Well waddya know. He went and shot himself.
It’s weird. I was at a barbecue on Saturday where the birthday boy (hope you had a good one, Aubs) was telling us about his trip to Las Vegas last weekend as a member of the James’ stag party. All the trimmings, by the sound of it – (fake) Hummer rides, firing guns at innocent sandbags, gambling, sex with prostitutes in knocking shops and of course, extreme intoxication. I asked whether he’d seen any lizards. And everyone knew what I meant.
A barbecue in London in February, I know, it was freezing, it just made hanging around the grill all the more legitimate. Macho!
A nifty party, all told. Excellent barbie grub, served up by the Antipodean host, so I guess he’s had practice. Those of us who reached puberty without seeing the sun at all are rather lacking in the whole field of ‘cooking outdoors’. Although I have to say that what little experience I’ve had of barbecuing in the US, which is not much, has told me they’re not so hot either. Either you soak your meat in the entire contents of the spice rack, or you have a piece of beef so chemically altered it recommends a salad dressing for you. (See The Restaurant At The End Of The Universe). Aha! Generalisations! Gotta love ’em.
They know how to do it proper in Germany. No bread, just an entire pig on a spit, a 6-litre flagon of beer, consisting of 80% froth, and 10 Kleine Jaegermeister playing in the background. ( Translation here)