NAUGHTY - DIRTY - SAUCY
I have to pop out to get a birthday card for my dear ol’ papa who’ll be turning 60 tomorrow (first class won’t bloody get there in time I bet – postal workers are about on par with tube drivers in terms of being SLACK SHITS with their 52 odd days holidays and cash incentives for just turning up to work).
Now, the route to the newsagent takes me past the greasy spoon on the corner, which happens to be next to the post box, and despite being shoulder to sweaty arm pit with half the western world on the New Year low carb band wagon, I’m thinking “hey, I didn’t have any breakfast so I’m a bit peckish AND I did cycle to work this morning for the first time this year so far (so I’m probably running on empty with my work sure to suffer…
-- Wait, that’s a lie, a disgusting Readers’ Wives centrefold of a lie. I would never think that. The Office can kiss my disgruntled-employee ass. I’ll suitably chastise myself later --
… and if I run to the newsagent FIRST I can pop into the GREASY SPOON on the WAY BACK and SAVE TIME by writing my Dad’s birthday card as I wait for my SAUSAGE BUN.
So that’s what I do.
I won’t go into a full critique of the said ‘spoon – but if I were to say ‘balding Romanian Dad with would-be attractive daughter if she didn’t wear so much slap, fake brick walls, CFC laced take-outs filled with mayo and maybe a side of jacket potato & tuna’… you’d GET me.
Anyway, the sausage buns are good. A prize wining double act of no-nonsense product together with pat-your-arse-like-you’re-in-an-Asda-commercial pricing. For a mere £1.10 expenditure (£1.10! you can’t even get a HJ from crack-whore for that nowadays) you get one sausage, deep fried for a couple of seconds to ‘reawaken’ it, sliced in half longitudinally and then ‘dry’ fried a little longer to make sure the middle doesn’t give you tape worms, and the thrown in a crusty bap with a choice of brown and red sauce (incidentally, I go with a bit of both – the red takes the edge of the sourness of the brown and the brown adds something to the pure sugar of the red).
NB – I never quite know what to ask for: go with sausage ROLL and you may end up with a baguette; try BAP or BUN and you just get blank faces…?
So… I’m posting my Dad’s birthday card and scoffing my bun at the same time, aware of the fact that I need to get back to The Office (I’ve wasted a good half hour writing this but it doesn’t matter ‘cos perception is the name of the game here and I’m sat down at my desk looking like a good boy who’s hard at work) when IT HAPPENS. Red sauce jets out of the bun and down the front of my top! Ho ho, what an escapade! Now, I don’t want to arouse my workmates (arouse isn’t perhaps the right word but it’s amusing in a cheap gag way so it’ll have to do) to my dirty deep fried sausage-eating habits so I think quick – easy, easy - then… good boy! I hurry into reception with my jacket zipped right up and duck into the visitor toilets. While unloading yesterday’s meat ration I simultaneously whip off my top and hose down my saucy mishap with a touch of warm water and delicately scented pink soap.
Suffice to say that I’m now safely back at my desk (albeit in my tee shirt) with birthday card posted, stomach filled, bowels emptied and top saved.
Yes, they’ll never know our secret, will they, my preciousssss. Dirty boy... but clever boy.
Now, the route to the newsagent takes me past the greasy spoon on the corner, which happens to be next to the post box, and despite being shoulder to sweaty arm pit with half the western world on the New Year low carb band wagon, I’m thinking “hey, I didn’t have any breakfast so I’m a bit peckish AND I did cycle to work this morning for the first time this year so far (so I’m probably running on empty with my work sure to suffer…
-- Wait, that’s a lie, a disgusting Readers’ Wives centrefold of a lie. I would never think that. The Office can kiss my disgruntled-employee ass. I’ll suitably chastise myself later --
… and if I run to the newsagent FIRST I can pop into the GREASY SPOON on the WAY BACK and SAVE TIME by writing my Dad’s birthday card as I wait for my SAUSAGE BUN.
So that’s what I do.
I won’t go into a full critique of the said ‘spoon – but if I were to say ‘balding Romanian Dad with would-be attractive daughter if she didn’t wear so much slap, fake brick walls, CFC laced take-outs filled with mayo and maybe a side of jacket potato & tuna’… you’d GET me.
Anyway, the sausage buns are good. A prize wining double act of no-nonsense product together with pat-your-arse-like-you’re-in-an-Asda-commercial pricing. For a mere £1.10 expenditure (£1.10! you can’t even get a HJ from crack-whore for that nowadays) you get one sausage, deep fried for a couple of seconds to ‘reawaken’ it, sliced in half longitudinally and then ‘dry’ fried a little longer to make sure the middle doesn’t give you tape worms, and the thrown in a crusty bap with a choice of brown and red sauce (incidentally, I go with a bit of both – the red takes the edge of the sourness of the brown and the brown adds something to the pure sugar of the red).
NB – I never quite know what to ask for: go with sausage ROLL and you may end up with a baguette; try BAP or BUN and you just get blank faces…?
So… I’m posting my Dad’s birthday card and scoffing my bun at the same time, aware of the fact that I need to get back to The Office (I’ve wasted a good half hour writing this but it doesn’t matter ‘cos perception is the name of the game here and I’m sat down at my desk looking like a good boy who’s hard at work) when IT HAPPENS. Red sauce jets out of the bun and down the front of my top! Ho ho, what an escapade! Now, I don’t want to arouse my workmates (arouse isn’t perhaps the right word but it’s amusing in a cheap gag way so it’ll have to do) to my dirty deep fried sausage-eating habits so I think quick – easy, easy - then… good boy! I hurry into reception with my jacket zipped right up and duck into the visitor toilets. While unloading yesterday’s meat ration I simultaneously whip off my top and hose down my saucy mishap with a touch of warm water and delicately scented pink soap.
Suffice to say that I’m now safely back at my desk (albeit in my tee shirt) with birthday card posted, stomach filled, bowels emptied and top saved.
Yes, they’ll never know our secret, will they, my preciousssss. Dirty boy... but clever boy.
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