 'who got invited and who didn't' until my body became as tense as rigor mortis, but I shan't do that to myself. Not now anyway.

The point is, these Murder Parties were my hobby. Instead of collecting stamps or playing football or molesting badgers, I planned the murders of fictional characters.

Word did get around about these soirees and I was approached on the street by a complete stranger who introduced herself as being a part of a certain church group and she said they wanted to 'help' me and 'save' me. She said "you're on a dangerous and slippery slope". I was bewildered. So I pushed her under a bus...

The point of this post is, tonight I have another Murder Party. It's the first one I have written and attended in ten years. I did write one for some friends overseas, but a giant planet stood between me and the guests.

Today, I am more stressed about it than ever before. Mainly because I am doing this with a whole different type of people. Kids in their teens are fairly easy to please and there were low expectations. However, when we mature and become 'adult', we become more wary and we expect so much more. I want tonight's events to go smoothly, but I want everyone to enjoy it and not feel the same pressure that I am feeling.

Imagine you had to perform a sexual act in front of all of your friends.
Not only will they all see you naked, but they'll be judging you on your style and form.
That's what I feel like today! That is insane, I know. My friends are kind, lovely decent people, but there's that barmy Id Vs Ego thing playing out in my head.

OK, I ought to stop worrying about it now - I was up late last night, unable to sleep due to the madness running through my head.

Let's see how tonight goes and if I am still in one piece tomorrow, I may fill you in on the details.
Wish me luck.

Ride

As you will be thoroughly aware by now, I am not exactly successful as an adventurer in the land of love. Some people brave the wild waters of romance and machete their way through the jungles of sexual shenanigans, whereas I tend to dip my toe in the sea and declare it too cold or stay on the edge of the dark forests for fear of being bitten by killer ants.

Before I continue, I should state that one of my top ten films of all-time is Alfred Hitchcock’s Strangers on a Train and I have always had this strange inclination that, one day, I too would cross paths with someone whom I may enjoy a special relationship with – I don’t mean to ‘swap murders’ with. That would be crazy and illegal.
This bit of information is not merely a random comment…

This Friday morning, I was taking the train into work. I change trains at Richmond station and as I was waiting for the second leg of my journey, I spied a rather attractive fellow on platform nine. Our eyes kept catching like sticky burrs on a woollen pullover and when the train pulled up to the station, we sat relatively close to each other with only an aisle between us.
During the first five minutes of the journey, there were a couple of awkward glances between the two of us, both, I assumed, trying to be as nonchalant as possible. The train was a limited express so we bypassed most stations. When we stopped at Glenferrie to release the hordes of students, we did not set off again. The train remained stuck at the station for a further 25 minutes. What a day to have left my book at home!
Apparently, there was something amiss with the doors. I imagine they were loose and the train driver was worried we might all throw ourselves from the moving vehicle in fits of despair on this cool Friday morning. Better to be safe than sued for negligence.

After a period, the driver told us to abort our journey and wait for another train. This triggered the tall handsome devil sitting across from me to smile in my direction and raise his eyebrows in a pantomime show of acquiescence. I gave some sort of imitation to show my camaraderie and, as we stepped off the train onto the platform, I asked him if he was going to be late for work. This begun a conversation in which I discovered; his name was Hugo, where he worked and lived, and that he was Dutch (I asked if he was Canadian! I should be better at picking accents although he did confuse me by have a maple leaf emblem on his sleeve! Tricky…)

The next train eventually arrived and we both took the ride to Camberwell where he had to change for his connection. In a bold and daring move, I reached into my wallet and handed him my own personal card detailing my email address and mobile number.
Then I went off on my merry way with a spring in my step and my cheeks flushed with excitement.

Now for the reality check:

1. The Dutch people I have known before have always been friendly, polite and congenial, so he may just be his usual amicable self and not, as I presume, ‘interested’.
2. One chat does not constitute a friendship.
3. He may never attempt to get in touch, despite the contact details supplied.

But in the land of my fantastical imagination;

1. Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
2. Titter.
3. Hmmmmmmmm.