posted by parker21..gary (quote)
"which also reminds me anyone got the recipe for curry hell
form the rupali in newcastle? regards gary"
Not a recipe gary but still worth a read.
The blog is dead now but the text was posted on this site a while back.
I found it funny esp the part about not understanding Geordie !
Sadly Abdul Latif - The Lord of Harpole passed away suddlenley.
i understand his son has taken on the role of owner/manager.
pls read the comments too,
http://www.thenorthernecho.co.uk/news/1979610.curry_hell_man_dies/...................................................................................
Abdul Latif - The Lord of Harpole, will not be held legally responsible if your arsehole falls out the bottom of your trouser leg after eating Curry Hell.
I was kinda surprised this morning when I realised there is another blog on the web with extremely similar name to mine.
http://spacehardware.blogspot.com/It's cool, written by a dude from Newcastle in England's northeast.
Reading through it reminded me of one of my favourite travel adventures which took place in this under-discovered city.
I was on my way from Manchester to Edinburgh when I decided to put in an overnight stop in Newcastle Upon Tyne. Why? Aren't all of northern England's cities just industrial shit heaps? To a certain extent they are, I mean places like Widness, Bradford and Hull are a sad blight on a potentially breathtaking landscape.
When it comes to The North, you have to force yourself to forget the fact that just about every street looks like a dingy Surry Hills back alley and instead focus on the salt of the Earth warmth of the inhabitants. Northerners are fifty times more friendly than their southern English counterparts, and infinitely so compared to Londoners. It's Rugby League territory after all! The industrial revolution came and went, as did Maggie Thatcher, both beating down the locals who throughout it all, never lost their dour determination and raffish charms.
I pulled into Newcastle late in the afternoon. I've always had a soft spot for Newcastle United FC so I went down to their home ground, St James's Park and had my photo taken holding up a copy of that other great Newcastle institution, Viz Comics.
I've been reading Viz since I was sixteen, it is home to the greatest comic strip ever devised - The Vibrating Bum-faced Goats.
In recent years, Viz has featured numerous ads for a place in Newcastle called the Rupali Restaurant, home of Curry Hell, the world's hottest curry. Eat it all and it's free, if not you pay ?6.95.
The foodies out there will know that Indian/Bangladeshi curries are not really meant to be all that psychotically hot, the practice of setting fire to people's stomachs is something that has emerged to cater to the dim-witted drunken English geezer's wanton need to harm themselves with hot food - hence we have Curry Hell.
You can see where this story is going. After heading back out of town to take some photo's of the amazing Angel of the North, I dumped my shit at the hostel and headed on down to the Rupali, slightly concerned that the next time I "dumped my shit", I would need a fire extinguisher to deal with the situation.
The Rupali is run by Abdul Latif, The Lord or Harpole (a peerage he actually purchased somehow). I recognised him instantly after seeing his picture in Viz for so many years. Originally from Bangladesh, Latif came to Newcastle in 1969 and "fell in love with the people, not the business". He opened the Rupali in 1977.
He greeted me warmly and noted my accent, "So another Aussie is here to take my challenge? I do warn you, if you die whilst eating my Curry Hell, your next of kin will have to pay for it."
Challenge Accepted.
Those who know me are aware of how much I sweat when I eat hot food. I LOVE hot food; Thai, Indian, Mexican, Korean. It just appears that I've dunked my head under the tap after one bite.
My Curry Hell appeared with a side order of pappadums. The waiter smiled at me and wished me luck. I mixed a few of the red/brown chunks onto my pappadum and raised it to my lips remembering an old issue of Viz featured the disclaimer that, "Abdul Latif, the Lord of Harpole takes no responsibility if your arsehole falls out the bottom of your trouser leg after eating Curry Hell."
So, how hot was it?
Take a whole handful of those lethal orange chillies, mash them up and drown them in Tabasco sauce. Add some Korean Kimchee and wrap the whole concoction up in newspaper, drown it in petrol and set it alight.
Then imagine that intensity of heat and multiply it by a thousand. You're getting somewhere near to the temperature of Curry Hell.
The waiters gathered around for their usual cack attack over anyone who tries to eat it but I couldn't really understand them. Geordie accents at the best of times are indecipherable but chuck in a Bangladeshi lilt and I was lost. I DID keep hearing "stupid bastard Aussie" over and over again though.
I'd downed three mouthfuls so far and was starting to sweat through my polo neck sweater. Most people manage about the same before chucking it in, not this soldier.
I bought a couple of mandarins from the local Sainsbury's before I arrived and in between gulps of water I threw down a few pieces to take the edge of the heat. It wasn't much use, it was like the older Helicopters water bombing the Sydney bushfires. I needed one of those purpose built "Elvis" and "Georgia Peach" water bombers.
By my sixth mouthful I had tears streaming from my eyes and rivers of snot pouring out my nose. I was sweating more than Luther Vandross during a second encore and worst of all, I could feel my stomach preparing to stage a revolt against the working conditions I so cruelly placed upon it.
Time to throw in the towel. I had a nasty premonition that I was going to need a towel to wipe my arse once this napalm-like curry made it's way to my lower intestine.
The Lord of Harpole only poses for photographs with people who manage to eat the whole lot but he and his staff were impressed with my dogged determination to get as far as I did. That and well, not many Aussies have taken on the challenge so far and he was quite chuffed that someone from the other side of the world was able to recognise him.
I posed for my photo, paid my seven quid and legged it back to the hostel and to the sanctuary of the dunnies.
The squeamish should stop reading NOW!
It was my first dump of the day, so I had the morning's porridge to unload first. Imagine one of those Nascar/Speedway races where the competitors are all jammed in behind the pace car, ready to put their foot down as soon as the signal is given.
Well, my hard and nuggetty porridge turd was the pace car and once I managed to wiggle that out the exit chute, the competitors in the Newcastle Curry Hell 500 came flying out of the blocks, hell bent on breaking the Darp's anal passage land speed record, last set by a nasty case of food poisoning due to a dodgy Thai Green Curry at Prasits on Crown Street, Sydney.
The first burst was pure liquid, my body was punishing me by re-routing the normal flow of excrement and choosing to piss out my arsehole. Oh, the pain of it all!
I graduated to the radioactive sludge stage after about five minutes, my poor ringpiece gradually resembling a burning tyre. Each new contraction brought fourth a new spray of bum nuggets and gravy and a subsequent sob of agony from yours truly. These were communal dunnies so every now and then someone would open the door, loudly sniff the air and promptly scarper.
A good half hour went by when I felt that the worst had past. Next challenge was to wipe my freckle without messing with its structural integrity. One wipe told me that I needed to jump in the nearest shower and deal with the situation - eyes closed.
Up with the shreddies for a most uncomfortable walk back to my dorm to grab my towel.
I dumped my boxers in the bin afterwards.
Go to Newcastle, it's great!
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