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| Nowt wrong with it. |
OK, what's this obsession with barbecues? As soon as we have half decent weather, the moronic masses start polluting the evening air throughout suburbia.
Do I have a problem with barbecued food? Well that depends. If you can cook like the late great Keith Floyd or Heston Bloominmental then no, but if it's the usual Stella Artois laden lout who's only usual venture into the kitchen is to get another can of refrigerated "Wife Beater" then yes, without a shadow of a doubt. They have the culinary dexterity & expertise that makes a pre-historic Neanderthal cave-dweller look like the head chef at the Hilton Abu Dhabi!
Why is it our hero suddenly believes that he can cook on an open pit of glowing embers whilst tanked up on Stella? He can commit himself to a chip buttie doused in tomato ketchup if pushed, but cooking raw meat? Outside? With an audience?
It’s now 3:30pm. So he gets to light the barbecue. Eventually, After working his way through two boxes of Swan Vesta matches and 3 packs of firelighters.
"I HAVE INVENTED FIRE" states the char-faced ape in the corner of the garden. Minus his eyebrows. But hold onto those celebrations for just one minute.
"BLOODY HELL, IT'S GOING OUT!" No it isn't. It's meant to do that. You cook over the charcoal you cretin. It is not Burger-Bastard-Flame-Grilled-King! So out comes another litre of 4-star BBQ-special.
WOOMF! Now the corner of the garden looks like a cross between Nagasaki on a bad day & Beirut after a "Bring a RPG To Work" day.
Below the ascending mushroom cloud and amidst the napalmed Narcissus' lies our hero. Now minus eyelashes and arm-hair. The flames are approaching the "correct" height for his blossoming alfresco adventure. The meat…..ah the meat.
Another duty he's taken care of earlier in the day. The purchase of meat. He's been to "Cheap As Chops", the bargain butchers as recommended by his elderly workmate Stan. Stan knows it all. He’s 75 and been there, done that, had the t-shirt and got the triangular window sticker on his 1982 Triumph Acclaim. So our hero takes in his this font of knowledge and heads to the butchers. Oh yes, the butchers, you know the one. It sits just outside of town, on an old factory premises selling the best in horse leather and out-of-date one legged fowl at prices “That can’t be beat”.
So out comes the quality shoe leather AKA steak. It has to be steak for this hunter/gatherer. What else promotes his manly-ness other than a slab of “finest” steak. So, after placing it into Vesuvius and carefully checking side “a“, he turns it over and enjoys another can of Stella, spouts on about how well United played midweek and then…
“BOLLOCKS, ME MEAT” he exclaims. He checks side “b” and places this incinerated gastronomic greatness on a plate, He empties half a bottle of Co-Ops finest BBQ sauce over it and works his teeth through this piece of tarmac.
“NOWT WRONG WITH IT” he proudly boasts…
Hot Dogs next….. The sausages (which have been lying in the sun for the past 2 hours) emerge from the blue & white striped carrier bag. No mate, it doesn’t look like a penis no matter how much you try to hang it from your unzipped fly. After, he picks it up from the patio, wipes it on his jeans & places it on the grill with another 19 of Mr. Piggies choicest bits. Of course, these sausages being from "Cheap As Chops" tend to shrink “a bit“ when cooked. Now it looks like your penis “matey”! Oh, have your quality bangers fallen through the grill? No matter, a bit of ash won’t hurt anyone. Finger rolls? Ah yes, you forgot about those didn’t you, along with the baps to go with your irradiated burgers later. Not to worry, the missus has that sorted.
“She’s good like that.” Of course she bloody well is you patronising git. She does your family’s food shopping 52 weeks a year you tosser.
So Steak cooked - check, sausages cooked - check, burgers cooked - check. But there’s something missing. Of course, more beer. But no, it still seems wrong. Yes, the salad.
“Kids, go an’ ask yer mum if we’ve got any of that salad stuff.” Where do you think mum has been for the past 15 minutes? So, mum comes out and proudly displays her sumptuous salad in the middle of the table, to which all the women comment
“Salad looks lovely Brenda”. That’s because, along with the coleslaw and the Heinz tomato ketchup, it’s the only bloody edible thing on offer.
The long suffering neighbour, Fred, who’s been smoked out from his house decides to bravely take a glance over the dividing fence to see what’s happening, where he is immediately presented with a scorched digit of porkness two inches from his face. Feeling pressurised, Fred submits and accepts our hero’s sacrificial offering. The pig wasn’t slaughtered in vain. Fred’s dog loved it.
It’s now 11:35pm, the food has gone apart from two scorched abandoned sausages, the kids are still screaming away at 12kHz and at 143db and continuing to kick the football over into Fred’s garden. But it’s late and the guests decide to disperse now en masse. 15 cars attempting to do a 7-point turn in the usually quiet cul-de-sac. The neighbours who have been penned in their driveways for the past 8 hours can breath a sigh of relief and return to normality.
Until next weekend. Cock.
