Curry Club

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In what was only a mildly and temporarily amusing coincidence, our Curry Club dinner last night was at the Curry Club restaurant in town.

Now, before we even get there, it’s up against the wall when it comes to comparisons, with Bihari (see 6000 miles… passim) all over the top curry awards for this corner of SA. But even with that in mind, we gave it a go anyway, and actually, it was pretty good.

Set in a quaint old house on New Church Street, just along from the Fire & Ice Hotel (which was much more ice than fire last night), it looks like it would be better set in Observatory. There are higgledy-piggledy chairs and tables, cloths and scarves hung from the ceilings, and the ubiquitous bookcase of randomness (weird dolls, an astroturf rabbit, model aliens, 1960s vases, a child’s mokorotlo etc etc) on the wall.

A genial Southern English host, clearly passionate about his curries, and who was lucky enough to discover an amazing chef from Delhi, and is now chucking out Punjabi deliciousness six days a week. They’re very much set up for deliveries, with two guys manning the iPads at Reception the whole night, and a stream of drivers coming and going.

And the food was good. Starters were a selection of Bhajees, and their signature chicken livers. Mains were everything from Lamb Rogan Josh, through the Chicken Tikka, and on to the “Chicken and Prawn Curry, you say?”, described thus:

Try this one for size, Curry Club’s mad blend of reef and henhouse all wrapped up in a creamy weave of coriander, red chillies and fresh tomato.

Which was mine, and which was really good. Only down side for me was the spiciness – or rather the lack of it. Default from the kitchen is 5/10, and that seemed reasonable to try in a place where we’d never been before. But sadly, there was no spice at all, and I’ll probably try a 7 or an 8 next time around.

Fully licensed, so beers were happily accompanying all the food.

And then the music. Really good! 90s indie all the way through the evening. Bran Van 3000, Soup Dragons, New Radicals, The Smiths, and some really long extended stuff from The Charlatans. Then, as the host lit up the blowtorch (with a Bush Baby cannister, nogal) some Crèmes Brûlées at the table – Firestarter by The Prodigy. We all laughed at the coincidence, and then realised that it was a rather theatrical set-up. Clever.

They don’t do coffee. At all. And that’s odd.

But yep. It was a good night out, and I would recommend the place. A lot more laid back than Bihari, albeit that the food could never, and would never match up, right?

Right. But it came pretty close. And that’s fairly amazing.

Safe for a dip

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Spotted online. This:

This is really good news: it’s been a hot, sunny day, and I desperately need a dip. I had legitimate concerns about the safety of swimming here, given the local wildlife, but if they don’t swim here, well then I surely (and safely) can. Fantastic. What a result.

Punctuation is important, hey?

But while we joke, as mentioned here, these things can be a real danger. Not where I came from, and (mostly) not where I live right now, but definitely in this country.

I took this while I was up in Hoedspruit earlier in the year. And while I feel that this one (next to the water feature outside the packhouse office), was perhaps a little tongue in cheek, there were plenty of real life places with these real life dangers from which I chose to stay away.

And no. Just for outright clarity, that first paragraph below the top image was merely for artistic impression and comedic value. It’s finally sunny here, which is great, but it’s also absolutely bloody freezing.

It’s no wonder the wildlife all heads up north.

Worst lines

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The winners of the 2024 Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Awards have just been announced, and many of them (and the (dis)honourable mentions and runners-up) are pretty good.

Founded in 1982 at San Jose State University in California, the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest challenges entrants to compose opening sentences to the worst of all possible novels. 

As someone once said: “Deliberately bad writing requires a special talent.”

It’s true. But interestingly, I have no special talent at all.
All the stuff on this blog is entirely accidental. Just variable fortune and the occasional evening filled with Castle Milk Stout with which to distractedly guide my typing fingers.

Anyway, back to the BLFA, and, as you might expect for the highest (only?) awards for this particular genre, they’re bad.

You’ll need to have your brain fired up and be in the right mood (receptive and ready to work through some mental calculations) to enjoy the lot of them before you click that link, so I recommend taking it a bit at a time.

They’re not going anywhere.

And I could list them all here, but I’m not going to. Still, here are a couple of favourites to get you in the mood.

Cthulhu awoke from loathsome dreams of gangrenous decay and the foul stench of congealing viscera, lifting his pulpy, misshapen head to find what foolish supplicant had roused him to yet another age of fear and creeping dread, but found his bloodthirst unslaked, having been brought to consciousness not by horror-filled screams of human sacrifice but by his little sister’s overly dramatic wail of “Cthulhu’s touching me!” from her side of the family station wagon’s back seat.

If broken hearts were made of simple syrup, and shattered dreams were made from white rum, and agony and despair came from ¾ ounce of lime juice, freshly squeezed, and three mint leaves respectively, then Mary Lou just served up a mojito cocktail straight from the ninth circle of hell when she told Ricky the baby wasn’t his.

And these weren’t even their best in class. So click through and enjoy.

Two videos

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Opposite ends of the planet, but both mildly relevant to me.

First off, Sheffield United boss Chris Wilder. All of United’s press conferences used to be recorded, edited and shared. But this season – for the first time ever – they’re live streamed.

See if you can notice when Wilder realises this in the video below.

Press conference errors aside though, it’s so good to see this guy smiling again after last seasons travails.

And then, this:

The weather in Cape Town continues to be pretty bloody awful, and – had it been a bit better – I was going down to the glamourous Access Park today to explore their sports shoe shops. Thankfully, because it was so nasty out, I didn’t. (But then, I suppose, if it had been a bit better, then the big thing wouldn’t have fallen down.)

As anyone familiar with this delightful place will surely attest, it’s all rather shabby. But you would have thought that they could have used some decent metalwork in the big sign at the gate, at least.

On the plus side, after this nastiness is done with (feels like -4, WTF?!?):

Check out the rest of the week:

21o isn’t going to break any records, but I’m loving those big yellow balls. (Careful now.)

And we might (for the first time in a long while) have a Spring-like Spring Day.

Age old problem solved

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It happens to us all from time to time, but it really is frightfully embarrassing when you forget your butler’s name.

Er… when one forgets one’s butler’s name, of course.

Anyway, perennial favourite here on 6000 miles…, Alasdair Beckett-King, has come up with the perfect solution, ensuring that you never have to worry about facing that sort of ignominy again.

As he says, anywhere between Wrexham and Manchester will do. And here’s a map to help you out, should you be a bit vague on the stations in that area:

But does it work?

Let’s give it a try.

I say, Cuddington. Could you ensure that dinner is served no earlier than 6 o’clock this evening? I wish to watch the entirety of the Bournemouth versus Newcastle United football match and I do not wish to have concerns over missing Mrs Otterpool’s soup course.

Very good, Sir.

Thank you, Cuddington.

Clearly, yes, it does.