You know it's Father's Day when you open your Liquorice Allsorts (other brands are available) and there is a preponderance of Coconut Rolls!
Mmmmm. My favourites.
Sprogs
Luckily Mrs H loves the sprogs (jelly-ish ones) which I do not really like, and the youngest Hurley loves the plain liquorice ones which are pretty hit and miss for me.
So there we are. Like Jack Spratt and his wife, the 'plate' (as it were) shall be licked clean.
Happy Father's Day to all Dads. Especially my dad, Old Pa Hurley who is officially the best dad in the world. I would probably swap a skip load of Coconut Rolls for him. Now that's filial love!
Greater love hath no man than to give up his Coconut Rolls for his dad.
Luckily for me Old Pa Hurley seemed perfectly sated with a big box of Bassett's Wine Gums (other brands are available).
I did try and find a pic of a skip filled with sweets... but no joy. Just how much use is the internet?
So Ed Miliband says he is an atheist. Hardly a revolutionary act in today's Britain where the governments "don't do God" (ref A. Campbell).
On a Radio 4 piece today he also said he turned to God (he's Jewish) before his dad died.
Seems he wants to have his cake and eat it. Whilst nothing is beyond God, even Catholics know that the Good Lord "giveth and taketh away" according to His own plan.
Besides which, as many priests have told me, God always insists we do all we humanly can. When doing His miracles Christ always insisted his helpers filled vessels, cast out nets, distribute food etc. He didn't have to have their help - but the lesson is there.
So if Comrade Ed wants to jettison the errors of his parents (they were Marxists too) and get to Confession he may have a better chance...
But we all of us, atheists or wise, should not try to second guess the Good Lord. But remember one thing: one day we shall answer for our actions and inactions. Even Richard Dawkins, no matter his protestations!
He may not recognise God; dread the day when God doesn't recognise him! Gnashing of teeth, etc.
Still he's got time left and everyone can get to Confession, even Prof H.
Anyway, it's raining again, the chickens are looking most bedraggled and it's time for tea! Yippee!
As Old Pa Hurley used to say (and still may for all I know): "I could eat a baby's dirty nappy with mustard on!"
Not that I'm a fan of mustard, but you get the idea.
Politics, religion and food: it really is an exciting day! I just need to mention Cardiff's change of strip (again) to shoehorn sports into the agenda - and hey presto! (reference for the atheists methinks) it's a perfect storm!
===
Postscript:
Tea was a homemade turkey, brie, bread and cranberry burger in a bun! With orange juice. It was remarkably tasty and satisfying. Yum.
Who says modern kids are spoilt or the "X Box generation" don't get out climbing trees, jumping streams and picking flowers off roundabouts for their mums (sorry mum, it's the thought that counts).
Son 1 and Son 2 went camping with their chums this week (it being school hols). It turns out that the Spirit of Bear Grylls hasn't quite reached our neck of the woods yet.
Dad's Taxi was on hand to ferry them and their kit to within yards of the chosen site.
When I asked what was in one large bag I was told "pillows" - which takes roughing it to a whole new level.
They had kebabs delivered to the site later that night to top-up their nosh, which included Super Noodles in Tupperware boxes.
Life on the edge eh?
This must be the new trend of "glamping," apart from the fact they were in a woods behind an industrial estate and looked like death-warmed-up (with a strong whiff of campfire) when Dad's Taxi rolled up to collect the intrepid survivalists next morning, to deliver them home for showers and a day in bed!
There's only so much pushing things to the limit that teenagers can take!
I'm so glad I can be a middle-aged curmudgeon and leave camping to the younger generation, which even with added pillows and kebabs, holds no sway over me.
You can't beat a comfy bed, a fridge, lights, a good film, slippers, a spare fridge and a non-smelly heat source for a good night!
If you see me wearing a black armband in the next few days, don't worry. No-one's died. I am mourning the news that pork pies are within the category of "red meat" that should be avoided to have a longer life.
What terrible, terrible news.
