DAY TWENTY-NINE: Show Me Your Teeth

To fully comprehend the importance of what you’re about to read, you must know the following: I love my teeth. Despite my devotion to tea and preference for red wine over white, I try damn hard to take care of my teeth and will always, always opt for an open-mouthed grin over a lippy smile (or what I like to call “a lazy attempt at happiness”). Therefore, when the idea of my 40 Day Challenge was born, there was one new experience which was immediately on my list. Yes, on Day 28, I went to get my teeth whitened. My adLenture has now become an adDenture. Sorry, it had to be done.

My pursuit for a toothpaste-advert-esque smile took me to a small boutique hidden in Camden. For the non-Londoners, allow me to explain the irony here. Camden is famous for its somewhat “quirky” residents – such as the lady who rides the 29 bus eating cigarette butts.  These individuals aren’t exactly known for their top standards in hygiene and you’re probably more likely to find a Camden local with missing teeth, rather than perfectly white ones. I was therefore somewhat dubious as to the dental treatment I would be receiving in London’s infamous Punk district. (Disclaimer: I love Camden and all its griminess, hence why I’ve lived in the area for four years. Please, nobody shoot me...)

However, the Miami White Salon is exactly as you’d expect a professional dentist’s to be. It had all the usual suspects: the reclining chairs, the framed qualifications on the wall (yes, I did check), the classical music playing in the background to calm one’s nerves. Miami White is also home to perhaps the friendliest, bubbliest dentist you will ever meet. Cassandra welcomed me with a cheery smile and we merrily chatted about the good weather and our matching sunglasses. As we exchanged hugs and air kisses at the end of my appointment, I felt like I’d made a new friend. I recommend you go to Miami White, for the good company of its staff at least!

Anyway, back to the teeth whitening itself. After signing a scary disclaimer and having the chance to ask any final questions (“Will it hurt?!”), we began. One question I hadn’t asked but in hindsight perhaps should have was the obvious “what’s going to happen here?” I genuinely didn’t know if the whitening would be done by gel, plates or paint stripper. Perhaps I should have done a bit more research.

Hannibal Lecter in his early days...

After Cassandra fitted me with a frightfully unattractive cheek retractor which prevented asking any further questions (and made me feel very self-conscious) she started applying a gel to my teeth. “Ohh, so that’s what this entails!”, I thought to myself. Well, not quite. Once the gel was applied, the friendly dentist placed some UV-protective glasses on my face and pulled a contraption down over my mouth. Yes, it was a laser. This was all rather unexpected. Once she had switched the laser on, Cassandra then left the room. I was all alone, lying under a laser, not knowing how long this would go on for and not really able to move. With the classical music reaching its crescendo, this whole thing felt like a scene from Final Destination. I prepared myself for the worst...

Ok, so perhaps I was over-reacting slightly. Evidently, I survived this experience, and also survived the second set of 15 minute laser treatment. And the results? My pearly whites really are a bit pearlier and a bit whiter. Thankfully my smile doesn’t resemble Ross’ in that episode of Friends, and the difference is subtle enough for nobody to suspect the unnatural cause of the improvement. Well, except that I’ve now published it on the internet. Let’s just keep this between us?

Day 29: Get the perfect smile. ALMOST THERE!

Peace & Love,

Rich xx 

DAY TWENTY-EIGHT: Tie Me Kangaroo Down

After the resounding success of my Game sandwich a couple of weeks ago, Day 28 saw me once more cross London Bridge, descend into Borough Market, and embark on another food-based challenge.  As my last lunchtime venture saw me sample a typically British delicacy, this time I decided to spread my wings a bit further and see what delights could be found from further afield. More specifically, Australia. On today’s menu: Kangaroo Burger.

Meat Madness

To source my exotic lunchtime treat, I headed directly to the Gamston Wood Farm market stall, famous for its quirky meats and bizarre offerings. Gamston Wood’s specialty is ostrich; their typical product base includes everything from ostrich meat to eggs to feathers.  In addition to this staple, Gamston Wood also sources other exotic meat to add to their menu.  It’s a bit of a lucky dip of what might be available: Elk, Buffalo, Zebra, Wilderbeast, Reindeer and Springbok have all been known to appear, as well as other more mysterious offerings such as Kudu and Wagyu. It’s like a safari on a plate! Apologies to any vegetarians reading...

And so when I arrived at Gamston Wood’s market stall, I didn’t yet know what delight I would be sampling. It all depends on what’s on offer that day. On this particular occasion, it was Kangaroo. I was somewhat worried by this... My feelings towards the Kangaroo were, like most 90s kids, formed by Skippy and the Hundred Acre Wood’s most famous Mother-Son duo. Eating a Kangaroo has never been something I've particularly wanted to do, in the same way that I wouldn’t opt to eat a cuddly toy or Bambi.

G'Day Mate!

In reality, I was reassured, Kangaroos are less cutesy creature, more aggressive beast, and have been a source of meat in the southern hemisphere for many, many years. This slightly softened my feelings of disgust and I felt calm enough to order my Kangaroo Burger. Sue, the owner of Gamston Wood Farm and my waitress for the day, put the Kangaroo meat on the griddle and started frying away. A couple of minutes later and my lunch was ready: a succulent burger served with onions, cheese and salad.

