Confessions of a Wino

Listening to old Genesis albums on Spotify is a good way of reminding oneself that simple things, done well, rarely disappoint. There wasn’t an enormous amount of complexity in Genesis’ soft 1970’s rock, but every musician (yes, even Phil Collins, doyen of French Europop radio) was packed with talent and, if the quality of the anthemic melodies are anything to go by, spent many hours learning their craft. And yet, whilst Trick of the Tail, for example, sounds like it is mixed on old chipped plates and rusty frying pans, and the electronic keyboards were played inside an old Heinz Beans can, it has stood the test of time simply because the ingredients are first class, and orchestrated with skill and care. You sometimes feel concern for the band’s collective mental health, but only in an English eccentric perfectionist sort of way.

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Last time I wrote about the London food bloggers’ beefy hero of Shoreditch, I was accused of snobbery.  I was unkind to the waiting staff who I described as ‘skateboarders’ lacking coordination and worse, more dishevelled in appearance than most customers.

However, my steak was so mouth-wateringly, drool dribblingly, bib wettingly luscious, that Truly Scrumptious couldn’t have tempted me away from it, even if she had offered to blow my Toot Sweet in the back of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.  I had to come back for another try.

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