Many of you may be aware that I'm a bit of a beer snob. OK. A lot of a beer snob. Frequent conversation:
Me: "Corona is undrinkable muck. In fact, any beer served with a lime is immediately suspicious."
Almost everyone else: "You're crazy. I love Corona."
Me: "Carry on wasting your life so..."
The reason I mention this is that our local off license sponsored a Slimmie-taste-friendly series of events to celebrate Oktoberfest. Each Thursday in October, we gathered upstairs at a local pub for a beer-tasting: for a fiver we tasted 20 different beers from around the world, with a European-heavy selection. Needless to say, Fridays were pretty much a waste of time in October. Following are some of my favourites from this crazy fun event.
Baltika 8 (5%, Wheat ale): This is an unfiltered Russian beer with a bit of a spicy clean finish. Very much like Paulaner.
La Chouffe (8%, Wheat ale): Is another unfiltered beer, re-fermented in the bottle (hence the high alcohol content). A Belgian blonde, it's a bit sweet and citrusy, with coriander notes and a light hop finish. Beautiful.
Baltika 6 (7%, Stout): From the same brewery as the Baltika above, this beer was a surprise favourite. A bit too sweet perhaps, it's a really rich and chocolaty porter that drinks like candy with a punch.
Bee Wyched (5%, Pale ale): A British pale with an absolutely gorgeous aroma, this honey ale really surprised me. I'm not usually one for the sweet beers, but this fairtrade, organic offering balances the honey with a long hoppy finish. It's brewed by Prince Charles' Wychwood brewery: a name that will come up repeatedly below.
Fiddler's Elbow (5.2%, Pale ale): Another offering from Wychwood, this beer is a great bitter, with subtle complex hops and a long quenching hoppy, clean finish.
Circlemaster (4.7%, Pale ale): Yet another Wychwood brew, this one drinks like a lager, with clear, sharp hops notes balanced by a citrus and malty flavour. A great crowd pleaser, especially served near ambient temperature.
Hardcore (9%, IPA): My tasting notes for this powerful and delicious Scottish IPA brewed by Brew Dog were simple: "WOW! Careful lads..."
Fuller's Discovery (4.5%, Lager): One of the thickest, chewiest lagers you'll ever enjoy, with great balance and malty, honey overtones.
Martson's Double Drop (5%, Bitter): A classic British bitter brewed using a very complex process called "double dropping", with tea notes besides its bitter hoppiness.
Goose Island Honkers (4.3%, American Pale ale): The first American on the list, this beer is an American take on the classic British bitter, with a smooth, malty delicious flavour. My notes say: "I could drink a lot of that."
Aspall's Premier Cru (7%, Cider): This British hard cider is a revelation ~ think apple champagne. Very clean and crisp, and delicious.
Hoegaarden Forbidden Fruit (8.5%, Wheat): From the world famous Belgian brewery, this fruity beer with a spicy clove aroma pulls off the impossible: a sweet taste and a dry finish. Absolutely gorgeous.
Liberty Ale (5.9%, American Pale Ale): A famous American brew, this bottle conditioned ale has a fabulous aroma, and an intricate balance of orange, tea, pepper and hops. A winner.
Suffolk Strong (6%, Strong ale): Aged for 2 years, this beer features a caramel finish and a fruitcake aroma.
Rosey Nosey (4.9%, Bitter): a simple, straightforward bitter with a fruity aroma and a hoppy bitter finish. It claims to be an excellent complement to turkey: worth trying with the holiday season approaching.
In other news, welcome to the latest Daley: Benjamin Liam Daley (how's that for a Jewish-Irish name?) was born at 11:01 am November 14th weighing 7 lbs, 10 oz, and measuring 20 inches. The delivery was quick, and Sandra and Benjamin are reportedly doing great. Big congrats and love to Sandra and Eric (and Leah)!
Slainte.
Sunday 23 November 2008
Wednesday 19 November 2008
Saturday 15 November 2008
I'm back!
