Fearing she may pass out through the scale of disappointment at finding the beef overcooked,
this bird firmly grips the counter in a futile attempt to support her buckling legs.
Sadly, seconds after this photo was taken, she crashed to the canvas...
You get my drift. And I haven’t even touched on condimentgate.
So a couple of weeks ago, when the old man got cravings for a carcass of the day, we entered the arena that is ‘the carvery’ and I began to twitch and hyperventilate and generally flap about a bit. So I thought ‘bollocks to all this’ and ordered something from the menu instead (a moussaka, that wasn’t a moussaka – it was merely a lasagne that was attempting to disguise itself as a moussaka. A lasagne in drag, as it were. Feather boa and all that…).
Anyhoo, having relieved myself of any turkey dramas or gravy related stress, I thought I was safe. But hell, no. As we sat at our table (within viewing distance of the carvery), the old man suddenly began to fret and dab at his brow (Louis Armstrong style); we’d got in the restaurant early doors, and as yet, no one had had any beef yet – and he didn’t want the outsidy bits, he wanted the redder insidy bits (give me strength..).
To cut to the chase, for him to return triumphant to our table with the correct pantone colour of beef, involved joining the queue, only to ‘abort’ when the beef wasn’t quite getting to the level of redness required. He joined and left and did this a few times. And even made a song and dance about scoring a couple of soft drinks from the bar when he felt suspicions were being aroused over his continual aborting of the queue. But then, he began to worry that he’d gone too far, and maybe when he got to the beef, all the red bits would be gone and he’d be back to where he started, with the yucky brown outsidy bits.
I’ve told him I’m not going again. Or if I do, I need to engage the services of a counsellor for an unspecified length of time before dragging my sorry ass over the carvery’s threshold.
This old dear was twenty eight when she first attempted to join the queue at the optimum point.
However, in a cruel twist of fate, having finally secured her meat 'just how she likes it', rigour mortis sets in...
Other culinary delights recently experienced: this is what you get when you order a locally made jumbo sausage in the Warren Pub in Dartmoor (3rd highest pub in Britain
They're taking the piss. I have never had a meal before that involved casual observers snorting and guffawing
as it was carried through the pub to my table. I ate it with the heavy certainty that a viable Doris Day
impersonation was not going to be on the cards.
Elsewhere, our trip to an M&S ‘Simply Food’ outlet at some services close to Exeter
One can only imagine the delight the head ponchos at M&S must be feeling...
So when I did spot them, post shop, I got the old man to bring the wagon to a halt so I could take some pics. As I was trying to zoom in on some particularly unsavoury sorts (upper body out the car window and generally fuffing about with my phone), someone shrill-voiced bird began hollering for someone called ‘Frank’. She also made mention of ‘sorting them out’. At this juncture I did not hang around. Instructions to the old man to ‘make it snappy’ resulted in us exiting the services in a style reminiscent of The Dukes Of Hazzard.
I'll be the fucking judge of that...
Meanwhile, back in these paaarrrts, we’re all steadying ourselves for the culinary event of the year. It’s been advertised for quite a few weeks now, so one does expect a good turn out.
By failing to elaborate with full details of 'a drink', I fear this promotion may be 'misconstrued',
resulting in piss-taking and an unprofitable evening.
If I’d tried to promote an event like this when I was in the pub trade, I’d have been marched up that head office and pistol-whipped to within one inch of my life. Dear oh dear....
