No Manners Required
I enjoy eating meat. Especially ribs. There’s something primal about eating meat from the bone, something visceral, something real. It’s like camping only tastier.
The animal nature of how you eat them, with fingers and a face covered in sauce means ribs are a time and a place without manners. I might (might) use a napkin; I might (probably not) wash my face afterwards. But during, I am in a Zen-like state, at once totally focussed and de-focussed, filled with nameless joy. The single minded meat-frenzy is a thing of beauty and would scare most sharks. I am a sight to behold. It is not for the feint-hearted. I don’t want your pity or understanding, just look away, it will be over soon. Until next time.
Although even if you do look away, you may be able to hear me, as I’m told I make some kind of warthog-like grunting noise while I eat ribs. But like people who snore I am unaware, due to the above mentioned Zen-like state. And even if I was aware, I wouldn’t care.
If it was not for the threat of a heart attack before the age of 40 and cholesterol replacing my blood I would eat ribs every day, for every single meal including breakfast. And instead of birthday cake. And wedding cake.
What have you done to my little boy?
Last Saturday a woman knocked at my front door. “What have you done to my little boy?” She asked loudly, as the aforementioned child cowered behind her leg. That’s a serious question on Saturday morning in suburbia, especially to a fat, unshaven, balding man in a dirty, ill-fitting dressing gown.
So I looked down at the kid and I didn’t recognise him.
“I’ve never seen him before in my life” I said, like some kind of movie walk-on idiot.
“Oh really” She says, with an arched eyebrow and voice so loud curtains have begun to twitch. I’m starting to worry. It’s moments like this that transform you from That nice bloke who helped me get my new table upstairs to The dirty f*$&ing nonce at number 48.
I once again protested my innocence but it fell on deaf ears.
“Come off it” She mews “And then I get a clue "He saw you.”
He saw me? So I know this isn’t some kid into whom I have clattered while rushing down a busy street or who’s foot I’ve ‘accidentally’ run over with a shopping trolley while he bellowed his heart out in a supermarket. No, he’s seen something. My mind’s racing but I really don’t have a very sordid life, unless you consider it sordid to fist a rotten corpse I really don’t see…sorry, I’m joking, no I’m pretty dull really, I'm no more sordid than most, certainly no Formula One Boss. I don't get up to anything I'm not allowed to do within the confines of my own house. Of course if he was spying while hiding in one of the cupboards he might have seen something rude but then again what would he be doing in my cupboard? Unless I had paid him to be there. With a video camera. In which case he should have kept his mouth shut. Christ, he’s supposed to be a professional! Which of course he’s not and he wasn’t in my cupboard. Or at least if he was I didn’t pay him to be there.
And then another clue, she bleats,
“Last weekend, he saw you, in the kitchen.”
Now I know for a fact that was the weekend my girlfriend was away. And then it dawns on me, Saturday night…me…alone in the house…no girlfriend to make me eat healthily?
The ribs didn’t even make it out of the kitchen; I inhaled them straight from the pan in a tornado of hot red sauce and bits of shattered bone. He must have been walking past, he must have seen. The poor little tinker. He’ll never be the same again.