Still I suppose if it all gets a bit much... I needn't jump in the car and pop the co-ordinates for Beachy Head into the sat nav I haven't got, I can simply open the fridge and reach for a pork pie!
respelled early 19c. from bisket (16c.), ultimately (besquite, early 14c.) from O.Fr. bescuit (12c.), lit. "twice cooked;"
The word biscuit is from an Old French term derived from Latin. So the biscuit is itself very Catholic in its heritage.
If you are cultured, like what I am, you'll enjoy nothing more than a biscuit with your cup of (Glengettie) tea. I know it's Lent so I won't tempt you too much with flowery language and voluptuous descriptions of biccies, but let it be said that I enjoy a biscuit or two (OK, or three) with my tea, preferably in one of my GK Chesterton, Hilaire Belloc, Pope Benedict or Bonnie Prince Charlie mugs. You can ask Mrs. H., if a cuppa is served up in some other receptacle I will frown so that the person delivering the tea knows of my displeasure. Never let it be said I don't know how to convey my feelings.
So yes, a biscuit is a fine thing to enjoy. If the good Lord had not meant us to enjoy biscuits he would not have made a goodly number of people into bakers -- surely a matter of Providence, whereas estate agents show how badly free will can rebound on us all. Besides which, I am sure many monasteries must have made biscuits. I have no proof of this, but the idea pleases me, so let's just agree on that, OK?
So, now we come to the important part. What is the ideal biscuit for a Welsh Catholic dude (OK, I made that last bit up) like what I am. Let me lay my cards on the table. I tend to go for the double-bubble biscuits, where you have two biscuits conjoined by a yummy centre. The most traditional of these is of course the Custard Cream or the Bourbon. The beauty of both of these is that cheaper varieties usually taste exactly the same as the slightly more expensive.
But should you get a curve-ball, in the shape of the BOGOF (buy one get one free) you can't get much better than the Fox's biscuits with the creamy centres. They taste very good both pre-dunk and post-dunk; and that is never to be sneezed at! Of course one can always overstep the mark and find yourself dunking a Jammy Dodger, and that is a step too far (it's how Michael Barrymore started!)
On the other hand I am not a fan of the Rich Tea biscuit. For me they are far too protestant, being a bit too plain and very limp and floppy (post dunk). They may not have openly(!) gay "bishops" in England but you can bet the Rich Tea is very well used in protestant circles. In fact I'd wager a McVities van makes a bulk delivery on account once a month to Lambeth Palace, wherein the staff are careful to ensure no cases of Jaffa Cakes (let's not discuss the cake v. biscuit debate here, enough blood has been shed and I think the Council of Trent dealt with that succinctly enough, drawing on the clear delineations of St Thomas Aquinas) are smuggled in to upset the upper echelons of Anglicanism.
So let me throw the floor open to you dear reader. Perhaps you are Welsh. Perhaps you are Catholic. If you're really lucky you're both. If Providence has dictated that you must battle against the odds you may be neither, but nil desperandum my friend. You should start off slowly. Attend Mass, sit at the back quietly and take it in. Start supporting Wales, you can begin quietly just enjoy the sensation. Salvation is available to all! Ask and you shall receive...
But whatever you are, wherever you are, I'd be happy to hear your suggestions for the perfect biscuit. An explanation of your decision would be appreciated (the whys and wherefores matter almost as much as the final decision). Only atheists and militant secularists/homosexuals need not apply. Hey - you had our adoption agencies shut down, so you can zip it! The boot is on the other foot now and your choice of biscuit means nothing to me! Besides which, homosexualists must surely be drawn to the ginger biscuit?
Perhaps a priest might like to make a suggestion too? After all, the imbibing of tea served by parishioners, coupled with the offering of biscuits must surely make them highly qualified to make a suggestion. Will a shepherd come forward to lead his flock?
