Cheats never prosper. Discuss.

Gordon 'Fuck Me' Ramsey has been in the press quite a lot recently, but his culinary skills aren't what's got him there. It's alleged that he has been doing the horizontal tango with a woman other than his wife.

The whole thing is distasteful in the extreme. The 'other woman' has sold her story - and her soul if she had one - to the News of the World. Full details of the story are here but I've picked a couple of extracts.

When she met Ramsay at London club Chinawhite in October 2001 she was under no illusion about what he wanted. The attraction was mutual.
“Gordon was just about to open his restaurant in Claridges. I was working in the hospitality business,” says Sarah. “He found me physically and mentally attractive. I thought he had charisma. When he asked for my number I gladly gave it to him even though I knew he was married from the publicity he’d done. He started calling me often. His marriage was unhappy. Things were so bad he was contemplating getting an apartment with a friend.”

Of course he told you his marriage was unhappy, you dozy cow. He wanted to get into your knickers. The affair 'allegedly' continues.

“Gordon told me he was planning to rent a house in LA and be here more long term because the TV show was going well—and that meant I could stay with him more regularly.”
But in the same month, things cooled dramatically between the pair following a row in Gordon’s hotel room at the Chateau Marmont on Sunset Boulevard. Sarah says: “Gordon had reportedly punched one of the contestants on the set of Hell’s Kitchen. When I asked him about it, he got very defensive. We rowed and I walked out. We let our friendship slide and I got serious with another married man.”

Another married man. Well aren't you just a charming member of the sisterhood? Ever tried building a relationship with a man who was free?

Over the next few weeks, Ramsay called Sarah frequently. “He wanted sex,” she says. On November 23, they met at her flat in LA.
“We had a wonderful night,” she says. “We talked about my book and discussed spin-off projects. “He thought I was sassy and clever and wanted to mentor me. I was flattered. When he leaned over to kiss me, it was very natural. He wanted to take his time and was very loving. We got into bed like an old married couple.” After that tryst Ramsay was busy on Hell’s Kitchen. “We spoke on the phone every night,” she adds. “I was his ‘source of comfort’ after a hard day.
“But he’d also go on and on about what he wanted to do to me so much it started to make me feel cheap.”

Started to make you feel cheap? It took that long for you to realise that this man was using you for your body and nothing more?

I don't know if Gordon Ramsey cheated on his wife. The only people who know that are him and the woman he did it with. If he did it he's a complete and utter arsewipe and he should crawl over hot coals to apologise to his wife and children. But women around the country will be saving their vitriol for the mistress. Is this fair? After all, it takes two to tango. But I have to say that after reading this sad little tale I know which guilty party comes out looking worse than the other.

Symonds is a self confessed serial mistress. She appeared on the Oprah show spruiking her guide to having an affair and has admitted to having affairs with other high profile man. She will no doubt have been paid a large sum of money for this story. I bet she asked for quite a packet to set him up and the cash she got for todays tell all trash. I hope she thinks it's worth all the pain she's caused by her inability to keep her hands off things which don't belong to her.

As for Gordon, I suggest he keeps his hands to himself in future. Oh, and it'd be a good idea to put all the sharp knives out of reach. If I was his wife I know what I'd be tempted to do.

http://www.newsoftheworld.co.uk/

On being a loose woman

Ha, that got your attention. It's not quite what it seems though. SSS is currently suffering again with a problem in the shoulder area. Those of you out there with memories like elephants (and hopefully without bottoms to match) will remember that I had a little mishap back in February. I managed to dislocate my shoulder - a posterior dislocation, which of course only happens in 5% of cases - and have it suck itself back into the socket in a matter of 60 seconds or so. I swore, my friend completely ignored me and I thought I was overreacting until a very expensive scan confirmed I had indeed sustained A Very Hurty Injury which required me to have several weeks off work.

Anyway, this week I'm back in a sling. Same sling, different shoulder. I'm glad I kept it, all I had to do was swap the velcro thingy to the other side and Bob's yer uncle, Fanny's yer aunt. I hate it just as much this time as I did the last.

