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Tuesday, 6 December 2016

In which One is served...

Six and seven are a set of double doors, Nana, in answer to your enquiry!

This phenomenon is required to house an image, see above, of a roast dinner cooked by the dear old Admiral.  OK, so it didn't look exactly like that, but that's what he was aiming for presumably.

Bouyed by his recent experience of dumpling creation, the old thing once again tottered toward the galley muttering about a roast beef extravaganza.

'Oh shite!' thought One, 'I'll need to get a few pints of Pinot down me neck afore I attempt the mastication of that fecker.'

Having been ushered, rudely, out of the galley upon One's attempt at help/offering advice, One flolloped down on the sofa to await the feast.

Hours passed, the air thick with smoke and profanities, and eventually he staggered in with the offering.

Having been a devotee of dear old Delia, One is now a dab hand at the creation of sumptuous Sunday roasts, but One's small attempts at assistance were batted off and the old thing went it alone.

Should any other persons of the male persuasion feel the need to attempt such a feat, I have written the Admirals instructions below...

Under no circumstances allow the oven to warm up to the correct temperature.

Put the beef in...

Under no circumstances season, or add any oil, making sure the plastic bit under the meat stays intact.

Cook the meat until it resembles a recently mined nugget of anthracite.

Set aside on the kitchen counter without covering so that it dries to feckery and gets cold.

Put the par-boiled potatoes onto a cold baking tray and smother with any old oil you find in the kitchen cupboard.  Don't bother turning the oven up to the correct temperature, after all, 'you know best and you never come into the galley telling me what to do, do you!'

Having put the vegetables on to boil last Thursday, check that they are on their way to resembling slurry.  Ensure the veg are stirred regularly with an expensive wooden salad server, leaving it in the water so that it is rendered 'fecked.'

Mix the Yorkshire batter.

Pour batter into a cold bun tin, making sure not to add any fat so that the puddings will adhere to the tin in the manner of shite to a blanket.

Having mixed your instant gravy earlier, set aside to congeal and get cold.

Don't bother warming the plates.

Keep  on opening the oven door to check that the Yorkshire pudding don't rise and shout into the sitting room: 'I can't understand why the potatoes are taking so long to cook.'

Ignore One, when One enquires as to the temperature of the oven, but turn it up anyway, mumbling something like...

'Oh shut up you fat tart!'

Eventually, serve with a triumphant flourish.


Well, One did 'enjoy' actually, after all it's wonderful that the dear old thing had a go.  Let's just hope it's got it out of his system for the foreseeable future.

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