Preparation X and Aztec Two Step, each served on doilies handmade by some of the darling ladies of the audience.’
The camera tracked along the third row, where the gleeful ladies were having the times of their lives as Johnnie invited them to join in the chant.
‘Choose, choose!’
Dirk’s finger hovered over Preparation X (sent in by Mrs D. Roberts of Blaenau Ffestiniog, an apprentice witch of the high slate country). He then pointed at the Aztec Two Step.
‘Knife and fork for Dirk, not that you need a knife seeing as a dirk is a small Scottish knife. That would suit you Billy, wouldn’t it – a short Scottish knife, you fucking stupid dwarf.’ Meg the vision mixer missed that one. There were ructions later on.
Two scantily-clad leggy blondes tottered in on high heels, one bearing a fork and another bearing a knife. Expect the death threats from the feminists, thought Henry.
Dirk ate the food, which after the first moment of imagined revulsion caused no revulsion. In fact it tasted very pleasant.
‘What d’ya think, Dirk, darling?’
‘V-v-very nice.’
‘Is it indeed, Dirk – well we’ll find out later what it is you’ve allowed into your alimentary. Let Kylie and Charlene take you over there to sit down so you can digest things. Dirk, ladies and gentlemen! What a waste of a skin!’
The band played the sting that announced the evening’s main guest. The assistant floor managed ushered Marty onto the staircase and he was momentarily dazzled by the lights. He sat down in the chair opposite Johnnie, a seat deliberately upholstered to allow the guest to sink in and look uncomfortable right from the outset.
‘Well, Marty. They tell me you’re a millionaire, not that you could tell from those clothes.’
‘Wah-wah,’ went the trumpet, applauding the joke.
‘As I said, you’re a self-made businessman. Who made you, Doctor Frankenstein?’
A snort of trombone.
Even though Marty was not bad looking he seemed uglier, slumped into the sofa. He also hadn’t managed to get a word in yet.
‘You’ve created a small empire of burger vans – top class stuff, haven’t you?’
‘Yes,’ managed the discomfited Marty, who was starting to sweat now. He was aware of a droplet gathering on the tip of his nose.
‘So where do the recipes from? Do you steal them from books or are you a naturally inspired chef?’
‘I picked them up on my travels.’
‘That’s not all you picked up I hear. My, my, what an articulate man we have here. Loquacious and erudite too. And where has our well-travelled wordsmith peregrinated in this fair planet?’
‘I’ve b-b-b-been here and there.’
The audience squealed at this embarrassment.
‘Ever been to Latin America, Marty, ever ventured there? They eat guinea pigs down there I hear.’
Camera 4 cut to Dirk’s face, alert now. Marty was caught like a collared dove.
‘Do you know what would be a wicked wheeze with the emphasis on wicked? What if you substituted sewer rats, good old Rattus Norvegicus for guinea pigs and served those up on a bap? That would make good business sense wouldn’t it? Tell me now, wouldn’t it?’
Marty tried to get up but the sofa’s capaciousness restrained him.
‘Ladies and gentlemen. This man Marty Sathyre does precisely that, serves up rats in burgers, pigeons in kebabs, all manner of unspeakable filth is served up as food and he has the audacity to dress it up as fine provender. Let’s bring on Dr. Filigree Watson, an expert on animal pathology.’
A pantomime mad scientist made his entrance, an egg-shell head above the obligatory bow tie.
‘You’ve examined the contents of Mr. Sathyre’s products, Dr. Watson. What do you deduce?’
‘I have no doubt that the main ingredients on the menu of ‘Perfect Taste’ include the brown rat, the common wood pigeon, collared doves and some evidence of crow and grey squirrel.’
‘But they’re not described as such on the menu are they Marty?’
‘No, they’re
The camera tracked along the third row, where the gleeful ladies were having the times of their lives as Johnnie invited them to join in the chant.
‘Choose, choose!’
Dirk’s finger hovered over Preparation X (sent in by Mrs D. Roberts of Blaenau Ffestiniog, an apprentice witch of the high slate country). He then pointed at the Aztec Two Step.
‘Knife and fork for Dirk, not that you need a knife seeing as a dirk is a small Scottish knife. That would suit you Billy, wouldn’t it – a short Scottish knife, you fucking stupid dwarf.’ Meg the vision mixer missed that one. There were ructions later on.
Two scantily-clad leggy blondes tottered in on high heels, one bearing a fork and another bearing a knife. Expect the death threats from the feminists, thought Henry.
Dirk ate the food, which after the first moment of imagined revulsion caused no revulsion. In fact it tasted very pleasant.
‘What d’ya think, Dirk, darling?’
‘V-v-very nice.’
‘Is it indeed, Dirk – well we’ll find out later what it is you’ve allowed into your alimentary. Let Kylie and Charlene take you over there to sit down so you can digest things. Dirk, ladies and gentlemen! What a waste of a skin!’
The band played the sting that announced the evening’s main guest. The assistant floor managed ushered Marty onto the staircase and he was momentarily dazzled by the lights. He sat down in the chair opposite Johnnie, a seat deliberately upholstered to allow the guest to sink in and look uncomfortable right from the outset.
‘Well, Marty. They tell me you’re a millionaire, not that you could tell from those clothes.’
‘Wah-wah,’ went the trumpet, applauding the joke.
‘As I said, you’re a self-made businessman. Who made you, Doctor Frankenstein?’
A snort of trombone.
Even though Marty was not bad looking he seemed uglier, slumped into the sofa. He also hadn’t managed to get a word in yet.
‘You’ve created a small empire of burger vans – top class stuff, haven’t you?’
‘Yes,’ managed the discomfited Marty, who was starting to sweat now. He was aware of a droplet gathering on the tip of his nose.
‘So where do the recipes from? Do you steal them from books or are you a naturally inspired chef?’
‘I picked them up on my travels.’
‘That’s not all you picked up I hear. My, my, what an articulate man we have here. Loquacious and erudite too. And where has our well-travelled wordsmith peregrinated in this fair planet?’
‘I’ve b-b-b-been here and there.’
The audience squealed at this embarrassment.
‘Ever been to Latin America, Marty, ever ventured there? They eat guinea pigs down there I hear.’
Camera 4 cut to Dirk’s face, alert now. Marty was caught like a collared dove.
‘Do you know what would be a wicked wheeze with the emphasis on wicked? What if you substituted sewer rats, good old Rattus Norvegicus for guinea pigs and served those up on a bap? That would make good business sense wouldn’t it? Tell me now, wouldn’t it?’
Marty tried to get up but the sofa’s capaciousness restrained him.
‘Ladies and gentlemen. This man Marty Sathyre does precisely that, serves up rats in burgers, pigeons in kebabs, all manner of unspeakable filth is served up as food and he has the audacity to dress it up as fine provender. Let’s bring on Dr. Filigree Watson, an expert on animal pathology.’
A pantomime mad scientist made his entrance, an egg-shell head above the obligatory bow tie.
‘You’ve examined the contents of Mr. Sathyre’s products, Dr. Watson. What do you deduce?’
‘I have no doubt that the main ingredients on the menu of ‘Perfect Taste’ include the brown rat, the common wood pigeon, collared doves and some evidence of crow and grey squirrel.’
‘But they’re not described as such on the menu are they Marty?’
‘No, they’re
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