To tell you the truth, if you’d told me I was eating a beef burger, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it. That’s not to say the food wasn’t delicious – the burger was juicy and the flavours well-balanced – but it wasn’t exactly extraordinary. When you really thought about it, the Kangaroo was kind of “meatier” than beef (as vague and unspecific as that is), but admittedly the most startling thing about it was the very idea of eating Kangaroo. Once you got over that hurdle, the rest was plain sailing. Or should I say plain hopping...

Day 28: Eat Kangaroo. CHECK!

Peace & Love,

Rich xx

DAY TWENTY-SEVEN: Walk This Way

Back when my adLenture was in its naive infancy, I started experimenting with different ways of commuting to work. I also promised that my 40 Day Challenge would see me try out other new travel methods. Day 27 saw me fulfill this promise, as I put the feet God gave me to good use and walked to work. 

I imagine you’re probably thinking: what’s especially challenging about that? Well, I’ll admit that the idea of a leisurely stroll through North London might at first seem as simple as a walk in the park (quite literally). However, walking to work means a race against the clock. With a start time of 9am, I would have to calculate my commute carefully. Also – as you may remember from Day 3’s entry – I live a good 5 miles away from my office. Google told me the walk would take over 90 minutes. Add a bit extra for the potential period of getting lost, and suddenly I’m setting my alarm for 6.30am.

Now, I am not a morning person. So this early start was never going to be easy. What’s more, my good intentions of getting an early night had inevitably been ignored, and there I was: forcing myself awake after very little sleep. With a 2 hour walk ahead of me. Blurgh.

Cross-Capital Commute

I set off, blinded by the sunrise, and zombie-walked my way down to the busy main road. Except I didn’t find a busy main road. At that time of the day, the normally bustling Hornsey Road was still shut up, with only a few people on the streets. Most of these people were like me, starting their working day uncomfortably early. And then there were the scary minority: the hardcore party-goers returning home after daybreak. I smiled sympathetically at this lot, having been in that situation more than once before. I think I scared them. Camaraderie was clearly not welcome here.

After a mile or so, London began to come alive. Buses were fuller and traffic was louder. I too had woken up a bit more, and by this point was able to walk past the more crowded bus stops with a smug grin. Although tempted to shout out “Bus Wankers” in homage to The Inbetweeners, didn’t really fancy a smack from a tired commuter.

My haughtiness didn’t last long. Thinking I could beat the bus by taking a shortcut through Hoxton, I strayed from my planned route. In the immortal words of Julia Roberts: “Big mistake. Huge.” Five minutes later, I was wandering around East London with no smart phone and therefore struggling to find my way back on track. I was in completely unchartered territory and had lost sight of any other walking commuters. Time was passing. I was beginning to panic.

Fortunately, I caught a glimpse of The Gherkin, the city’s most infamous building. Like a moth to a flame, I averted my course to pursue this beacon of hope, and eventually found myself in the thick of the business district, not far from my office. Thank heavens for capitalist architecture! I arrived at work on time, refreshingly awake and feeling ready for a day at work. Perhaps I’ll keep going with this new commute!*

Day 27: Walk to work. DONE!

Peace & Love,

Rich xx

*This had not happened. Setting my alarm at 6.30 for a second time seemed laughable by the end of the day. #emptypromise.

DAY TWENTY-SIX: Say, What’s In This Drink?

After my dalliances with the Classic Martini and Guinness, Day 26 of my ExperiLent was time for my next beverage-based venture.  Now, as someone who enjoys a drink and rarely says no to a glass or two (or three, or four, or nine...), finding a new alcohol experience was proving to be a bit tough. It was time to get creative. Luckily my ultra-cool friends Clare and Emily, who always know the newest trends and latest crazes, had the perfect solution: Purl Bar in Marylebone.

You’d be forgiven for thinking that Purl is just another cocktail bar when you walk through the door.   The lighting is dim, the bar staff sexy and the music mellow. Other than the apparent impossibility at getting a table at the last minute (thanks again, girls!), Purl doesn’t seem to be too different from any number of stylish London watering holes. However, it’s when you look at the menu that Purl comes into its own and you see what all the fuss is about. This bar doesn't just serve cocktails; it serves scientific experiments. These drinks fizz, bang and smoke. Awesome doesn’t even begin to describe it...

I read the menu with excitement and trepidation. Next to their list of drinks, Purl use a disclaimer for any first-timers, one which sums up their work perfectly: “Be prepared for sensory overload... Some of these cocktails are not suitable for those with a sensitive disposition... If you don’t like fire, liquid nitrogen and loud noises, you will not like this”. Half of me was dying to order. The other half was bricking it.

As Cold as Ice...

For my initiation into Purl’s magical world, I selected a drink called Mr Hyde’s No. 2; the description read: “Ron Zacapa 23, Purl’s homemade (all natural) cola syrup, chocolate bitters, PX smoked and wax sealed. Smoked Fog”. Although half of those words were a mystery to me (I soon found out that Ron Zacapa 23 was premium mature rum), what I did understand was Smoked Fog. This would mean liquid nitrogen (!!!). The geek in me could hardly wait, and was certainly not disappointed when the drink was finally brought over.