I like to think writing a blog is not about navel gazing. No! This is where the matters of great importance are discussed, before the truth is laid bare for people to take comfort from. In a world of tumult and worry, what better guidance can we give than to state what the best biscuits are? When false religions, atheists and nutters are assaulting us on all fronts, we surely need a 'nice cup of tea' to calm ruffled feathers. With the correct biscuit we can start to take the fight back at our adversaries and win hearts,minds and souls for Catholicism and Wales.
Oh yes. Now I'm feeling all heroic, with a crusading zeal. I may even go off and rewrite Faith of Our Fathers with a few subtle references to biscuits.
Faith of our fathers, living still
In spite of dungeon, fire and rich tea biscuits...
P.S. Writing this blog has helped to expunge today's news that Cardiff City lost 0-2 to West Ham. Oh woe! The good news is that Ireland held France to a draw in rugby and so Wales are the only team who can now win the Grand Slam.
Nice tea tonight. Lasagne. Mmmm. The Romans gave us so much! Great food. Roads. Catholicism. Central heating. Rugby. OK I made the last one up, but those jolly Romans gave us so much.
Even Wales. Yes, Wales.
You see the Celtic Britons in modern day Wales were so fierce the Romans let them have their own armed forces. Therefore when the Saxons came, first as mercenaries, they weren't needed here. Then when the Saxons invaded they only got as far as... Well you know the rest.
Some say the Red Dragon (Y Ddraig Goch) of Wales was the symbol of the Celtic (Welsh) Roman Legion based in Wales.
Also the word Welsh comes from the Germanic word for foreigner or Roman and was used against the Welsh, Belgians (Walloons), Romanians/Dacians (Wallachia) and even the Italians themselves - all considered frontiers of the Roman Empire to the Germanic tribes.
So did the Romans give us our flag, our name (in English), our current national borders, and our historic Faith?
It's been many moons since I've set foot in Pizza Hut. Most of 2010 I couldn't eat anything because of major surgery. Funnily enough the last meal out before I was rushed into hospital was a parish St Patrick's Day do. Since then, plus I suppose the mindset of the 'credit crunch,' I've been a little more choosy where I eat out, not that we do that often because of family commitments etc. etc. Anyway, the upshot is I haven't seen the inside of a Pizza Hut for at least two years, despite the special offer emails they send me quite regularly.
When the children were younger they used to enjoy going to Pizza Hut, and there was one bit that used to make their faces light-up. Back then you could only get one bowl of salad (I think it's unlimited now). SO I used to have a system of placing cucumber slices along the edge of the bowl, to make the sides higher, then I would used tomato slices, lettuce leaves and similar to build up the sides as I filled the bowl. It generally meant that I could fill three-times the usual amount of salad in one bowl. Mmmmm. Lots of sweetcorn, bacon bits and other goodies.
The children would smile and clap as I moved seamlessly back to the table and carefully placed my leaning tower of salad down! I thought it was quite a feat! I could imagine Old Pa "10p Bag of Doughnuts" Hurley getting a strange feeling of well being, an out-of-the-blue flush of satisfaction at that precise moment.
Oh at one time I may well have thought I was the king of the salad bar, but there are some shameless experts out there that put my puny efforts in the shade:
Look at that graphic imagery! Can it be real? It's a veritable Tower of Babel compared to my puny efforts. I just wonder now how the newspapers found out about this "Beat the Buffet" salad tower. Is Old Pa Hurley letting his trade secrets slip?
In the meantime, I can't see me going back to a Pizza Hut in any great rush, but should I do so, I don't think even I would have the brass neck to try and pull off the Tower of Babel trick.
I know, I know... Oh Old Pa Hurley! I... [tears are welling up] I've let you down so badly. That I should be so profligate. Oh the shame. Treachery in our midst.
Before I go any further I should say that it is well known I like a
pint of Brains and the occasional wee tot of whisky. Just in case anyone
thinks I am a teetotal joyless Presbyterian or "drink from the wrong
tap" if you get my meaning.
