Well, no, I suppose not if you're Syrian, or Egyptian, or one of those poor sods in China swept away by floods, or if you're seriously ill, or if you're name is Bercow or . . . well, I could go on but you know what I mean, nothing's happening. Not that I'm complaining, boring is good in my book, 'alarums and excursions' are not to be looked for; and anyway, this glorious spell of global warming seems to have quietened everyone down, even those chimps in Parliament.
The other evening I cooked my first BBQ for what seems like eons, in fact, I was amamzed that the wretched thing hadn't rusted away. Incidentally, all my smart friends have these gas-fired BBQs which are actually bigger than the ovens in their kitchens. I can't be doing with them, they're not proper BBQs, as I tell them, only socialists and homosexuals use those fancy things. Mine, on the other hand is a proper BBQ, a real man's BBQ, made of tin and iron and can be picked up in one hand. It is always loaded with proper charcoal which, under my supervision, turns succulent meat into solidified lumps of CO2 in no time at all. I should point out, and I offer this as a tip to you all, that I never BBQ without a jug of ready-mixed, ice-cold, dry martini to hand. That means that if, as is usually the case, the bloody charcoal takes an hour to catch light, by the time it does I couldn't care less! Nor do I mind in the least if the odd sausage or chicken drum-stick falls on he floor as I turn them, and by the time we actually eat I really couldn't give a damn if the meat looks like one of those burnt but preserved bodies they took out of Pompei - after three or four of my martinis everything is just beautiful . . .