Both my glass and drink (in a potion-like bottle) arrived in a big metal wine cooler. Billowing over the top of this container was a fountain of dry ice. Covering the whole table, the spectacle was very impressive. And the drink was lovely too. The waitress told me to leave the rum for ten minutes while the flavours enhanced and it became more smoked. I dutifully ignored her and tried a bit straight away. Nice but nothing amazing. Ten minutes later and the drink had evolved into a rich, woody flavour. The Smoked Fog had smoked the drink, and it was g-o-o-d!

Cherry Nice

My companions ordered equally delicious creations. Clare’s Jewish Champagne was essentially a Bloody Mary, but with gin and no tomato (so not really a Bloody Mary at all). The drink was separated into all its various components, meaning that Clare was left to mix it herself. This included using a pipette to transfer drops of bitter into her glass from a small vial. Everyone loves a bit of audience participation... Emily’s cocktail was a touch more mainstream: a Martini called The Toreador flavoured with apricot and lime. The coolest part of this one was the pink cherries injected with peppercorns: an epic taste explosion. BOOM!

Go to Purl, I implore you. The prices may be a bit steep (I could only allow myself the one drink) and it may be difficult to actually get in the place. But once you witness the breathtaking spectacle of the cocktails, it’s definitely worth it. I fully intend to go back one day, not least to try the Cinder Whiskey Old Fashioned: a four-person drink infused with tea, served in an ornate samovar. You can’t get much trendier than that for a double date...

Day 26: Have the drink of my dreams.  CHEERS!

Peace & Love,

Rich xx

DAY TWENTY-FIVE: Kung Fu Fighting

Living in London can be a dangerous business. You constantly hear about flats being broken into, unprovoked attacks on the street and drunken brawls in clubs. And although most of the bars I frequent are more likely to see cat fights than fisticuffs (I do love a good scratch-match...), a boy still has to know how to protect himself. So, for Day 25’s new experience, I enrolled in a Martial Arts class. If you’re expecting Fight Club, get ready to think again. 

For my initiation into the Way of the Ninja, I found a master class in Silat, an Indonesia-Malay form of Martial Arts. Although Silat does not have the same Hollywood-built reputation as Karate for example, its objectives are similar. One practices Silat to learn how to defend, not how to attack. And, as Mas Otto (our Sensei for the evening) explained, Silat teaches the intuition to know how to avoid combat, rather than master it. Deep stuff. Otto also told me that the big key to Silat is silence, and that even he – who had been practicing for fifty years – was still learning how to be quieter. Given my lack of coordination, I didn’t feel that this would go well. The words “bull” and “china shop” spring to mind... 

Upon entering the North London studio used for our class, it quickly became apparent that I was the “new kid”. I had assumed that Silat would be like any other sporting activity and had dressed accordingly: shorts and an old, unflattering t-shirt. I had assumed wrong. My fellow classmates were all dressed in white, most of them in full martial arts gear and all without exception in trousers. I was awkwardly told that shorts were not really the “done thing” for both safety and hygiene reasons, but they’d let it go just this once. Good start, Rich, good start… After washing our hands and faces – as is customary, according to Indonesian tradition – we began our lesson.

This obviously isn't me...

The session kicked off with a quick relaxation to get us in the zone and “block out external and superfluous thoughts”. If my memory of what followed is a bit patchy, this would probably explain why. We then warmed up with a few stretches. “Warmed up” is definitely an understatement. The stretching routine was intense, and even more strenuous than Day 13’s Yoga adventure. My classmates were clearly well-trained and had the physiques to prove it. I, on the other hand, was a bit of a mess. Our pre-fight preparations ended with a 10 minute sprint around the room. I was shattered and we’d only just begun. 

Then came the bit we’d all been waiting for. It was time to start the combat: this young grasshopper was about to get fierce. We stood in a line facing our instructor Aran and watched as he demonstrated what we’d be doing. Quick punch with the right fist, turn and punch with the left fist. I copied him, throwing myself into my punches with cries of “hiiiii-YA!!!” I felt like an expert already. Unfortunately, I was wrong. Aran had a lot to correct me on: the angle of my feet, the tightness of my fists, the placement of my elbows, the level of my shoulders.It turns out that Kung Fu Fighting is much more complicated than simply “Wax On, Wax Off”. After an hour or so of trying different moves, ranging from single punches to travelling high kicks and choreographed combat, I was feeling slightly more comfortable. Maybe I could become a Master of the Martial Arts after all (lolz, who am I kidding?!)

By the end of the lesson, I was really quite beat. My body felt like it had been through a food processor, but the experience wasn’t over yet: we finished off with a grueling set of sit-ups, press-ups and back-ups (yes, those last ones were new to me too). Achieving Ninja-status clearly isn’t for the weak.

The class was brilliant fun and I’d recommend it to anyone. Still, Silat is not something you learn in one day, for sure. This is a complicated art, which perhaps one can never fully master. I'm going to keep telling myself that; it makes my inadequacy seem less pathetic, at least. Happy days.

Day 25: Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. SORTED!