Now that my credentials are
established, I can safely say I like a nice cup of tea. Not as much as
some Northerners (Lancastrians and Yorkshiremen) I know, who could drink
tea as an Olympic sport. But you know what it's like: you get in from a
windswept walk with an excitable Patch the dog, a hectic shopping
expedition (telling Mrs H "we/you/I don't need that/those/them" or "what
do we/you/I need those/them/that for?"- so she doesn't take me too
often), from mind numbing queueing in banks etc. etc. and the first thing
Mrs H says is "I'll put the kettle on" or "let's have a nice cup of
tea."
It's all so very civilised. I think only Shane
McGowan would get in from the shops or a walk on the beach (if he does
anything so normal) and pour a whisky. For the rest of us a cuppa will
suffice.
We all of us have to discover certain things
in life. Of course there are the absolutes that so many search for, and
sadly because of the wet-flannel nature of too many Bishops and the
kum-by-ya-ification of the Church since the 60s too many people flirt
with New Age beliefs, Buddhism, the Kabbalah, Islam and a veritable
Heinz 57 varieties of spirituality, when we all know that Jesus Christ
established His 'One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church' on the rock
of St Peter as the first Pope.
But once you have that
sorted (and you better had!) we can all worry about other things. Brains
for beer. Clarks for pies. M&S for bundies. Cardiff for football.
Oh you know how it goes.
So as life goes along we
gather to ourselves our favourite things. Most of us need comforts in
this "vale of tears" (which is why family is so important) and there can
be little more that provides so much of a prop as a "nice cup of tea"
as any writer of modern drama would tell you.
And it is
in this sphere of such trivial importance, that I can announce the best
cup of tea to be had. We (Mrs H and I) have tried allsorts (no, not
liquorice tea!) in our quest for the perfect cuppa. From top notch
"English Breakfast Teas" and even the absurd flavours of Earl Grey and
green teas, to the cheap end of the value blue stripey 100 for 40p
strained dishwater types.
After much deliberation we have got our bestest tea for the bestest cuppa in Hurley Towers: Glengettie!
I dunno why it works so well, why it's better than Typhoo, Yorkshire Tea, Twinings or even Asda Own Brand. But it does, and it is.
So
my advice, if you live in a civilised area that doesn't have awful hard
water (like London), try Glengettie Tea. I'm having one right now in my
Hilaire Belloc mug and it is a very ennobling experience.
Belloc said: “Is there no Latin word for Tea?
Upon my soul, if I had known that I would have let the vulgar stuff
alone” but then he was always a Francophone. Perhaps it is in reaching
out for tea (albeit a Welsh one, and I do use the term advisedly)
that we reach out to our Anglican neighbours, especially as many of them
are converting to Catholicism via the Ordinariate of Our Lady of Walsingham.
If they learn that
Catholics drink more tea than whisky, then they may be happy to convert.
When they find out that we may have dogma and infallibility, but we
also have tea and biscuits, then they might understand that Catholicism
isn't some "foreign thing," but as Welsh (oh OK, and English) as a nice
cup of tea.
Oscar Wilde once said that the Catholic
Church is for saints and sinners, for everyone else there is
Anglicanism. It is widely rumoured that this world renowned sinner
converted before his death, and we all know there is "more joy in
heaven" over one conversion... but I'm sure there are plenty of Anglican
saints and sinners who like a nice cup of tea, and now they know
Glengettie is the cuppa to have, now that dilemma is sorted, they can
resolve to convert and come back to the barque of Peter where they truly
belong.
Not some much as "more tea vicar?" as "another Glengettie Father?"
Especially for a hairy footed Welshman who betrayed everything and moved to... London. Home of Saruman & Co.
I went on a long adventure, there and back again, and now I'm home, in The Shire with the other halflings.
Oh Hobbits in the foul, unfolksy places of the world, don't give in to Saruman and his McRubbish. Drink Brains Beer* and eat Clark's Pies* (except on Fridays). Defend civilisation!
Sounds like some sort of band of anti-establishment superheroes. One can imagine Belloc and Chesterton being described as Fat Rascals in atheist and banking circles back in the day.
