Ian Moore's Blog, page 2
October 30, 2022
BBC Radio 4 – Loose Ends
It was a great pleasure to be on Radio 4’s Loose Ends. A radio salon if you like, where I met some really interesting people as well. Inspirational, funny, talented and held together brilliantly by Clive Anderson and Anneka Rice.
Here’s the link https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/m001dmld
The Daily Star Interview
An interview in The Daily Star from 24th September 2024
October 13, 2022
Fantastic New Thriller Series
I’m absolutely thrilled to share this news. The first Juge Lombard will be out next year.
October 9, 2022
Death and Papa Noël is OUT NOW in Hardback
Here is the advert for Death and Papa Noël, out now in hardback and ebook via all good booksellers.
July 9, 2022
Death & Fromage joins Death & Croissants as a BESTSELLER
After a launch at The Comedy Store, Death and Fromage, the second in the Follet Valley series after the bestselling Death and Croissants, is available now in hardback, ebook and audiobook formats.
January 23, 2022
Richard Osman’s House of Games
Coming soon!
December 13, 2021
Christmas Short Story
Death and Papa Noël
November 28, 2021
Ian’s MixTape Radio Show!
They let me loose with music!
Monthly on Sundays from 10am on https://www.mixcloud.com/inyourearsmusic/
Show 1: Travel
Show 2: It’s Christmas!
Show 3: Addiction
Show 4: A Comic’s Life
Show 5: A Comic’s Life 2
May 11, 2021
February 21, 2014
The Bed & Breakfast Man
And so the wanderer returned. If felt like I’d been away for months, suddenly rural France, after a two and a half week break, was very much a foreign country and my head wasn’t in its French space at all. I’d struggled to cope with even the simplest of language tasks on the long journey home to the extent that when a man threatened me in Paris about some perceived personal space issue, some eight hours into the fraught journey, I dropped my cases and my shoulder bag and just leant in closer to him, so that our noses almost touched and said quietly and slowly, “Just. Piss. Off.” The correct French would have been I think, “fous le camp!” or “tire-toi!” but he backed off quickly anyway having recognised in my eyes the deep well of fatigue mixed with ‘sanity-hanging-by-a-thread’ that is the international language of ‘don’t mess’.
There are many things I miss about being away, my family obviously, the place itself, my kitchen, my books, all of it becomes more important when you’re not there so much but also what I was really looking forward to, what I was longing for in fact, was my own bed. Seventeen days I’d been gone and in that time had occupied seven different beds, it was time for some serious, and hopefully prolonged, duvet action. I really am naive at times.
I don’t remember specifically volunteering to become a dinner lady, though I have no reason to doubt Natalie at all on this. Maybe she’s become a hypnotist and has me ‘volunteering’ for all sorts of things without my knowledge, maybe the constant, round the clock diet of Star Wars films have taught her Jedi mind tricks or maybe, and this is far more likely, I was lulled into it while away and over the course of a late night phone call was caught up in a fatal mix of ‘trough of despond’ and ‘misty-eyed homesickness’ during which, in all honesty, I’d volunteer for anything if it meant being nearer home.
The result however was rather than have a lie-in at home for once; I was up at the crack of dawn (well, 7 am, look, it’s dawn to me okay?) armed with my apron, a bottle HP Brown sauce, 100 tea bags and a whisk. Maurice’s primary school are involved in a project about ‘Foods of the World’, not just specific foods themselves but eating habits and meals and the like and as part of this project planned to cook the entire school a Full English Breakfast. The F.E.B. holds quite a fascination for the French, firstly they think we all have it, all of us, and everyday, everyday. I have pointed out before that this isn’t the case and that if it was then life expectancy would be about 27 and that nothing would get done. They really don’t know much about it so it was suggested that maybe some knowledgeable supervision in the kitchen would be appropriate, some hands-on knowledgeable supervision, in other words some cooking. We had discussed ‘menu’ already, mushrooms were out they said, too unpopular with kids, sausages and bacon were a given, baked beans (as long as tomato ketchup was added to the rather insipid locally bought stuff), black pudding, though a local delicacy, was decided against too, no tomatoes - I can’t remember why. Hash Browns were suggested at which point I threatened to throw a full-on Gordon Ramsey hissy-fit if anyone threatened to ‘further Americanise my culinary heritage’ Fried bread on the other hand, once explained, nearly scuppered the entire venture. Which left eggs, fried or scrambled? Well, it’s a personal taste thing isn’t it? Personally I like a poached egg myself but seeing as I was cooking the things for over a hundred 7-11 year olds it was going to be scrambled as anything else would be far too difficult to get right. Anyway, the main thing to remember about an F.E.B. once you’ve decided on the make-up of the plate is that the food must be touching other food, this may be why it’s so very English, this isn’t about quality, this is all about quantity. But to give it a French twist, there was absolutely no vegetarian option on offer.
