keithlard, Pope of Barbecue Town

I had a delicious barbecue with Jane and I invented a special new spicy barbecue dish called Steaks Finchley! It is some posh steaks marinaded in my personalised masala sauce with fresh ground roasted whole spices including cardamoms, fenugreek, cumin, cloves, dried chillis, black pepper and fiery North African harissa chilli paste! It is fun to make as it involves roasting and pounding up lots of spices while listening to jazz music.

Then you grill it a bit and serve in some pitta breads lightly buttered with ghee and dribble lemon juice all over it. Yum! I am probably Britain’s second most barbecue-obsessed man so I am always really excited to have a barbecue. As usual though there was way too much food and I ended up eating a bizarre combination of breakfast foods the next day including spicy chicken wings, delicately grilled sossidges marinaded in my special personalised masala sauce of crushed black pepper and sea salt, groundnut oil and dusted with thyme and rosemary, and crocodile sandwidges. The last bit is made up obviously as it was actually bacon, but I was experiminting with pretending to eat crocodile sandwidges.

Jane and Andrew were grand company and we lazed around in the garden until X o’clock enjoying the gentle crackling of a real fire, as we gradually burned the fence.

In other news, I went out grooving on Friday with Matt and a glamorous mystery companion, to one of London’s top disco bars! I did not really do too much actual grooving, although when called upon I do, like Jeeves, swing a dashed efficient shoe. But it was a warm, balmy summer e’en, ripe with the blush of the westering Sun (good writing) so we sat outside drinking quite a few glasses of drinks. I had Cosmopolitans as I was trying to impress a lot of good looking women there with my sauve sophistercation and general flânerie, except when I accidentally quaffed some all over myself. “Ha ha,” I laughed languidly, flicking a speck of cocktail from my otherwise immaculate lace cuffs.

I think I did quite well impressing London’s trendy youngsters with my street cred and hip-hop sensibilities, except when I slightly ruined it by reading Anne Brontë’s The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. In my defence it was quite an exciting bit. On the night bus home there was an American woman abusing her boyfriend. “You’re a f****** c*** Ben, and your friends are all f****** c***s too, you c***. Why don’t you just f*** yours*** you c***-******* ***** shit*** ***-hole? Oh thank you very much,” this last to an old lady making room for her to sit down.

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