I’m not the first comedy writer to mention this, nor will I be the last. But when you find yourself away from the keyboard and in other people’s working environments, you inevitably get told “you should write about this place, you’d get loads of material”.
So in this spirit, I present to you The Fascinating Incident With The Sausage Rolls (Burned).
I was in an office. It had a staff kitchen. I turned the kettle on to boil. As I did so, I noticed a tray of burnt sausage rolls on the side. This is an important fact that may get lost in the following story, so remember it well.
As I stared into the bottom of the mug in a pique of ennui, a man called Len walked in. He’s a gnarled old man who used to be a union rep on shop floors. He wasn’t happy.
“That fucking Andy, he’s burnt his fucking sausage rolls, that fucking idiot. I can’t fucking believe it.”
But there they were, staring back at him as he swore at their crispy pastry and wizened sausage innards.
With that, he turned round, swore again and walked out.
The kettle began to bubble and steam.
Len returns, this time with a friend called Ken, a man who manages to swear even more than Len. Ken walks with him to the tray on the counter.
“Look, that fucking Andy, he’s burnt his fucking sausage rolls, that fucking idiot.”
Ken looks, and with a chuckle confirms, “he’s burnt his sausage rolls.” I don’t know why he didn’t call them twats, but he was quite restrained on this occasion.
“Fucking idiot,” Len concludes and they both head back out.
As they exit, Ken says happily, “Call the fire brigade.”
The kettle bubbles a little more furiously, and I lament turning it on when it was so full.
Within moments, someone else comes in. This is Fred. He’s a doddery old sort, with a big bushy moustache and early onset senility. He wanders slowly to the tray on the side and looks down at it for a moment. Then, with a chuckle, he says “He’s burnt his sausage rolls.”
I love the way Bristolians say ‘sausage rolls’.
Satisfied that Andy has indeed burnt his sausage rolls, Fred turns round and heads out, chirruping as he goes, “call the fire brigade.”
The kettle clicks and I begin to pour water onto my freeze-dried granules.
Behind me, I hear Nick wandering in. He’s twenty-something and related to Fred. Like his Dad, Nick wanders to the tray and looks down at it.
“He’s burnt his sausage rolls,” he says with a chastising laugh.
I stir my coffee.
Nick leaves, adding out loud with a smile, “call the fire brigade.”
At this point, I wondered if I might be the butt of some elaborate and brilliantly surreal practical joke. So, having added milk, I picked up my mug and wandered back through the building.
On my way, I passed all four of them, huddled together, loudly talking about the burnt sausage rolls in the kitchen.
“He’s burnt his sausage rolls,” said one.
“Call the fire brigade,” said another.
“Fucking idiot,” said a third.
They never did call the fire brigade.
Can I have a sitcom now please?
|Keith: A Novel|
|Crime, conspiracy, and cutlery.
Keith, an average man, with a sensible job, cocks a snook at his mundane existence, and he’s about to make the biggest mistake of his life.
When an insomniac with an over-active imagination decides to give in to his fantasies, what could possibly go wrong?
And what do the bloodied thorn of a rose, an empty buff folder, and a SWAG bag full of forks have to do with anything?
Keith takes you on a criminal romp through suburbia.
You’ll never sleep again.
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