Saturday 28th April 2016.
That raw sewage sludging down Church Street, Oughtibridge. Bog roll flecking the long turdy streak trailing fifty yards or so. No one seemed to give a fig.
My ebullient projections in the Fat Cat were another thing. A council panjandrum tweaking my volume switch from across the room. So much for my Barry Manilow.
Now what… visit the chock-a-block Bhaji Shop, Kelham Island?
They’re a bit like those furry tennis balls you find behind your garden shed that hardly bounce, these onion bhajis. So you toss one back over the garden fence harmlessly bonking a rowdy child’s loaf…. New balls please!
And they call it thali but they aint even got the trays right. Back in a Bombay backwater circa 1991 I had the good fortune to catch a thali tray on a half hour coach stop, middle of the night (a botched kidnapping). This aint it. A few faux terracotta pots sit clumsily on a plate smeared with leftover pickle tray (no lime pickle). You got rice, bubblewrap flat bread, and a passable, bland dhal. The main stuff, mackerel or chicken – our choices from a grand total of three – was nicely cooked, we admit, but rather missing the point in their spiceless insipidity.
Scoff your so-so bistro bhaji and your Bobo fillet of fish. Down that last slug of Sam Smith’s IPA from the bottle. And get the hell on out of there before they demand your table back.
What is it with the patchouli joss sticks?
Judge ‘Gonzo’ Pickles
Fred ‘Skippy’ Pickles