From India that is. I went to all three of our outsourced partners (Mumbai, New Dehli, and Bangalore) with my programme coordinator (Quality Lass) for about 10 days. Actually got to do a bit of sightseeing to the Taj Mahal this time. And no horrific GI tract misery either. We had a really great time and ate some incredible food. If you ever find yourself staying here, I can heartily recommend the non-veg prixe fixe menu at their Indian restaurant (we sat at the table at the end of the red bowls). All the local guys with us thought it was one of the best meals they'd ever had in their homeland.
The weather was very agreeable too: Mumbai hot (38 degrees C); Delhi warm and smoggy (28C); Bangalore perfect (26C). The ride out to Agra (where the Taj is) is about 500 km roundtrip from Delhi ~ which we did in one day, leaving the hotel at 6am. Mind you, as we were visiting call centres supporting the UK (5.5 hours behind India time), we were not leaving the office until around 10 or 11pm, and getting back from dinner circa 1am. Our driver was ex-military (actually had bullet fragments in his leg from an injury sustained in Kashmir) and drove as though we were being shelled. Fast and erratic (in other words like every other Indian driver).
On the way I saw everything one associates with the sub-continent countryside: women in colourful saris with enormous clay jugs on their heads, people relieving themselves in fields, camels pulling carts, overloaded buses and trucks, lush vegetation, dry dusty villages, naked children and cows wandering anywhere they please. We also saw a few things you might not expect: shopping malls, military convoys, fast food and roadside liquor joints.
By the way, the Taj is everything you've ever heard about it: massive beyond all scale and breathtakingly beautiful. Also interesting was that a good 70% of the visitors appeared to be local. Maybe due in part to the visit incentive: it cost Indian citizens 20 rupees (about €0.30) and 750 rupees (about €12.50) for foreigners. Regardless, the visit was more than worth the 9 hours of driving roundtrip.
The gallery linked above will be expanded soon with the pics taken by Quality Lass.
Tonight PK and I are off to 007's house for Flip's birthday. A cocktail affair: I'm bringing Russian and Belgian beers as insurance...
Slainte.
The weather was very agreeable too: Mumbai hot (38 degrees C); Delhi warm and smoggy (28C); Bangalore perfect (26C). The ride out to Agra (where the Taj is) is about 500 km roundtrip from Delhi ~ which we did in one day, leaving the hotel at 6am. Mind you, as we were visiting call centres supporting the UK (5.5 hours behind India time), we were not leaving the office until around 10 or 11pm, and getting back from dinner circa 1am. Our driver was ex-military (actually had bullet fragments in his leg from an injury sustained in Kashmir) and drove as though we were being shelled. Fast and erratic (in other words like every other Indian driver).
On the way I saw everything one associates with the sub-continent countryside: women in colourful saris with enormous clay jugs on their heads, people relieving themselves in fields, camels pulling carts, overloaded buses and trucks, lush vegetation, dry dusty villages, naked children and cows wandering anywhere they please. We also saw a few things you might not expect: shopping malls, military convoys, fast food and roadside liquor joints.
By the way, the Taj is everything you've ever heard about it: massive beyond all scale and breathtakingly beautiful. Also interesting was that a good 70% of the visitors appeared to be local. Maybe due in part to the visit incentive: it cost Indian citizens 20 rupees (about €0.30) and 750 rupees (about €12.50) for foreigners. Regardless, the visit was more than worth the 9 hours of driving roundtrip.
The gallery linked above will be expanded soon with the pics taken by Quality Lass.
Tonight PK and I are off to 007's house for Flip's birthday. A cocktail affair: I'm bringing Russian and Belgian beers as insurance...
Slainte.
Sunday 7 September 2008
When it rains it pours
What a weekend!
First I found out on Friday that I was unsuccessful in a promotion bid I'd made the day before. It was for the position Head of Quality and Compliance for Talk Talk Group. Ahh well. The guy who got the job is great and I look forward to working with him (for him, actually).