Peace & Love,

Rich xx

DAY TWENTY-FOUR: Mama, I Love You

Mother’s Day (for me at least) is an opportunity to prove I'm not a complete failure as a son and to thank mummy-dearest for everything she does - which often goes above and beyond the call of duty.  And so for Day 24, I devoted my daily adLenture to my Mum. After jumping (or rather collapsing - see Day 23) onto the train back to Hertfordshire, I arrived in time to cook my Mother a big slap-up British Roast for her lunch. I often use food to convey kindness. That probably says a lot about me... 

The classic Roast is a staple of British cuisine, and one which I have enjoyed for many years. As far back as I can remember, Sundays revolved around the whole family coming together to eat big slabs of meat, huge quantities of vegetables and generous servings of gravy. I think we just solved the mystery of my overweight adolescence.

So that was Day 24’s new experience. Finally give my long-suffering Mum the opportunity to put her feet up while I take complete control of the kitchen. Now, I’ve obviously cooked before (ready meals count, right?) but I've never dared to assume sole responsibility for putting together a whole Roast dinner and all the trimmings. The closest I've come was Easter 2010 when I was living in France.  I invited many of my non-British friends over to enjoy a traditional Roast. Not being able to handle the whole meal on my own, my good intentions quickly went to pot. A definite highlight was setting the whole oven on fire. My guests were understandably shaken and probably less than impressed.

Looking a bit worse for wear,
but totally in control!

This time would be different: no longer will I cower away from this culinary challenge. At my mother’s reqeust, we were to be eating Roast Beef with vegetables (carrots, broccoli, leeks, parsnips and of course roast potatoes), Yorkshire puddings and gravy. A walk in the park – unless you're a) incompetent in the kitchen and b) contending with a hangover.  The odds were not in my favour.

Time management is crucial when cooking a Roast dinner. With all the various components going at once, it's easy to lose one's cool. Things started smoothly: the beef was seared and in the oven, the vegetables were prepped and the wine was already open (priorities!).  And, to my surprise, my cooking carried on in an equally calm fashion. With a small amount of guidance from pretty much every member of my family – it seems backseat driving is not limited to the car – the potatoes and parsnips safely arrived in the oven and the other vegetables were put on to steam.  With time to spare, I even decided to get creative, and concocted a parsley and cinnamon butter for the carrots.  NOM.

The Yorkshire puddings proved a challenge, but I got through unscathed – so far doing better than Easter 2010 then. It was at the plating up that things got complicated. Suddenly everything was ready all at once.  Uh oh… As I frantically tried to serve the greens, I could sense the potatoes getting dangerously crispy and the Yorkshires on the brink of exploding.  It was make or break time.  One burnt thumb and numerous expletives later, I fortunately managed to take control of the situation.  At breakneck speed I threw everything onto dishes and rushed them over to the table.  Even the gravy, which had been teetering between watery mess and lumpy goo, turned out OK.  Suck on that, Jamie Oliver!

Grubs up!

My family seemed pretty happy with my efforts; the carrots in particular went down a treat.  As for me, I was too tired to talk over dinner and probably polished off a whole bottle of wine to calm my nerves.  Respect must be paid to those mums who do this day in, day out; they definitely deserve more than one day of thanks.  Unfortunately, I'm not sure I could go through this more than once a year… Sorry Mum!

Day Twenty-Four:  Cook up a storm all by myself.  DONE!

Peace & Love,
Rich xx

DAY TWENTY-THREE: Luck Of The Irish

Day 23: St Patrick’s Day.  The celebration of Ireland’s Patron Saint (and all things Irish in general) and regarded by many as the friendliest day of the year.  It is also a day when most people forget their usual obligations and devote themselves to drinking as much Guinness as physically possible – and then a bit more.  Unfortunately for me, I had my 40 Day Challenge to think about.  Fortunately for me, I’ve never really celebrated St Paddy’s Day in true Irish fashion.  What a happy coincidence!  Time to kill two birds with one Blarney Stone.  Sorry...

My Poison For The Day

I know what you’re thinking: how can a self-confessed fun-fiend have never partied the St Patrick way? Well, I'll admit that I've come close (2010 springs to mind...), but I've either always had to throw in the towel early and never fully commit to the celebrations, or have simply been in the wrong place at the right time. Something potentially more shocking is that I’ve never actually drunk a full pint of Guinness. You may have guessed that I'm more of a Vodka & Cranberry kind of guy, so this might come as no surprise to you.  Well this year it was all about to change.  St Patrick: do your worst.

My day started well.  I rummaged in my wardrobe until I found the perfect outfit: enough green clothing to show up any resident of Emerald City.  I was glad those awful trousers had finally come in handy, and even gladder that I could still squeeze into them.

Dress to Impress

When I was sure I looked the part, I set off to join in the festivities.  Destination:  The Cobden, a traditional Irish pub in the heart of Camden.  Perfect.  I was due to meet a number of friends, including Jill: an Irish national (originally from Cork) who had conveniently brought many of her “native” friends with her.  If Jill is anything to go by, they’d all be adequately lively and we’d be in for a fun few hours...

I greeted the group (urges to cry “Top o’ the Mornin’ to Ya!” were fortunately resisted) and soon had my first pint of Guinness in hand.  I began drinking away but soon had to stop.  This isn't a beverage you put away quickly, particularly with an inexperienced palate.  I soldiered on and eventually got to the end of my glass, feeling like I’d just had a good meal.  No sooner had I finished that one off than I had my next pint in my hand.  I embraced the Irish custom and carried on.