So, what did I do to it? Nothing. Nichts. Rien. Nada. Cock all. It'd been sore for a couple of days for no good reason and doesn't feel particularly stable. I went to see my orthopaedic doctor (a man almost as handsome as David Tennant) who pulled my arms about a bit, made me scream in pain then gave me a certificate for a few days off work. I felt a bit sorry for him, when I screamed he looked really concerned and couldn't stop apologising. I must admit the pain took my breath away almost as much as the sight of him in his white coat. Neither of us know what's wrong with it in the absence of any injury so it's being put down to my having loose shoulders. They go along with the thumbs which bend backwards.

Today was my first sick day. It was incredibly uneventful. I went to the beach, drank coffee, came home, watched three episodes of The West Wing (the ones where Josh got shot), cooked dinner (chicken with boiled pototoes, peas and gravy) and read a book. Maybe tomorrow I'll push the boat out and do the washing up.

Six things you never knew about me.

A dull week here. I haven't been sleeping very well and I've got no idea why. It's not as though anything is worrying me, I just can't get off to sleep. Anyway, I'm a bit addled and unable to post anything too sensible. Instead, I've decided to 'treat' you all to some facts about me.

1. I can't ride a bicycle. I never had one as a child. I didn't want one. My brother had a Chopper but I was never game enough to get on it. It's entirely possible that a) he wouldn't let me and b) my legs would have been too short anyway. None of my childhood friends had bikes either, I'm sure that has a lot to do with it. Friends have offered to teach me but I'm not interested. I'm too scared I'll fall off and graze my arms and legs.

2. I've never been on the back of a motorbike. I'm too scared I'll fall off and graze my arms and legs at high speed. If I could ride a bicycle I'm sure I'd have been on a motorbike by now but that's not happening.

3. I've never seen a James Bond film. I've seen bits of them but I've never seen one all the way through. Everyone tells me I'm mad. I've never seen Titanic either and I'm happy to keep it that way.

4. I've failed three driving tests. Still haven't passed one, either. Trust me, it's safer for all concerned if it stays that way. I still remember my last ever driving lesson. Bonfire Night, 1996. The driver of the car behind me had been right up my arse for about 10 minutes, there was nowhere to go as the road was packed. I still remember the colour draining out of his face when I slammed on the brakes, turned round and started abusing him. That was my last time behind the wheel.

5. I can make my thumb touch my wrist. Try it yourself, but do stop if you hear a crack or feel intense pain.

6. My pet tortoise died on a Sunday. I know it was a Sunday because we were having Sunday tea and I remember crying so hard that I couldn't eat my jelly. Sunday tea was always crab paste sandwiches followed by jelly and evaporated milk. Bath and a hairwash before school on Monday and a glass of lemonade if you'd been good. Oh for the halcyon days of childhood.

Tortoises are great pets. You don't have to take them for a walk, they don't eat much and they don't bark. Our tortoise was called Himmel. He was named by my father, something to do with a German helmet, I think. Himmel lived with the rabbit, Tog. Tog was completely crazy and bit anyone who touched him. I think we gave him to the milkman in the end. Anyway, back to Himmel. Tortoises hibernate during the winter and whilst Himmel had previously managed to have a big, long sleep it seemed that he wasn't managing to nod off in the winter of 1973. My dad took him to the vet, who advised him to put the reluctant tortoise in a dark, quiet, warm spot and wait for him to go to sleep. He was duly placed in a box which was then put on a shelf in the garage. Unfortunately Himmel started to move about in the box (which clearly hadn't been secured properly by my neglectful father) and he met his demise when the shelf fell off the box and landed on the garage floor.

Anyway, my dad came to tell us at the dinner table and my brother and I sobbed for what seemed like hours. There was no chance to say goodbye, I like to think that my dad buried him in the same spot as Honey the hamster (death due to natural causes some time previously). I don't dare ask him what happened to the body in case he tells me that poor Himmel ended up in the dustbin. I still remember the loss of Himmel as being my first real experience of grief.

