Hello,
The weather in On The Potland has been roasting!
With hot weather comes the need to cook outdoors. Specifically a barbecue. For those of you who are foreign firstly, I don’t hold it against you and secondly you must understand that Barbecue’s are a recent phenomenonenonenonenon here in the UK because microwaving is our traditional way of cooking. Obviously I’ve tried to Barbecue with a microwave oven, but the oven melts a bit.
Making a barbecuing microwave oven with backlit charcoal surround is on my list of things to do, in between Row The Atlantic and Visit The Dentist.
Any road up, we had a BBQ on Saturday. My lovely wife Shirley, whose topless sunbathing can still be seen on Google Earth despite her writing to the NSA and GCHQ, invited our neighbours Gwen and Martin Tidsdale.
I’d forgotten that Martin is a food inspector for the local Council. Before you could say, “I’d give the chicken another ten minutes Bob, there’s blood seeping out of this one,” he’s slapped a food safety notice on me and chided me for drinking my Croation imported lager whilst handling raw food. Not exactly a barrel of laughs is Martin. Been hit with the ugly stick to.
“Fat Twat!” Shirley jokingly called me as she poked the snapped cork into her bottle of Estonian Pinot Grigio. Wine with cork bits floating in it always looks appealing to me. Tastes better too. More body.
Didn’t stop her knocking it back. Then she started wailing, “Last Christmas” by Wham. Martin tried to serve a noise abatement notice on her. He’s not a Wham fan. But that’s my Shirley!
A drunkard.
Funnily enough, ever since the Barbie I’ve been in the smallest room for hours on end taking with me a nice roll of Andrex that has been in the chest freezer for a day or two. I should have given that chicken five more minutes.
Think I’ll put the Barbie away. Stick to the microwave. Food you can trust.
Laters
Bob
