BLAND PORKERS DO NOWT FOR THE RAINBOW
The boy wonder
never ceases to remind me how quite astonishingly old I am, and I suspect he has a point. I am beginning to feel as though the Heritage Department should be offering a generous grant to have me restored, but when you live in the youngest of cities it is easy to lose perspective, and since we arrived in the UK last week we have been positively drowning in history.
After a delightful night lowing with the rest of the cattle on SAA, we struck out boldly for Windsor. Sadly the son and heir was so intent on catching up on missing kip that no amount of poking in the soft parts could dislodge him from the back seat of the car, until we arrived at Her Majesty's Farm Shop. Anyone who's anyone has a farm shop these days, each more organic than the next and united in charging like an entire herd of buffalo. Slinging the boy over the shoulder, we took a pew and the snoring increased until the arrival of the Queen's noblest chocolate cake.
Operating on the principle that what happens on tour stays on tour, we tucked into a soundly nutritional lunch of chocolate cake and ice cream, washed down with lashings of ginger beer. I have seen Ferraris accelerate more slowly than the young lad on such a quality diet, and by the time he'd tucked away his second slice and really opened the throttle, he began to attract a bit of attention from the rest of the crowd, average age well north of the bus pass.
It may have been the decision to stand on his chair, waving a fork and declaring he was Wonderboy that stirred memories of Dunkirk, and the patrons soon called for the fishing boats and left in much disarray. This left us free to peruse the comestibles section at leisure, and I must express my deep admiration for the royal family's restraint if this is the sort of tucker that gets slipped under the beak three times a day. I can see why the likes of Henry VIII ended up entirely spherical, and the sausage section alone would send me packing to the high-scoring end of the trouser shop.
Note to all readers who also happen to be butchers: why can nobody in SA make a top of the range sausage? This is a matter of national concern, and I am surprised it has not yet been raised by the president in ANC Today. Can it be a racial conspiracy? Could there be heavily bearded fifth columnists making top-notch pork and leek sizzlers and supplying them in a manner that is neither representative nor equitable? The public has the right to know.
The national sausage is a vital symbol of nationhood, a rallying point in times of trouble and a mutual celebration in times of joy, and SA's offerings simply do not come up to scratch. Boerewors, like Die Stem, is a quality operation tainted by its history, and rather than fiddle around changing the place names, we need to start afresh and create a Rainbow Sausage in the spirit of national reconciliation.
Butchers of the nation, the gauntlet is on the deck. Sling a few kilos of your finest in my direction, and may the best chipolata win.