I wasn't told the full story of his death until I was at least 28. I think I laughed and cried at the same time. Poor Himmel. At least my current insomnia won't lead to death from multiple fractures.

Surprising, really, that someone with such limited mobility as myself managed to make it to the end of the main road, let alone the other side of the world.

If anyone has an interesting fact, please make your way to the comments section.

(and yes, I edited this late at night. Can't sleep, you know.)

Fantastic plastic

Apologies for the delay in posting. I'd started something in the week but it was so depressing that I decided to scrap it completely.

It's the end of the weekend and I'm sitting here with one eye on the tv - A Room With A View starring that Barry from Auf Wiedersehen Pet - and the other eye on the contents of a simmering saucepan - two minute noodles - and trying to come up with a witty and informative blog post. Sadly, I'm not feeling wildly inspired but I feel duty bound to tell you all about the Tupperware party I attended this afternoon.

Yes, I said Tupperware. Tupperware is the new black. Well, it's more just an excuse to have all female gatherings with cheese, wine, beer and lots of cackling. Oh yes, and the demonstration of plastic containers.

I say plastic containers but there's a bit more to it than that. Sandwich boxes, plastic drinks bottles, Lazy Susans, picnic sets, knives, cutting boards, vegetable peelers, stacking storage containers, ice lolly moulds, the list goes on. Something for everyone, and of course, everyone got something.

The Happy Chopper is the jewel in the Tupperware crown . Our party consisted of 9 giggling women and 5 of us bought a Happy Chopper. A small, handheld device containing fiendishly sharp blades, it was the hit of the party. A quartered onion, a couple of twists of the wrist and hey presto! Finely chopped sans tears.

Tupperware is hardly new, in fact I wouldn't be surprised if most of us have some hiding in the kitchen somewhere. During the 70s the SSS household kept the budgie seed in a Tupperware container and I'm pretty sure our picnic beakers were as well.

It seems that Tupperware has fallen out of vogue in the UK, although a cursory search did prove that those little plastic tubs are available for purchase in the Sceptred Isle. Indeed, it was during an internet search and an international 'phone call that I discovered the entertainingly named Stuffable, which for some reason had me in hysterics. Stuffable. The very word makes me smirk. Sadly, the Stuffable is an innocent little container with a non leak lid but I still can't think about it without smiling in a Carry On type way.

Anyway. Tupperware isn't cheap but it's useful stuff and it has a lifetime guarantee. Today was my second party in 4 weeks and I've been pressganged into attending two more in the next six weeks.

After the last plastic container had been returned to its storage bag and whisked away in the demonstrators car the real entertainment began in the form of a Wii session. I'd never played before and had no idea how addictive it would be or how much my arms would ache afterwards. I must have another go as soon as possible.

Five hours, ten women, several bottles of beer and wine, three packets of crackers, a bowl of guacamole (made with the help of the Happy Chopper), 5 blocks of cheese, a punnet of chocolate dipped strawberries and almost $2000 worth of Tupperware sales. Not bad for a Sunday afternoon.

Wrong day, wrong nurse

Patients lie. Oh yes. But more on that in a moment.

Today started out quite nicely, I woke up in my own sweet time and had a nice cup of tea. A friend called round and we did the local coastal walk in the morning sunshine. Apparently I didn't draw breath for just under an hour. Well, I had a lot to say. I got to work with time to spare and so had a nice gossip with another friend before I started work. All in all it went well. The shift was due to finish at 8pm and it was all on track.

There now follows a short explanation of our discharge protocol.

Patients cannot leave the department unescorted if they have had either an assisted local or general anaesthetic. They will have had opiates/benzodiazepine drug/sedative agents and can't be trusted to cross the road on their own in case they end up under the wheels of a vehicle or fall arse over tit. All patients are informed of this 24 hours prior to admission during a telephone conversation with a senior nurse. All patients are required to provide the telephone number of the person who will be taking them home when they are admitted. This can sometimes be waived if the patient remains in the department for a miniumum of 4 hours post procedure (usually only after an ALA) and has been seen by the anaesthetist and assessed as being fit. Thems the rules.