Then Friday night was the AOL summer party, celebrating 10 years in Waterford. It was a Venetian themed masked ball in a giant marquee tent. Food. A band. A DJ. Dancing. Booze. Inappropriate behaviour. All in all, really good craic. Thought I'd be coming home on the first bus, but was still there for the last one.
Which left me in no great shape for a Saturday preparing for Daddy Mike's arrival this week. I'm afraid I wasn't much help to the PK. But I did make a mean teriyaki mackerel dinner, in my defense.
Then the main event: Waterford made the All-Ireland Hurling Finals, played today. PK and I actually went to the semi-finals in Dublin a few weeks back where the Deise took on greatly favoured Tipperary and won a close-fought, epic thriller of a match. Many pundits called it one of the best games in decades. So today they took on the Kilkenny Cats, the regining champions and overwhelming favourites. In fact Kilkenny has won 7 of the last 10 All-Ireland finals. Waterford, on the other hand hadn't made it to the finals since 1963, and hadn't won since 1959. The county has been going mad for the past few weeks, with blue and white flags and banners everywhere. Unfortunately, the Deise's run ended in a rather dramatic fashion, with the Cats walloping the good guys. We watched it at Daddy Lad's house, with his wife, child, mom, and dad in residence. Grand Daddy Lad left shortly after the half in disgust. We suffered through to the end and now eagerly await next year's chance for redemption...
The abysmal weather broke for the day and we enjoyed a bit of sun for a change, at least. Daddy Mike arrives in Dublin on Tuesday: we'll catch him up Thursday night. From there? We'll see. Stay tuned.
Slainte.
First I found out on Friday that I was unsuccessful in a promotion bid I'd made the day before. It was for the position Head of Quality and Compliance for Talk Talk Group. Ahh well. The guy who got the job is great and I look forward to working with him (for him, actually).
Then Friday night was the AOL summer party, celebrating 10 years in Waterford. It was a Venetian themed masked ball in a giant marquee tent. Food. A band. A DJ. Dancing. Booze. Inappropriate behaviour. All in all, really good craic. Thought I'd be coming home on the first bus, but was still there for the last one.
Which left me in no great shape for a Saturday preparing for Daddy Mike's arrival this week. I'm afraid I wasn't much help to the PK. But I did make a mean teriyaki mackerel dinner, in my defense.
Then the main event: Waterford made the All-Ireland Hurling Finals, played today. PK and I actually went to the semi-finals in Dublin a few weeks back where the Deise took on greatly favoured Tipperary and won a close-fought, epic thriller of a match. Many pundits called it one of the best games in decades. So today they took on the Kilkenny Cats, the regining champions and overwhelming favourites. In fact Kilkenny has won 7 of the last 10 All-Ireland finals. Waterford, on the other hand hadn't made it to the finals since 1963, and hadn't won since 1959. The county has been going mad for the past few weeks, with blue and white flags and banners everywhere. Unfortunately, the Deise's run ended in a rather dramatic fashion, with the Cats walloping the good guys. We watched it at Daddy Lad's house, with his wife, child, mom, and dad in residence. Grand Daddy Lad left shortly after the half in disgust. We suffered through to the end and now eagerly await next year's chance for redemption...
The abysmal weather broke for the day and we enjoyed a bit of sun for a change, at least. Daddy Mike arrives in Dublin on Tuesday: we'll catch him up Thursday night. From there? We'll see. Stay tuned.
Slainte.
Monday 25 August 2008
I know I know...
No blogging in over a month. We've been having a good summer, even if the weather has been absolutely rancid. Even worse than last summer. However, we've made the best of it, as evidenced by these new photos, and these, and these, and these.
That should keep you occupied for 10 minutes or so. More soon.
Slainte.
That should keep you occupied for 10 minutes or so. More soon.
Slainte.
Monday 21 July 2008
A bit o' Irishness
Greetings loyal blog readers. I thought I'd share a quick story that struck me as quintessentially Irish. Pre-Tiger Ireland is not gone, just hiding behind some shiny cars, Thai takeaway boxes, and 72 inch televisions.
