Wellington’s Beef

[Yet another conversation between myself and my friend Mike. I’m pretty sure Facebook is gearing up to permanently ban us from Messenger.]

Mike: “Was there Priding this weekend?”

Me: “I was out of town for most of it, but I worked a shift at the Forge and experienced minor Priding on Sunday.”

Mike: “Minor Priding sounds like a character from an Agatha Christie novel. He’s a vicar who likes to meet up in the bushes for a little toad-in-the-hole.”

Me: “You know, the names of English dishes always sound like activities you’d come across in a boarding school locker room.”

Mike: “Right? Sometimes I make up imaginary ones. ‘I think I’d like a taste of master’s hotrump,’ Eustace said as he fingered the thimble.”

Me: “I just looked up a list of English food on Wikipedia and am both horrified and a little turned on. ‘Bangers and mash!’ Stanley cried, sliding his rarebit into Elliott’s lardy cake.

Mike: “Care for a nibble of grandad’s spotted dick?

Me: “‘Unable to hold back against the bubble and squeak, Angus shot jellied eels as Hamish filled his treacle with hog’s pudding.’

Mike: “Hog’s Pudding sounds like a town in Potterworld.”

And with that, the catamite foodie thread came to a premature close, although I’m now even more psyched about Mike coming down for GLUE Weekend. I’m going to take him to the Black Labrador and see if he can order lunch without dissolving into a puddle of helpless church-giggles.

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