Getting a bit "merry"...

Needless to say, my memory becomes somewhat foggy from here on in.  What I can tell you is that there was a brilliant atmosphere in the place, which wasn’t even dampened when Ireland lost at the rugby (they were playing England.  Awkward...) A good time was had by all – I think – and I learnt a valuable lesson.  Guinness is a potent drink.  Proceed with caution.

Day Twenty-Three:  Party like Patrick.  TO BE SURE!

Peace & Love,

Rich xx

DAY TWENTY-TWO: Being A Dickhead’s Cool

Lady Gaga told us that she’s “as free as her Hair”. Willow Smith became famous for whipping her “Hair back and forth”. Britney Spears is known for cutting hers off.  As an unwavering disciple of all-things-Pop-Culture, my time has come to follow in the footsteps of these celebrity powerhouses (well, the jury’s still out on Willow...) and use my hair to make a name for myself. Day 22 saw me go under the scissor for the sake of experiLentation.

Having completed over half of 40 Day Challenge, I now feel ready to officially call myself a Blogger. Well, almost. My cyber-baptism will not yet be complete until I openly embrace every aspect of a Blogger’s existence. And, in London, this means one thing: become a Shoreditch w**ker. A fully immersive commitment, this transformation is multi-facetted: fashion (skinny jeans and fake glasses), social life (nothing west of Old Street, obvi) and, of course, HAIR. With this in mind, I made an appointment at a local salon and took the plunge.

I gave my trendy hairdresser her instructions: clipper the back and sides, but don’t touch the length on top. To clarify, I added “make me East London”. She immediately understood and set to work.  We began with a Number 3 clipper length around the back and sides. Not enough, I told her. We slowly worked our way down the scale, my hair getting shorter and shorter. 2.5, 2 and finally 1.5. Any further and I would have been bald...

To fully gauge the significance of this haircut, you must understand that I love my hair. It is invariably long and flowing and I often go months without cutting it. My record is nearly a year and a half. Seeing huge clumps of my locks fall to the ground as they were shaved off was a difficult experience for me. What would I style in the morning? Where would the volume go? What will I flick when having a L’Oréal moment? All very important questions.

East is East and all that...

Luckily for me, the hairdresser followed my instructions to the letter, and left all my hair on top. Not only were my tresses still full of volume, but I truly did look like an East London Tw*t. All I need now is a fixie-bike and a packet of rolling tobacco and I’d be welcome into any of London’s finest squats. Well, that would be the case if I didn’t now hold an unquestionable similarity to a one-time X Factor wannabe, thus bringing my cool factor back down to zero. Ah well, can’t blame a boy for trying...

N.B. For the fans out there, please don’t worry. I may have a trendy ‘do, but I still look good. Some people call it vanity. I call it existing.

Day Twenty Two:  Have New Age Fun with a Vintage Feel! DONE!

Peace & Love,

Rich xx

DAY TWENTY-ONE: Veg Out

With both my body and moral conscience still reeling from yesterday’s McDonalds binge, I now decided to restore karmic balance and go to the other extreme.  Day 21 therefore saw me say goodbye to meat and dairy as, for one day, I went Vegan.

A more extreme form of vegetarianism, strict veganism eliminates all animal products from one’s diet (while ethical vegans reject the use of animal products and commodities for any purpose).  Even within strict veganism, there different levels of commitment: some vegans will only eat fruit which fell naturally to the ground, while more extreme individuals won’t touch any food which casts a shadow.  The mind boggles…  As I wouldn’t know where to start living by these guidelines, I stuck to the more “classic” form of veganism, cutting all meat, fish and dairy out of my diet for 24 hours.

Breakfast was easy.  Given that I normally only eat a piece of fruit in the morning, I was quite prepared for a vegan breakfast.  After all the McDonalds on Day 20, finally getting some vitamins in me was a real relief and I ate my pear with pride.  So far, so good.

An Innocent Little Lunch

Lunch was equally straightforward.  Without a set plan in mind, I headed into a local supermarket with a few buzzwords: falafel, bulgur wheat, quinoa.  Unfortunately for me, these seemingly “kooky” foods were nowhere to be found on the shelves.  I started looking around in desperation and quickly stumbled upon a vegan’s heaven.  Innocent Veg Pots.  You know the company that does the incredible smoothies?  Apparently they do microwavable vegan meals too.  Score!  My lunch was what I like to call “commercial veganism”: a vegetable green curry, bean salad and hummus, all bought from a big global franchise supermarket.  Evidently there are vegans in the City too.  More fool me for assuming they all live in tree houses and wear tie-dye…

Mid-afternoon and I was hit by my first challenge of the day.  To combat office boredom, a friendly colleague cheerily announced that she had bought some sweets to share.  I love it when this happens: no better excuse to wander around and have a chat than where there’s free food on offer.  As usual I ran to the bowl of sugary treats and was instantly hit by a wall of disappointment.  The gummy freebies contained gelatine – a big no-no for vegans.  I dejectedly walked back to my desk, watching my colleagues indulging in the confectionary.  My day of green eating had turned me green with envy.  So not cool.