The radio jocks on one of the national stations were going on this morning about how the singer from Clannad had recently slagged Bono for his inability to hit high notes. When one national hero gives out about another, it's worthy of comment.
Bono heard the show while driving his daughter to school and called in to defend himself. No lawsuits. No war of words in the papers. Not even any harsh words. Just a couple of lads having a laugh on national radio. Bono even went on how his father always said he was a baritone who thought he was a tenor. The fact that he'd called in was not worthy of comment.
The call-in radio show has been a way of life here for decades. A favourite on the local station here is the daily announcement of who's died, who's being removed, who's being buried. Sales, pee-wee sports, graduations: everything is announced and discussed on the national radio waves. Every station devotes prime time slots to the call-in show; and it's not uncommon for the powers-that-be to join in too: unannounced, unrehearsed, and unscripted. Even on the way to drop your daughter off at school.
Slainte.
The radio jocks on one of the national stations were going on this morning about how the singer from Clannad had recently slagged Bono for his inability to hit high notes. When one national hero gives out about another, it's worthy of comment.
Bono heard the show while driving his daughter to school and called in to defend himself. No lawsuits. No war of words in the papers. Not even any harsh words. Just a couple of lads having a laugh on national radio. Bono even went on how his father always said he was a baritone who thought he was a tenor. The fact that he'd called in was not worthy of comment.
The call-in radio show has been a way of life here for decades. A favourite on the local station here is the daily announcement of who's died, who's being removed, who's being buried. Sales, pee-wee sports, graduations: everything is announced and discussed on the national radio waves. Every station devotes prime time slots to the call-in show; and it's not uncommon for the powers-that-be to join in too: unannounced, unrehearsed, and unscripted. Even on the way to drop your daughter off at school.
Slainte.
Monday 14 July 2008
Happy Bastille Day, y'all! (or Participate! Part 2)
So we decided to recognize the occasion with some homemade moules frites. Fabulous. This the day after a fabulous weekend camping, complete with a bit of actual summer thrown in: sun for more than an hour and temperatures creeping up towards a cool winter in Florida. Today we hit 22 degrees C. That's low 70s in American. There was much rejoicing.
Oh, and for the North American and Alaskan marketing teams that were in a small Scandinavian country recently, we were camping to better experience BIRDS! Terns, to be specific: Sandwich, Common, Arctic, and the elusive Roseate. And a hobby (a small European falcon) thrown in for good measure. So there!
Now, where was I? Oh yes. Shivering in a field surround by 1,200 other buck nak-... First the disclaimer again. If I didn't fulfill the promise of an American R rating in my last post, I will this time. Put the young 'uns back in front of the TV if you don't want to answer some very peculiar questions.
The second set up was a bit more like traditional nude photography. Well, as traditional as a Spencer Tunick event can be. All the men were given white roses, the women red. We were paraded into a neighboring field, again with the castle in the background. We went through several poses this time, including an extended time laying on the dewy grass.
It was during this time, as we bent one way and then the other, that one was confronted with certain anatomical details at close range that might otherwise have gone unnoticed. For instance, Irish men's members are largely in tact. That is to say, they are largely uncircumcised. That's not to say that they are especially large. Just uncut. Furthermore, the fashion for pubic grooming is not confined to women. Plenty of landing strips, and less, for the ladies, as well as more than a few bald beneath the smalls for the lads. And tattoos and piercings in some unholy places for both genders.
I digress.
The second set up was quite a bit longer than the first. And you'd think that stretched out on the ground would've been even more uncomfortable. But we were much more closely packed-in this time around. And for skinny butts like mine, the greater proximity of other bodies made a big difference.
When Spencer gave us the all clear, there was more hooting and hollering and running back to our clothes. But the ladies didn't stay dressed for long; the third set up was girls only. In the meantime, there were several humorous side stories, all around a central theme: where the hell are my clothes? The organizers had given us giant plastic bags in which to stash our belongings whilst in the buff. Upon our return, several poor souls ended up wandering around for up to half an hour looking for them. I overheard the last guy to reunite with his clothes say that he didn't mind being naked at all, until he was the only person naked.
