I'm sorry. There's no excuse for last night's travesty & I'm not going to try & make one. It's just, well, those fucking chefs. They make my blood BOIL & when I see them in action I lose all faith in the afterlife & deities thereof. In case you're wondering, yes, we are allowed the Idiot's Lantern but we only have specific channels pumped in & in order to access them we must sit through a 20 minute CenterParcs propaganda movie that suggests there is an element of choice. Fun, even. All conversation routes with Madden & Perry have dried up : We sit together, stony-faced & silent with our respective plates of unmentionables balanced uncomfortably on our laps. Last night I cracked & signed up for the movie, unheard of in my lifetime but preferable to the smalltalk. I managed a strategic visit to the small room for the moment in Sherwood Forest when smiling families queue for the Waterslide, willingly handing over their dole money to criminals but was hoiked out before I'd even got me Daks down. Then, without being consulted, we were whisked over to one of the terrestrials on which a grotesque bald Fritz Klein-stylee cook was punishing some journalist/author types with obscene concoctions from the lab as the recipients gushed forth eulogies, hideously aware of camera angles & the forthcoming fee. Oh, and guess what? It's a 'theme' meal, bit like what they do at Little Chef'n'all. And the mans' restaurant is currently under investigation : No shit, Sherlock. So, I'm sitting there, wondering where I can hide the second half of my Beanfeast when suddenly it comes to me : Here I am, hostage in a pretend Scandanavian wonderland surrounded by trusting woodland creatures. Why not catch my own dinner & serve it up as a gesture of goodwill? It's cost effective & a darn sight nicer than the shit we've been eating this far in. I wait for the obligatory quiz show to begin, Madden & Perry pitting their wits against Jimmy Carr, hmm.. Just enough time to catch the beast, smuggle it through the sliding doors & pop it into the microwave. Job done.
I begin with the bunny. He's very sweet but despite having seen Watership Down this one's for the pot. I coax him over, all smiles & Mother's Pride but the fucker has me down. He eyeballs me & makes off for the undergrowth with his booty. Arses! But no matter, here comes a pheasant, traditionally one of the most stupid creatures on God's earth. No match for me then, what with my educated hunting instinct & speed'o'light reaction timing. I opt for a different approach, making comforting clucking sounds with my epiglottis that will surely lure the idiot bird to it's untimely demise. He strolls to within strangling distance but as I lunge forward he trots off towards the horizon, momentarily distracted by the sound of the bottle bank truck. Tits on toast! Ah, but what's this? Holy Maloney, you don't get to see one of them too often! It's a Mountebank, one of those travelling musical mini-deers that got accidentally let loose into the countryside by some posh Indian chap with more money than sense. At least I think that's what he called them, what the fuck do I know? Anyway, the Mountebank is curious, more fool he. Cautiously he makes his way towards me, eager to claim my cargo of budget breakfast material. I'll not be caught out this time though, no siree. I pull a friendly face & winch back the bear trap. 'Look', I appear to go, 'if you step this way you will be full for eternity. Be my friend & be forever grateful.' He twists his head. I twist mine. The shit. Inside I can hear the end credits rolling & the clatter of dishes. Time's almost up. The Mountebank does something weird with his teeth. I do something weird with mine. Come to me, bubba, c'mon.. And then nothing. For at least a minute. More clattering indoors. And then the catastrophic grind of the sliding door, revealing Perry in an apron & Madden close behind in a microscopic shell suit & trainers. This is too much for the Mountebank : It's off like shit off a shovel, leaving me with egg on my face & an ankle in the trap. Good manners prevents me from relaying here the exact words I used to express my disappointment at the outcome of events, but suffice it to say that tomorrow I shall take coffee alone. With fags. Shitloads of fags...
I begin with the bunny. He's very sweet but despite having seen Watership Down this one's for the pot. I coax him over, all smiles & Mother's Pride but the fucker has me down. He eyeballs me & makes off for the undergrowth with his booty. Arses! But no matter, here comes a pheasant, traditionally one of the most stupid creatures on God's earth. No match for me then, what with my educated hunting instinct & speed'o'light reaction timing. I opt for a different approach, making comforting clucking sounds with my epiglottis that will surely lure the idiot bird to it's untimely demise. He strolls to within strangling distance but as I lunge forward he trots off towards the horizon, momentarily distracted by the sound of the bottle bank truck. Tits on toast! Ah, but what's this? Holy Maloney, you don't get to see one of them too often! It's a Mountebank, one of those travelling musical mini-deers that got accidentally let loose into the countryside by some posh Indian chap with more money than sense. At least I think that's what he called them, what the fuck do I know? Anyway, the Mountebank is curious, more fool he. Cautiously he makes his way towards me, eager to claim my cargo of budget breakfast material. I'll not be caught out this time though, no siree. I pull a friendly face & winch back the bear trap. 'Look', I appear to go, 'if you step this way you will be full for eternity. Be my friend & be forever grateful.' He twists his head. I twist mine. The shit. Inside I can hear the end credits rolling & the clatter of dishes. Time's almost up. The Mountebank does something weird with his teeth. I do something weird with mine. Come to me, bubba, c'mon.. And then nothing. For at least a minute. More clattering indoors. And then the catastrophic grind of the sliding door, revealing Perry in an apron & Madden close behind in a microscopic shell suit & trainers. This is too much for the Mountebank : It's off like shit off a shovel, leaving me with egg on my face & an ankle in the trap. Good manners prevents me from relaying here the exact words I used to express my disappointment at the outcome of events, but suffice it to say that tomorrow I shall take coffee alone. With fags. Shitloads of fags...
2 comments:
I'm not a pheasant plucker,
I'm the pheasant plucker's son;
I'm only plucking pheasants
Till the pheasant plucker's come.
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