Rice Surprise
Way back in the early 90s - at the same time as my last QoTW about getting pissed in front of royalty - I was living in the Redditch YMCA.

That in itself was a sign of how desperate the times were; I remember the landlord of the local pub there getting a round of applause for saying (this is when Gulf War I was on) "they should bloody well bomb this shithole" because frankly it could only have been an improvement to a New Town that had patently been designed by the manufacturers of Prozac to increase sales - but I digress.

When I moved into the YMCA, little did I know I was moving into a shared flat. Luckily, the guy who was sharing with me was OK; although I'm so tolerant, or was then, that someone would have to be certifiable to have ruffled my feathers.

First night I was there, I cooked spaghetti bolognese. I noticed that my flatmate (let's call him Dave)had little in the way of possessions, and certainly hardly any kitchen utensils.

Dave was basically a functioning alcoholic. He could, and did, keep a job down in a factory - far below his intellectual abilities, but the booze got in the way. We swiftly became the Odd Couple.

As I was working for a charity, I didn't get paid much, but got paid monthly. Dave got paid less, but paid weekly (every Thursday, cash in hand).

Soon we got into a rota - my monthly money would pay our rent and bills, his weekly money would pay for our food and drugs (cannabis resin, the infamous squidgy black ubiquitous in those days).

However, it was a constant struggle to get Dave to put in more than say £30 to feed both of us for the week. In his world, any money not going on alcohol was money wasted.

He'd take into work, for his lunch, several slices of bread with whatever was left in the fridge. Cheese was a luxury - some days it was just the bread.

Thursday nights we'd live well - I'd generally cook a big chilli, meant to last us for days, it never did.

Wednesday nights weren't so good, especially at the end of the month when I was skint. On several occasions, we had to eat "Rice Surprise". The surprise was ketchup. That was it - a sachet of Uncle Ben's and a dob of red gunk on top. Happy days.

One week, I left Dave at the flat and went to visit my father, who lived in France. He decided to take me and his girlfriend off for a week's good living in posh hotels in the South of France. I lived like a king that week, and on our last night, finished off a four course meal with brandy and a cigar. Feeling chatty whilst my Dad spoke French like the smooth bastard he is to his French girlfriend, I rang up Dave for a chat. I told him, at some length, what I had been eating over the past week. Then it was his turn to talk.

I shouldn't have called him on a Wednesday. He'd just eaten a tasty recipe of our own devising - rice surprise.
( I_Was_Mordred, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 12:32, Reply)