Meanwhile, the ladies went off to a separate wooded garden that was above the fields we'd been in all morning. Their disrobing location was directly above us. Several of them took the opportunity to enhance the occasion with a bit of striptease/booty shake to much enthusiastic cat calling from the blokes. Again, it took me out of the moment for a bit, but really didn't detract from the overall mood of the morning. As we couldn't see the actual photos I've really no idea what their pictures were all about, other than at least one pose involved roses in teeth.
It was then the gents' turn to go solo. Our stage was a creek. But first we had to disrobe, right smack in front of the ladies. The cat calls were boisterous and joyful, and high pitched. Back to the creek. 100 of us were chosen to stand in the creek balls naked. Except, Spencer didn't like the effect, so he then asked us to kneel. Cold? Oh yeah. By that point, however, the cold was no longer the primary concern. The rocks under my knees were much more on my mind. Luckily, the cold numbed that problem soon enough.
In the end, blue skin and indented knees were small price for the feeling of being intensely alive, and of having participated.
Slainte.
Oh, and for the North American and Alaskan marketing teams that were in a small Scandinavian country recently, we were camping to better experience BIRDS! Terns, to be specific: Sandwich, Common, Arctic, and the elusive Roseate. And a hobby (a small European falcon) thrown in for good measure. So there!
Now, where was I? Oh yes. Shivering in a field surround by 1,200 other buck nak-... First the disclaimer again. If I didn't fulfill the promise of an American R rating in my last post, I will this time. Put the young 'uns back in front of the TV if you don't want to answer some very peculiar questions.
The second set up was a bit more like traditional nude photography. Well, as traditional as a Spencer Tunick event can be. All the men were given white roses, the women red. We were paraded into a neighboring field, again with the castle in the background. We went through several poses this time, including an extended time laying on the dewy grass.
It was during this time, as we bent one way and then the other, that one was confronted with certain anatomical details at close range that might otherwise have gone unnoticed. For instance, Irish men's members are largely in tact. That is to say, they are largely uncircumcised. That's not to say that they are especially large. Just uncut. Furthermore, the fashion for pubic grooming is not confined to women. Plenty of landing strips, and less, for the ladies, as well as more than a few bald beneath the smalls for the lads. And tattoos and piercings in some unholy places for both genders.
I digress.
The second set up was quite a bit longer than the first. And you'd think that stretched out on the ground would've been even more uncomfortable. But we were much more closely packed-in this time around. And for skinny butts like mine, the greater proximity of other bodies made a big difference.
When Spencer gave us the all clear, there was more hooting and hollering and running back to our clothes. But the ladies didn't stay dressed for long; the third set up was girls only. In the meantime, there were several humorous side stories, all around a central theme: where the hell are my clothes? The organizers had given us giant plastic bags in which to stash our belongings whilst in the buff. Upon our return, several poor souls ended up wandering around for up to half an hour looking for them. I overheard the last guy to reunite with his clothes say that he didn't mind being naked at all, until he was the only person naked.
Meanwhile, the ladies went off to a separate wooded garden that was above the fields we'd been in all morning. Their disrobing location was directly above us. Several of them took the opportunity to enhance the occasion with a bit of striptease/booty shake to much enthusiastic cat calling from the blokes. Again, it took me out of the moment for a bit, but really didn't detract from the overall mood of the morning. As we couldn't see the actual photos I've really no idea what their pictures were all about, other than at least one pose involved roses in teeth.
It was then the gents' turn to go solo. Our stage was a creek. But first we had to disrobe, right smack in front of the ladies. The cat calls were boisterous and joyful, and high pitched. Back to the creek. 100 of us were chosen to stand in the creek balls naked. Except, Spencer didn't like the effect, so he then asked us to kneel. Cold? Oh yeah. By that point, however, the cold was no longer the primary concern. The rocks under my knees were much more on my mind. Luckily, the cold numbed that problem soon enough.
In the end, blue skin and indented knees were small price for the feeling of being intensely alive, and of having participated.
Slainte.
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