The last patient, Sillynuts, was due to arrive in Recovery at 7pm. 7pm turned into 7.30pm but this still wasn't a problem as the patient had only had an assisted local anaesthetic (otherwise known as twilight sedation) and was due to be collected and taken home by his mother. He arrived looking bleary eyed but awake and pain free. So far, so good.

"We're calling your mum to come and get you," I told him. He looked at me with a big smile. "Oh, I told her not to come and get me. I'll get the train to Camberwick Green*. I'll be fine."

Knob. The department closes in 30 minutes. Obviously we were looking more at 8.30pm than 8 but this was a major spanner in the works. Camberwick Green* is on the other side of Sydney. There is now way this joker can go home by himself by train at this hour. He happily informed us that he had called his mother earlier in the day and told her that he would take himself home. So, in the words of Gregory House, patients lie.

I won't give you the exact speech I gave him but suffice to say he was suitably informed of my opinion on his breathtaking arrogance. I didn't use those words but I think my face might have. The anaesthetist stood at the end of the bed and smirked as I told Sillynuts that if he left and fell under the wheels of a train we would all be sued by his grieving mother and that I wanted to keep the small amount of money I had. He was told that he was staying in the hospital overnight and that was it. End of discussion.

"I've done it before," he spluttered. "I drove meself home after I had a pin and plate taken outta me foot. I felt great."

Sure, I bet you did. You were under the influence of drugs. Your car insurance was null and void and if you'd gone up the kerb and killed a small child you would have been in jail right now.

After again being on the receiving end of my thoughts he was swiftly transferred to a bed on a ward. I condidently expect him to attempt to leg it in about oooh, an hour. Here is a man who thinks he can drive a car after his body has been pumped full of drugs. There's no way he's going to spend a night in a hospital bed when he could be out there weaving in and out of the traffic.

Look out, readers. The stupid people are walking amongst us.

Melbourne Cup

Today is the first Tuesday in November, and all Australians know that means. Race 9 at Flemington, 3pm. Melbourne Cup. It's the day an entire nation stops what they're doing to watch horses and their jockeys run full pelt round a racetrack; where millions of dollars get spent at the track and at the TAB, where women start out wearing hats and fascinators and their boyfriends end the day with them on top of their heads, where hopes are raised and dashed in the final furlong. The champagne flows, the shoes come off. You get the idea.

SSS had a less than successful Cup day. It started out with a short (but torturous) 6 hour shift during which time I organised three sweeps of varying amounts and sold tickets with an alarming vigour. I left work dead on 1pm and met a friend. We dashed straight to the TAB. 1.30pm and it already looked like a bombsite. I frantically filled in a few betting slips and got into the queue where the bastards shortchanged me AND TOOK $12 OF MY CASH BUT I'M OVER IT NOW. Or am I? Wicked, tricksy, hobbits. On top of all that I managed to leave my cashpoint card at home and had fairly limited funds left with which to gamble like a mad woman. In hindsight this was probably a good thing as it prevented me from withdrawing funds and gambling like a mad woman.

I employ a sophisticated and scientific approach to picking horses. Name, colour of jockeys silk and attractiveness of the horse. That's all you need. I'm usually really good if I can see the horse in the flesh first, if it's pretty I back it. Hey, don't knock it. On a recent trip to the track that method had a 100% success rate.

Anyway, being short on cash my fellow punter and I went with our best option - the local club. I might have been sans cashcard but I had my gym membership keyring which doubles as my club membership card. We were in. Cheap beer - a perk of being a member - no drunken youths (but plenty of old people) and a couple of comfy chairs in front of a flat screen TV. Result.

Well, not much of a result for either of us. I got third place and my friend got nothing. But that's the Melbourne Cup for you.

Oh, and todays tip? Don't run across the road to get the bus when you've been drinking all afternoon. The bus driver might give you a lecture and everyone will look at you.