So much food.  So little meat. 

By evening, I had got over my sweet-related trauma and excitedly made my way to “Food For Thought”, an independent vegetarian / vegan restaurant near Covent Garden which offers a range of homemade dishes at bargain price.  Together with my friend Alice (remember her from Day 13?), I descended the staircase of the restaurant into the dining room, which is decked with communal wooden tables and cool decorations.  It’s a nice atmosphere and the staff are very friendly.  Vegetarians generally are; they’re the loving type, after all.  Since we arrived just before last orders, Food For Thought had unfortunately run out of their vegan curry and tagine, meaning that my only option was their butternut soup.  Although this was delicious, I looked on jealously at Alice’s sizable portion of quiche which was off limits for me due to its cheese topping.  Eating out as a vegan is a tricky business.  My soup was accompanied by vast amounts of various salads, leaving my plate piled high with food.  Despite the quantity (and quality) of my meal, I was left slightly wanting at the end and felt I could have still managed a good steak.  I guess that’s what a completely meat-free day will do to a faithful carnivore…

Going vegan wasn’t the challenge I had initially expected it to be.  Having said that, I did only do it for one day.  Any more than that, and I’m sure I would’ve quickly cracked and eaten a cheeky chocolate/bacon sandwich/slab of cheese/all of the above.  On the up side, I felt brilliantly healthy after my veggie day and would recommend it for anyone needing a detox.  Try only eating McDonalds for a day and you’ll need one too, I assure you.

Day Twenty One: Vegan it up. CHECK!

Peace & Love,
Rich xx

DAY TWENTY: Old McDonald

Following my recent escapades in Borough Market, the time has now come for my second culinary adLenture.  On this occasion, rather than try out a new cuisine, I indulged in one I have eaten many times before:  McDonalds.  In fact, Day 20 saw me eat McDonalds and nothing but McDonalds.  An experiment of epic and greasy proportions.

The motivation behind my fast-food undertaking obviously came from the controversial and generally disgusting film “Supersize Me”.  Well, if Morgan Spurlock can be supersized, then so can I.  Admittedly, my undertaking is slightly less insane (just one day instead of 30), but I didn’t fancy the subsequent heart palpitations and vomiting.  I also don’t have the metabolism of an American, so the stakes would be entirely different...

The most important meal of the day.
Apparently.

Breakfast:  I dive straight into the deep end of the McDonalds menu by ordering a Double Sausage and Egg McMuffin meal.  The “muffin” (basically a burger without the sesame seeds) was accompanied by a hash brown/oily sponge and an orange juice - my feeble attempt at getting five-a-day.  My breakfasts are normally either non-existent or nothing beyond a bit of toast or an apple.  A whole McDonalds meal was therefore a rather daunting experience for me.  Still, I soldiered on and finished the whole meal.  Calories: 823

Early morning was full of energy.  My body, surprised by all the sugar, was now buzzing.  Unfortunately, this did not last:  what goes up must eventually come down, and by around 11am I was a sluggish mess.  Sat at my desk I was struggling to keep my eyes open, and the simple task of going to the printer and back was a huge onus.  Why had I inflicted this upon myself?!

Ready for Round Two

Lunch:  By one o’clock I was starving.  McDonalds does temporarily fill you up, but this is seemingly only a temporary fix and you are soon left feeling empty. Although the thought of more fatty foods wasn’t too appealing, I would’ve been happy with anything and eagerly ordered my McTasty with Bacon meal (including fries and a Sprite).

This burger was new to me, and was actually pretty tasty.  Definitely one to sample again when drunk.  McDonalds always tastes better drunk.  Calories: 1390 (no, you didn’t misread that)

That energy buzz which followed breakfast didn’t strike twice.  After lunch, I basically returned to the same lethargic state I’d been in before.  Sleepy and grumpy, my muscles even began to ache.  By the time dinner came around, the last thing I wanted to do was eat another McDonalds meal.  But for the sake of you lot, I forced myself to once again pass under the golden arches.

Dinner: A true classic, to round off my day.  A Big Mac Meal with Coke.  A combination I have eaten many times before, but never this begrudgingly.  Every chip was an effort.  The burger itself was my personal Everest, each layer another hurdle to get over.  I attracted some concerned and confused looks sat on my own in McDonalds.  Those restaurants attract some depressed individuals, but rarely do they eat their food so unwillingly.  My poor stomach was crying out “No!!” as I forced down the last few mouthfuls.  Calories: 990

My day of living in the fast-food lane was (finally) over.  All the sugar had turned me into an unproductive zombie, and I crawled into bed navery full but very sleepy.  Despite consuming over 150% of my recommended daily calorie count (yes, I was worried too), I was well and truly McKnackered.  I will inevitably eat McDonalds again, but I think I’m going to leave it a while.  My arteries would never forgive me otherwise.

Day Twenty: Big Macventure. CHECK!

Peace & Love,
Rich xx

DAY NINETEEN: Hallelujah!

With Day 19 being a Sunday - one which followed a particularly messy and debauched Saturday night - I decided it was time to amend my ways and devote some time to the Almighty.  That’s right.  I went to Church.

