|The sea road from Aberdeen to Orkney|
SUMMER WITH STANISLAV, DINING OUT
stanislav going out for curry is, in house of ex-pats live up in Scotland, best part of England. Think would get roast of fucking beef and pudding from Yorkshire (appen is fucking right, lad, appen is right) or maybe tripe and fucking onion like from good Queen Victorian cookbook - take ye one whole cow’s stomach and wash out half-digested grass a bit and then boil ye it in large copper pan for several days with cloves and quince and saffron and rosemary and tarragon and anything else with disguising properties, consume ye it as quick as fuck with large draughts of pale Indian ale to wash away the taste, or else just take ye away unto the privy and sticketh thine finger down thy throat and sick ye the bastard up into the pan, stopping only briefly on thy return to the dining room to interfere with the twelve-year-old kitchen maid - something English, anyway, or even fish fucking finger and chip with Heinz Tomato Ketchup would do for stanislav, but no, fucking curry is, and other blokes is both fucking macho nutter Oh ah’m proper man Ah am, curry gotta be red hot for me, like burning aviation fuel from nine fucking eleven, otherwise is pansy, innit, and me, too, and I must have mine all season-up with broken fucking glass and side order of drawing pin, marinade in turpentine. Mah Mrs knows what I like and I like it proper hot. And then I like to get liquid fire out from bottle and pour all over rotten stinking roasting hot ten-year-old goat meat flown in special from Birmingham HalalButchersUlike and would be better and less painful to take fucking blowtorch to open mouth for thirty seconds. And to arsehole because next morning has le posterieur flambee and firing red hot liquid shrapnel all around toilet is, for fuck’s sake, would rather go out to auto-asphyxiation party with lonely Tory MPs than fucking curry dinner with mad bastard expats. One bloke pilot was with BOAC and play big white chief in India and everywhere really and so proven record has of eating madness, slug and snail and snake and fucking dog and horse and maybe five hundred degree Celsius dinner is no big deal to him but stanislav think Lee and Perrins from Worcestershire Sauce is heavy shit and attendance needs from brigade ambulance of Saint John the fucking Baptist with Head Chopped Off From Body. Other bloke is Aussie and would shit eat so no hope of helpings from him when is menu time. Hotter the Better, mate, wossamatter, you gay or somethin? Wanna fight?
Stanislav think of doing Bunbury like in great English poet Oscar Wilde - just send telegram to Curry HQ and say Oh fuck me, cousin Bunbury dying is down in England, awful sorry but come and assault digestive tract with vile, fiery poison made from dead goat and firelighters I am most unfortunately unable to do, am deva-fucking-stated at missing wonderful repast and companionship of fucked-up nutterblokes, please tender regrets of mine to Lady hostess of fine soiree gastronomique, 4ever your servant, stanislav. But Mrs says must go. Maybe can have flat tyre or complete permanent refusal to engage of automatic gearbox in Subaru Forester Sports all driving wheel sporting utility vehicle, instead of just most of time, as fucking usual. No point is in change gearbox even for brand fucking new bastard from factory, gearbox is shit, Google is full up of epic of tribulation from owners of this vehicle, is one bloke on veldt in Africa been seven years stuck, waiting for fucking drive to engage, another bloke is weep with embarrassment in Anchorage Alaska, car stop at traffic light and take three month to move away, is fucking rubbish, maybe tonight will save stanislav from food poison getting…
Author: Mr Stanislav Trochowski
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|The grass took full advantage of my absence|