I am to be sent home in disgrace (medevac) for the good of the contract and company name. They sent out a director to give me the black spot. I thought I was to be promoted.
“I’m sending you home on leave without the option, before you really fuck up.” was how he put it.
He broke the news to me at that vile breakfast stroke lunch affair which exemplifies company life in overseas compounds.
That "I Hate Maroon" menu in full.
Brunche:
Waffle
Mixed Grilling:
I'm-For-The Chop
With Contract Bedevilled Kidneys
& Frazzled Liver.
or
Not-Bringing-Home-The Bacon
Served With Hash-Of-It Browns And Has Beans.
Eggs Interdict
Cheerios.
Plat Du Monde: Ciao Mein
Desserts Du Jour:
In A Jam Roly-Poly
Eton Mess Of It
Crepe
To Drink:
Aqua Miserable
Sack
Chef De Parti: Harry Vidercci.
* * *
28 comments:
Oh, Maroon, for shame! But don't worry. I plan a welcoming luncheon in the El Al Frequent Flyers' Lounge when you touchdown at Heathrow.
THAT TRIUMPHANT RETURN MENU IN FULL
Grapeshot Segments or Fruit Jews
Steak Tornados with Mustard Gas Sauce and half-baked potatoes
Cockpit au Vin with chips on shoulder
Arabian Dessert
Bomber Surprise
Bitter Lemon Sorbet
Hard Cheese
Tea or Coffin
(Mine Host: Cy O'Nara)
Thanks Clarissa.
I have developed cravings. What I'd really love right now, is a couple of cherry topped blancmanges and anything with mint sauce.
I'm afraid there is no place on my menu for that sort of unimaginative nursery food, Maroon. However, I could offer an alternative of cold tongue, tossed rocket and various fondants, finishing with wilted leaves and a fag?
That'll do nicely madam. Got a light?
bravo.
xoxox
My dear Maroon, I was not aware that you were in the current employ of those terrible people trying to rebuild the battered buttresses of Ibrox.
Come on hame, the grass is greener further along the M8. I'll meet you outside Waxies, with a pint of porter and a wee sprig of mint for good cheer.
How about hand-made bangers with mustard mash explosion?
Sx
Jimmy's right. No matter how bleak things look they ll brighten up when you're hame.
Jimmy, if it did it for me, I'd give you a great big Frenchie. Alas my friend, the old firm is a two headed snake disappearing up its own ass.
I have to tell you this: Had Rangers been the anti-establishment team playing the attacking flamboyant football, I’d be a Hun. Thankfully, everything worked out the other way. I am now 50. I remember 1967, the whole country went mental. Celtic weren’t Irish, not even Scottish really, they were GLASWEGIAN. Everyone else could fuck right off. Liverpool had the Beatles, London had all that Kaiser Wilhelm Carnaby Street stuff and Chelsea, the USA had California Dreamin’ and Woodstock, Manchester had George Best and erm...rain...
There was music and Twiggy and Dusty Springfield and the Stones, and mini skirts and OUR team had waltzed off with the prize with some panache. THAT was the important thing. They gave the appearance of breezing through the whole competition. This lot couldn’t lick the sweat off a dead man’s balls. (sorry Pat).
I shouldn't think so Pat. Home is not where the heart is nor where charity begins.
Home is an airline based board game on drunken Tuesday nights or slap-dash, full production, Sunday lunches with bread sauce and gravy boats, or jiggling down the street in a brocade frock coat, or finishing the day with a big, fuck off glass of strong red wine with an ice cube in it then lying tangled up all night with the most beautiful woman in the world.
Compared to that, rural shitsville pales.
Savannah, darling you are too kind.
Honestly.
xxoxoooxxxoxo ;)
Scarls!!!!!
"How about hand-made bangers with mustard mash explosion?"
You set it up, I'll bring the Margaux and anything else I can think of.
Axxxxxxxxxxx.
Ahhh Maroon, for your honesty I would like to withdraw the porter and get straight on with the strang stuff.
We'll raise a glass or six as we argue over who was the true King of Glesga... Jinky or Larsson!
By 'God' I'm salivating already.
The skins are the fiddly, but my fingers are willing...
Sx
Where is Mrs P to tell me off?
Scarlet, I have bigger fish to fry, I'm afraid, and I mean that literally. As we speak, Mrs Rumteigh is gutting a huge Roughscale Sole for me, preparatory to plunging it into a quart of Crisp 'n Dry. She has been on a course called Make Your Fish Go Further, run by a nephew of Rick Stein.
You're taking this Come Dine With Me thing seriously aren't you?
I shall consult my free Lidl recipe book and see what I can come up with...
Sx
"lying tangled up all night with the most beautiful woman in the world."
for lack of a better word. awesome.
Eggs Interdict (that made me laugh)
Maroon, I am just in from a bar in Windsor where I had a Pink Squirrel. I bet you've never had one.
What is director a euphemism for?
Work's for wimps. You can find all you need to eat in the hedgerows, at this time of year at least. Make your own wine from foetid henbane and winkelweed, once you have you'll realise you don't need Tesco.
Mrs P: now what did Kevin tell you?
You don't listen.
Ho ho, Pat, too late I fear! At a terrible place called Bar Below on Canal Street, I necked a Golden Snake (Galliano, Triple Sec, OJ, milk) and two Alien Secretions (Vodka, Midori, Rum, pineapple). Kev's counsel falls on deaf ears.
Goodness gracious Clarissa. Snap!
By some confluence of the solar eclipse, I was at a low joint called "Old Mulligan's Apron" or something last night, where the top-heavy barmaid pressed a "Nagasaki" on me. I don't know what was in it but it comes in a lager glass and tastes awful. All the kids were drinking them. The gents were a fucking disgrace.
Sarah! Apologies for the late arrival of this reply to your comment.You are too kind. Eggs Interdict bind; and, unlike the Curate's Egg, there is no part of them good.
Eryl,henbane schmenbane. Didn't ol' Socrates drink henbane; the arse? We must ask Kim; he will know. Caveat. Kim is strange with drink. In Dollar, he had a sip of organic low alcohol non GI barley wine and while the froth was still on his lip, his eyes went all glassy and he put the tumbler down gently on the bar and asked the barman if he would care to step outside for "a f*cking hammering".
My dearest Mr Bastard, Larsson. MY DECISION IS FINAL
Inky, apologies etc. Director needs no translation (neither lateral nor rotational, Christ sorry). In future calling anyone a director will be like calling them a *unt!
You need a Montezuma's Breakfast, Maroon.
Four parts mezcal, three parts triple sec (therefore nontuple sec, I suppose), fill up the rest of the bucket with lime and ice.
The best thing is that all you eat or drink for the rest of the day tastes just like it. Benefit!
lookitheah, sugarpie, y'all home yet? xoxox
Sav, it's 0100 on the 28th july and that's me just home now.
Oh and Boyo, please do not mention the cardiff ashes test. English and WELSH Cricket board I'm sure but the whole thing stank of sicko fancy.Oh mother, may I?
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