Having been raised in your traditional God-fearing family, any old Church would hardly have been a new experience.  With the goal to discover something different, I set out to Glory House (yes, the pun is easy but most likely unintentional), one of London’s largest and most popular Evangelical Gospel Churches.  Praise the Lord!

After taking numerous tube lines all the way out to Canning Town (the road to redemption is evidently a long one, spanning several boroughs), I arrived at Glory House.  Wow.  “Sore Thumb” does not even begin to describe it.  First off, I was the only Caucasian in the building.  I felt like Julia Stiles in “Save the Last Dance”, just with fewer family issues and better hair.  However, in addition to the racial elephant in the room, I had also committed a big fashion faux pas.  It turns out that Evangelical Christians strictly follow the “Sunday Best” rule, as all my fellow Churchgoers were completely suited and booted.  I, on the other hand, was in typical hangover attire: baggy jumper, tracksuit bottoms, dark shades and Uggs (Yes, I wear Uggs. Don’t be hatin’).  I have never felt more out of place.  Fortunately, these Christians weren’t the judgemental type, and welcomed me with open arms.

After discreetly sneaking into one of the seats at the back of the worship hall, I started to think my arrival had gone unnoticed.  Not the case.  Almost immediately, a smiley verger  came to usher me towards the front, and suddenly I was being sandwiched into the second row. How did this happen?!  Soon enough, the worship itself kicked off: a ten-man gospel band singing in five-part harmony being led by a woman with pipes to challenge any chart-topping songstress.  The Vicar of Dibley this was not... 

Singing done, it was time for the sermon.  My plan to observe quietly then became less and less possible, as the Preacher began by asking if there were any new folk in the house.  Stupidly, I raised my hand.  Before I knew it, I was on my feet being prayed for, a welcome pack thrust into my hands.  My initiation ended with the whole congregation uniting to say “We love you and want to see you again!”  Now, I’ve had some whirlwind relationships in the past, but I always wait at least 3 hours before using the L-word.  This was on another level.  As soon as I could, I took my seat, wondering how I had got into this situation.  Luckily, the Pastor’s talk began, and I appeared to have been forgotten.  I’ll admit, I can’t remember much of what was said for the next ninety minutes, but there was a lot of shouting and many cries of “Can I get an Amen?!” I kid you not.

When it was home time, I took swift exit from the Church.  My hangover hadn’t eased, and I was worried about further declarations of love.  It was only on the way back to the tube - when I noticed a vague scent of gin wafting around me - that I worked out why I had been so popular.  I clearly looked in dire need of salvation.  Maybe next time, after a better night’s sleep...

Day Nineteen: Spend some quality time with the Big Man and his followers.  AMEN!

Peace & Love,

Rich xx

DAY EIGHTEEN: Reel Big Fish

Revelation time: during my childhood, I was plagued by an almost obsessive fear of fish.  While I wasn't as phobic as a good friend of mine who wouldn't even eat the stuff (perhaps we should have started a club?), I couldn't stand having the little creatures swim around my feet in the sea.  These days my fears have lessened, but Day 18's activity was still something I never imagined I would do: have a fish pedicure.

The concept of this latest craze – popular amongst housewives of the Home Counties and glamorous students looking for a unique way to spend their loan – is strange but simple.  Submerge both feet in a tank of warm freshwater filled with Garra Rufa fish,  then sit back and relax while the toothless creatures get busy sucking on any areas of dry or dead skin, leaving the feet smooth and well nursed.  It’s a fairly straightforward activity.  That is, of course, if you don’t have a slight panic attack.

Something Fishy Going On...

The Garrarufa Fish Spa in St Albans (the heart of middleclass Suburbia: prime location for this luxury treatment) offers a friendly and welcoming environment, doubling up as a pedicure salon if you’re looking for a full-on foot treatment.  My sister and I – this isn't an activity to do alone – were greeted by nail technician Jess, who answered my long list of questions and concerns about the fishy procedure with the tone of someone who had clearly heard it all before.  Well, until I asked if anyone had ever thrown up in the tanks, and whether it would make the fish turn aggressive.  I clearly wasn’t doing a brilliant job of hiding my nerves…

Socks removed, trousers rolled up and feet sprayed clean (to prevent infection spreading apparently - gross), it was time to get stuck in.  I won’t lie, I literally screamed as I put my feet into the water.  This may have been a slight overreaction.  The fish pedicure is neither painful nor dangerous; it’s actually quite nice.  The sucking sensation of the fish feels like tiny jets of air on your skin, as though you were in a mini Jacuzzi, or a bath full of champagne (just think about that). My cries of anguish would have been unnecessary, except that all my childhood fears came flooding back.  To make matters worse, my fishy friends seemed particularly hungry compared to those in my sister’s tank, and my feet were instantly covered.  I guess that’s what three days of traipsing round Budapest will do.  

It took me a good 5 minutes to stop shaking and relax, by which point we were basically half way through our treatment.  I could then finally begin to enjoy myself and was slightly (ever so slightly) disappointed when Jess told us to remove our feet.  I would certainly go back to the Garrarufa Fish Spa, primarily because my feet did feel brilliantly smooth afterwards.  And now that I know that they won't nibble me to death, the fish do seem a bit less petrifying…

Day Eighteen:  Conquer a fear and obtain fabulous feet.  CHECK!

