The H Factor

Speechless - Lady GaGa, The Fame Monster

So the Teenage Son and I recently went to see posh comedy chubbster Michael McIntyre in Cardiff.  I bought him two tickets for his 17th birthday, assuming he would take a friend or potentially a girl (an idea which was met with a snort of disdain, this being apparently laughable), but he opted to take his old mum instead.  I’d like to think this is because he and I have bonded over a mutual love of stand-up comedy, but I suspect it may have more to do with having a car full of petrol, £5.40 for the Severn bridge and the possibility that I might buy him dinner.

Getting to Cardiff on a weekday is always horrible, as is finding somewhere to park that doesn’t require a second mortgage.  It remains, however, one of my most favourite cities, provided you don’t walk down Caroline Street at 2am in the hope of obtaining chips without having to watch someone pissing in a doorway.  We didn’t have time to eat before the show, but the TS suggested we get something at the venue, and, basking as I was in the glow of quality time with my first born, I foolishly agreed.

What an arse of an idea.  I’ve been to shows at big venues all over the UK, and I know full well that the food will be shit beyond belief, prepared by disenfranchised individuals with only a cursory nod in the direction of health and hygiene, and will cost you the national debt of a small African country.  I once bought a glass of wine at Wembley stadium, and I’m still paying it off in instalments.

The Cardiff International Arena is not my favourite venue, either.  It is a soulless cavern with a concrete floor, like a multi-storey car park with its guts ripped out.  It’s also currently in the middle of a building site, part of the new Cardiff city centre shopping development, with half the doors closed off and the only available entrance requiring a fight through a fog of smokers desperately trying to ward off hunger.

So as we entered, I got a waft of something yummy, which turned out to be a stall selling crepes.  I’m not sure at what point giant French pancakes made it into the British culinary consciousness - possibly around the same time it became law to wear a scarf by folding it in half, wrapping it round your neck and feeding the ends through the loop rather than mummifying your neck the way your mum taught you.

Anyway, I think it’s worth at this juncture highlighting the ingredients of a crepe – flour, water, milk and egg, with a cupful of each probably making about six pancakes.  It’s not the height of culinary sophistication, is it?  Even when topped with a blob of chocolate spread and half a chopped banana, we’re talking probably 20p at most for the raw ingredients.  It also takes about 20 seconds to cook from scratch, although on this occasion they had pre-prepared a huge pile and stored on a steaming hotplate to save time and, I assume, any kind of skill whatsoever.

So you can imagine my surprise when the spotty student on the crepe stall handed me two and said “that’ll be eleven pounds please”.

ELEVEN POUNDS.  For what was essentially two badly cooked Yorkshire puddings and a blob of fake Nutella.  I assumed he was shitting me, as even by arena standards that is having a fucking LAUGH.  But no, this was indeed the case, and I quickly calculated that added to the cost of the tickets (£35 each), £15 for fuel, £5 for the Severn bridge, £8 for parking and now £11 for two fucking pancakes, I was already out of pocket to the tune of well over £100, and the show hadn’t even started yet.  I sent the TS off for two cups of tap water, which I topped up with my own tears.

I spent the next fifteen minutes attempting to eat my overpriced crepe, but as the chocolate spread melted into the molten-hot pancake it became increasingly soggy, sinking into the cardboard cone in which it had been delivered, and which was already oozing batter and chocolate through the gaps.  As I attempted to suck it out of the cone through my teeth without setting fire to the roof of my mouth, I managed to coat my face and hair in chocolate spread, until I looked like I’d been playing sex games with Alan Partridge.  The second half of the crepe proved beyond me, so I was regrettably forced to throw it away.  The temptation to take it back and demand a partial refund was enormous, but it’s difficult to exert your authority when you look like a grubby toddler.

Thankfully, the show was very funny, and the TS and I had a splendid time.  For Christmas I bought him two tickets to see Dara O’ Briain in Bristol in March, and whilst I would clearly be delighted if he took a date, I am secretly hoping he takes me instead.  If so, I shall pack a picnic.