Having owned a pub and restaurant in the past and having a large family meant I was always cooking for the masses. One thing I've found about being single is just how hard it is to buy food for one. Sure I can buy pack of 3 or 4 chicken tits but I don't want chicken tits every day for 4 days. I just want it once. And besides, I've normally forgotten to switch the damn fridge on anyway!
Today I was offered a food package from the Salvation Army food bank. A blessing and relief all wrapped up in 3 carrier bags. I'm a humble chap and would normally refuse such offerings, but life is different for me now. Very different. Gone are eating the nights unsold bbq food from my restaurant, gone are the feasts of old surrounded by family chatting away the night and gorging on the leftovers between 2 bread and butter for brunch the next day.I gladly accepted the offer and drove down there with my tail between my legs, only half full on humble pie.I gratuitously receive my parcel and after a lovely chat, I went back to my van and drove off. Upon arrival at the days spot, I opened the bags and discovered a solitary chicken tit. It looked lonely in there, nestled between 4 eggs and a bar of soap.My belly started rumbling almost immediately and I had to make a conscious decision: "Eat now and be full or stay hungry until tonight and make a feast from this pale morsel masquerading as a booby of the chicken variety." I decided to eat now. That moment sets off a chain of events that leads to today's calamity filled lunch!
I figured I'd start with a coffee to drink whilst I wait for the tittie to cook. I filled up my trusty whistling kettle and dumped it on the lit hob. I whipped out the booby and diced it up into bite sized chunks and sprinkled some rub over it. Pukka! The kettle is whistling now, reminiscent of a 4 year olds scream when told he can't play with that turd in the bath. I swap the kettle for the pan, and start to pour the water into my mug over the sachet of cappuccino. The handle on said kettle was designed by someone with asparagus like fingers. My big sausages don't really fit through the handle as I proved to myself that instant. My finger knuckles touch the top of the kettle which was hotter and angrier than Lara Croft on her monthly! I screamed, I made myself jump and screamed some more, my hand slid further into the gap and the fiercely hot Lara Croft kettle went flying, knocking the coffee out of my other hand. My reactions were quick but uncalculated. I somehow smack the bottom of the falling mug and forced it to do a pirouette that would've made Bruce Forsyth proud, straight into my pan of chopped up chicken tit.Ah shit. Literally. That's exactly what it looked like. Chunks of meat bobbing around in shit.
Being an ex restaurateur I figured I'd reduce the coffee down to a thick sauce and give it a whirl. I don't recommend it, I really don't.Deflated, burned and beaten by mean ole Lara the bloody ferocious kettle I succumbed to a boring cheese sanger. A proper lunch...
I'm off now to put some Dr Balls Bollock Balm on my hand as its all I have that may just soothe Lara's uncalled for attack. Might have to draw the curtains too...
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