Peace & Love,

Rich xx

DAY SEVENTEEN: Wade In The Water

With my departure from Budapest fast approaching, and feeling slightly fragile following the antics of the previous evening, I had only one mission for my final day: visit one of the city’s infamous water spas to ease the pain.  On Day 17 I took the plunge and went on an aquatic adventure.

Rudas' dark but stunning interiors

Budapest’s thermal spas are famous across the globe.  Not only do people flock from across Europe to relax and unwind in the naturally heated waters, but local doctors even recommend an afternoon at the spas as an official form of treatment.  To see what all the fuss was about, I made my way to Rudas Thermal Baths, renowned for its original Turkish décor and beautiful colonnades.  Indeed, walking into Rudas’ central bathing hall does take your breath away, not least because of the stale stench of the sulphuric waters.

Rudas on a Friday is Men’s Day, which means a slightly bizarre dress code: no swimwear, just backless loincloths.  Although Owen had warned me of this little tradition, the sight of countless naked bottoms was undeniably disconcerting.  After a few minutes of sheepishly keeping my eyes on the ground and my back against the wall, I figured “well, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” and paraded my derriere with pride.  I didn’t really have much to worry about though, as most of my fellow bathers were of the larger, older variety; I was an Adonis in comparison (if I may say so myself…)

The baths are made up of a variety of pools – all at different temperatures – three saunas and two steam rooms.  I quickly began “testing the waters” and decided that the main pool at 36°C was where I wanted to be, staying there for the best part of an hour.  It’s hard to imagine how you can spend so much time just wallowing in the water, but once you get comfortable (with both the temperature and the nudity), it’s easy to sit and relax.  I then sampled the steam rooms, though this was a far shorter activity, as breathing was a near impossibility in the hot, muggy chambers.  Suffocation isn’t really my thing.

Before leaving the spa, I treated myself to a traditional water massage.  The only massage I’d had before was a peaceful, soothing affair which basically put me to sleep.  Hungarian massages are a whole different ball game.  “Off!” commanded my burly masseur, pointing at my loincloth.  I awkwardly obliged and lay face-down on the big stone table.  “No! Other way!”  EH?!  In the name of cultural acceptance and experiLentation, I rolled over. So there I was: naked as the day my mother bore me, about to be manhandled by a muscle-clad Hungarian.  And manhandled I was.  He set to work pummeling my joints, using copious amounts of soap and water.  I did my best to stifle my cries of pain (both physical and emotional), and managed to endure the whole experience.  Even when he slapped my buttock to indicate I should roll over.  And even when he grabbed my hair and pulled sharply upwards to “relax” my neck. The ordeal ended with a big bucket of water being thrown over my head, leaving me wet and shell-shocked like a broken man.  I got up, put my loincloth back on and miraculously felt amazing.  There was definitely method in my masseur’s madness…

Fast forward three hours and I was sat on the plane back to London, struggling to believe that I had actually gone through all that. I’d recommend a Hungarian spa visit without a doubt, though the fainthearted should avoid the massage parlour at all costs. 

Day Seventeen: Get initiated into Budapest's spa culture.  SO Done!

Peace & Love,

Rich xx

DAY SIXTEEN: Simply The Pest

After soaking up all that Budapest had to offer by day, Day 16 gave me the chance to sample the city's night life.  Obviously drinking and partying wouldn't really constitute a new experience for me, but doing it Hungarian-styley meant entering unchartered territory.

Before properly painting the town red, Owen and I sampled some of Budapest’s cinematic offerings.  With its impressive cultural roots and a historically celebrated film industry (or so Owen informed me), the city has many quirky and independent movie theatres.  To kick our evening off, therefore, my host and I attended a free screening of a short film about dance, set to the music of Mozart and Debussy.  Like, totally cultural.  Apparently Budapest offers low-key events like this all the time: a brilliant and cheap way to spend an evening.

Post-film, Owen and I continued on to our next engagement: a Hungarian Folk Dancing Evening.  Well prepared with a few beers and several shots of herby Eastern European liqueur, we joined dozens of others in circle formation to dance to traditional tunes played on flute, guitar and wooden drum.  As fun as this was, it was strictly business for the locals, a ritual to be taken highly seriously.  As it took me some time to get the exact footing correct on one of the more complicated routines, I was subject to a few looks of contempt from the proud Hungarians.  However, once I’d mastered the steps, I was free to join in the festivities and group chanting.  Ay, Ay, Ay!!

Szimpla: A Typical Ruin Bar

With the dancing all done, Owen and I took to the streets to sample Budapest’s late-night activities.  Some of the city’s best drinking venues are called Ruin Bars: quirky little pop-up sites, formed by pitching large tents in between the foundations of old buildings.  These bars are typically decorated with collections of unique trinkets and vintage accessories.  Massively cool.

My night in Budapest didn’t end until about 8am.  Typical of Hungarian stamina, apparently.  We stayed in a little all-night bar called Piaf for hours on end, drinking and chatting to some of the bar’s friendly locals.  I later discovered that these charming ladies were actually “working girls”, and were only really after one thing.  Quite a shame, really.  I thought I’d made some new friends.

DAY 16:  Hit Budapest at night.  KULLANCS!


Peace & Love,
Rich xx