I have been called many things, and not all of them nice, dear reader!!! Some not even suitable for a family blog like this. Can you imagine? Tut tut. Some people. But a fat rascal?
Now Mrs H is a bit of a cook. She has to be because teenage children are like gannets. Our fridge needs a revolving door. Orange juice, has a shelf like of mere hours. Strawberries of minutes. It's not so much three meals a day as four or five, with snacks and other bits for the hungry hordes.
Perhaps they are part Hobbit? That would explain the hairy feet and second breakfasts. But that would make me part-Hobbit too, so I think I'll quit that theme.
The other day Mrs H put a platter of something new on the kitchen table, on a cake stand (with cover) we have. A bad idea really because it protects the displayed items from the summer's flies - which means we all get to see the goodies and be tempted to nibble at every hour of the day. How wonderful.
And the name of these "new" treats? Fat Rascals.
One from Betty's (all ours have been eaten)
Apparently they are a Yorkshire treat, made famous via Betty's Cafe Tea Rooms, and that is all well and good. They are surely going down a treat in our humble home.
You know how lots of people moan about everything becoming homogenised? Every high street is the same. Every out-of-town shopping area is the same. Every "mall" is the same. Pop music is hand-picked, toys are mass-produced. And so on.
Sometimes, despite the neon lights, the bright colours, the sugary tastes -- the very feeling that we are all playing, eating, watching, wearing and buying stuff made and sold by the same handful of companies can make everything seem, well, a bit bland.
Sony, McDonalds, Tesco's, Coca Cola, Asda, Adidas... It's getting to the point where we're all "consumered" out.
Now being a man of a certain age (the nomenclature "bloke" seems apt), being a Hurley, and the apple not falling far from the tree and all that - it is rare for me to open my wallet. 'A fool and his money are easily parted' is my favourite saying. Oh I do my fare share of alms giving to deserving causes - but I loathe giving money to big businesses when I can help it.
Of course I live in the real world and when the boss brings the shopping in to assuage the fears of my mouths-to-stomachs-on-legs - sorry, I mean the children - I detest the fact that some fat cat is sitting by his pool toasting my health as items from Lever Brothers, Kellogg's and others go into the pantry.
So anything we can do to buck the trend is akin to a small victory. A tiny guerrilla ambush against the huge armies of the corporations invading our metaphorical homeland.
We have to pay our utility bills, mortgage, credit cards and much else besides too, all of which is like being an indentured slave. All those fat cats must be toasting my health (so long as I can work every hour God sends just to pay their over-inflated bills) as they sit by their heated pools.
So the other day when the boss (Mrs H) and our youngest made these sock puppets, from er... socks, using buttons and such like I gave an ear splitting war cry, held them aloft in the living room and cried out to heaven: "Take that Mattel and Hasbro. I will not be your consumer-slave any longer."
Then I dashed to the kitchen, dug out some blue poster-paint from the corner of a cupboard, smeared half my face in it a la William Wallace (the Welshman), ran out into the street and cried "FREEEEEDOM!"
There is a person in my family who shall remain nameless - let's call him "Mr. J " - who is famous for tottering down the local high street of a Saturday night, just as the supermarkets close, only to pop in and buy a bag of doughnuts, reduced to 10p for the lot.
Oh how he boasts of this mighty feat! He is akin to a superhero taking on the might of the Supermarket (let's call it "Freschco's") and winning. He is known for never spending a penny. No, I don't mean like the Royal Family never spend a penny, I mean he is tight. Like a duck's posterior on water.
So this 10p for a bag of doughnuts has become a cri de guerre for Mr. J. Oh yes! He is proud of his great achievement. He is a mighty warrior in the crusade of saving money. He is the Spendthrift Superhero.
So imagine my joy on popping along to a car boot sale this very morning, only to find it less populated than normal (overnight rain and a light drizzle putting off the fair-weather sellers). There, one seller (purveyor of £1 bags of sweets and other goodies), was selling off his last few boxes of Walkers Crisps with the Red Nose Day special flavours.