I arrived to find the other volunteers already in the school kitchen waiting for me, only they weren’t volunteers at all they were fully paid up dinner ladies and the headmistress, Iwas the only ‘volunteer’ on the cooking side of this project and while they had already got the bacon, sausages and beans under way they were awaiting egg based instructions. I don’t like sharing a kitchen at the best of times so when I said I’ll be fine I’ll just get on with it myself, I meant it. “You’ll wash your hands first!” said the headmistress, a fussy little woman who I suppose had every right to be so as perhaps suddenly the idea of inviting some oddly dressed stranger into her school kitchen and just letting him get on with things was beginning to seem a little risky. “I’ll take my coat off first.” I replied, just letting her know I can compete in the prissy stakes. “Well how many eggs do you want? Shall I break them?” and then she added wistfully, “We did a French breakfast for the pupils last year.” I could see that she thought this might all be a bit complicated, well this is a Full English Breakfast love, not a vat of Hot Chocolate and skip load of croissants...
The thing is I’ve never been all that good at scrambled eggs, I never get the balance right or the timing and I wanted it to be just right this time, it had to be. Too often hotel breakfast buffet scrambled eggs, for instance, are like chewing on a memory foam mattress or are characterless dollops swilling about in too much liquid. So I’d done a little mental prep and had things worked out nicely, though I was a little thrown when I was told that they don’t use wooden spoons which to me are vital in the cooking of scrambled eggs! Honestly if this had been a gig at that point I’d have walked, citing ‘intolerable working conditions’. I made do and, even if I say so myself, they were the best scrambled eggs I’ve ever made, slightly creamy with a good light, it’s all in the pre-whisk, texture. I was very proud and therefore not a little upset to see that they would now be put in the oven to keep warm, the oven in which the sausages and the bacon were still cooking. (I know they should be fried but I think ‘arteries’ are an issue for young kids so I was over-ruled).
While my eggs were in the oven being turned into polystyrene I paced the kitchen anxiously just like I do at a gig, the press arrived too adding to the pressure of the thing. I say press, it was a very old man from the local paper who was brandishing, in shaky hands, one of the early digital camera prototypes. Eventually the food was served and my eggs, though now not at their best, were still pretty good and I waited for the response. There was a book out a couple of years ago called ‘French Kids Don’t Throw Food’ about why French children are such good eaters and so on, it’s another one of these ridiculously generalised books that draw massive, nationwide conclusions based on middle class assumptions and coffee morning conversations but French children are better at the table largely because they eat with their parents every day, parents who ate with their parents every day and all the way back. Food is still part of the curriculum, hence my dubious presence, but it’s France for Heaven’s sakes food is very much an issue and not just as a basis for gossamer-thin scare stories that newspapers use solely to frighten people.
That being said, my ‘audience’ were eyeing their plates with a certain level of distrust. Collectively they looked like a stag night the morning after, full of bravado about the F.E.B. until confronted by the reality itself. Slowly they began to tuck in, Maurice leading the way obviously, and eventually they even began to like it. To us, the Full English Breakfast is such a part of our culture it seems almost surreal to think that these kids – and most of the adults – in the room had never even seen a plate like this before and though I personally wouldn’t have accepted ‘French Toast’ as a Fried Bread substitute, nor refused Brown Sauce on the grounds of it being ‘too spicy’, and frankly would never drink Tetley tea without milk – I served it under duress believe me – it was all quite a success. Also I quite like the idea that while food education is quite rightly all about nutrition and balance I’m in rural France showing the kids a Full English Breakfast.
I made my way back home finally, put my returning ingredients away and got undressed to get back into bed. I’m home again – albeit briefly – and in this strange English/French mix that we have going on which I love. I settled happily back onto the pillows, pulled the duvet up and took a bite out of my still warm pain au chocolat. It’s good to be back.
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