So I purchased a box of 48 for £1.50. Tap, tap, tappity tap. That's me working out the sum. I make it a little over 3p a packet. Yes. Three of the queen's very own pennies per pack. Beat that one Mr. J!
OK, I may not have beaten "Freshco's" but come on... and I haven't given to Red Nose Day (I don't like them because they give money to some dodgy "causes"). The only bad thing is they have the militant atheist and ginger beer Stephen Fry on the packs. But hey, I don't have to look at the media-infestation that is Mr Fry as I eat the crisps!
So come on Mr.J! I lay down the gauntlet! Can you beat this bargain? Can you still lay claim to being the best hunter of bargains? The best Hurley tight-wad? I have usurped your crown! The challenge is open!
The other day we were all off "fishing" for tadpoles for our little pond. It was a sunny day and we've found a lovely spot, out of the way and quiet where we can fish for tiddlers, sit in the sun (when it deigns to appear) and while away a few hours.
Whilst there we decided that everyone should only work in jobs that rhyme with their surname, and so we would all have to work for Cadbury's, making Curly Wurlys.
Steve Jobs could work as a social worker ("Steve Jobs cures yobs"). Tony Blair could work at the fair (on the dodgems - he'd be good at that).
Lady GaGa could roll cigars. Colonel Gadaffi could sell salt taffy (that's one for Americans). President Obama could be a llama farmer. Angela Murkel could swim with turtles.
And Jeremy Hunt MP, has already been exposed on Radio 4... as Culture Secretary! ;-)
On Good Friday evening I was queueing in our local chip shop to get what the Scots call "fish suppers."
As an aside, I heard a programme a while back which said the fish n chips (especially as a Friday night treat) was popularised by the Irish immigrants in the East End of London who would, of course, eat fish on Fridays.
Anyway, back to the chippy. Whilst queueing I asked the girl dishing up the fish if she could account for the proprietress's whereabouts the evening before. She asked why - so I suggested the boss might have crossed the Severn Bridge to orchestrate the riots in Bristol (on Thursday).
The boss in question (who was dishing up the chips to those at the head of the queue) piped up on hearing the conversation and asked what the Bristol riots were about, to which some bright spark in the queue intoned "they want to be part of Wales."
Delivery for the Hurleys! "But Dad - it only cost £1, honest."
I am not one for excess. It is not due to any Puritanism, I like my Churches full of statues and a high altar can lift the mind to heaven. No, I avoid excess primarily because it tends to cost more.
I am nothing if not my father's son. They say he is as tight as a duck's, erm, backside. Well the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Ask any of my children and they will tell you that getting their dad to spend money is like getting blood from a stone.
The best things in life are free. A walk on the beach. A kick around with a football.
So when the little ones ask for Easter eggs they make a beeline for their mum, or they'll get a lecture on the pagan nature of Easter eggs (whereas if they were free, I'd embrace them, as they denote new life, rebirth and an end to Lenten fasting).
I think you're getting the picture. Tight.
This afternoon various eggs were distributed and I was informed "They only cost £1 each - and we got you one too dad."
So who am I to complain? If you can't beat them, join them. Embrace the revolution! My wallet remains intact.
Just had a Viennese Whirl and a cup of tea in my Hilaire Belloc mug.
So Ed Miliband says he is an atheist. Hardly a revolutionary act in today's Britain where the governments "don't do God" (ref A. Campbell).
Eat Pork Pies!
If you see me wearing a black armband in the next few days, don't worry. No-one's died. I am mourning the news that pork pies are within the category of "red meat" that should be avoided to have a longer life.
A very Happy Birthday to Bilbo and Frodo Baggins.
We have to pay our utility bills, mortgage, credit cards and much else besides too, all of which is like being an indentured slave. All those fat cats must be toasting my health (so long as I can work every hour God sends just to pay their over-inflated bills) as they sit by their heated pools.
