The Sunday dinner: Pork belly
The price: £13.50
Happy Mothers’/Mother’s Day everyone. I’m not sure where to put the apostrophe. I also struggle with goats’/goat’s cheese. And not just grammatically. Those of you who’ve sadly lost your mums probably struggled today. I hope it wasn’t too hard. Even though my segue to that comment seems flippant. And those of you who are mums, probably struggled with bladder control today, due to your ruined vaginas.
My point is that we all have our struggles. I made the point fairly obvious, what with my overuse of the word ‘struggle’ in the above paragraph.
I’d like to wish my own mum a Happy Mother’s Day here too, but she doesn’t always read my posts. She sometimes says she hasn’t got round to it or has been too busy. Which is strange, because she manages to find the time to spend around five hours each week trawling eBay for fucking cushion covers and Moroccan lamps.
You may recall that I bought her a wig from the internet recently, despite her apparent lack of interest in me. It arrived on Friday and I was delighted to receive the following update, courtesy of my sister:
“Ha ha ha,” I replied, as you can see. Amy is a mother of two, so needs regular to super absorbency Tena Lady, I’d imagine. But it’s not all bad. Because of her status as a mother, she was invited to a Pampering Day this week.
Mother’s Day is a time to show your appreciation and thanks for that wonderful woman who has selflessly raised and cared for you. And yet, a few years ago, Ripley and Toby forgot, or just didn’t bother, to get me a Mother’s Day card. They soon regretted it, as you’re about to see.
To be honest, I made Mr Jus put his top on for the photo opportunity, but the other two rocked up dressed identically on Friday night. We played Scattergories that evening, with a fourth man, who doesn’t appear here, because he wasn’t wearing stripes, but I beat him to a fucking pulp along with the rest of these jokers.
My foul language hasn’t improved since last week, you may have noticed, but I’m starting to believe it doesn’t matter. A colleague sent me an email to say she’d sent my blog link to a friend in hospital, who was recovering from a serious operation. To cut a long story short, she was cured after reading my posts. Or at least amused. So that’s something, although I’d be fucking delighted with a copy of Bella if I was trapped on a ward, so I don’t actually know if this counts. I thought I’d mention it anyway, just to show off. It wasn’t the only positive review I had this week either. Another person said that I was:”Hilarious and undoubtedly very good in bed”. However, that person was me, when I was just trying to be positive about myself, so I’m not sure that counts either. It came after the day I was so hungover that I had to take a carrier bag on the commute to work in case I needed to be sick. I despised myself for being a functioning alcoholic and was just trying to cheer myself up.
On Saturday, the chap sat in the centre of the above photograph, wanted to play Scattergories again. As a bit of background, when he was a child, he wanted to be called CALOR. Which sounds a little like a character from Superman, but completely like a blue canister of gas. The latter being rather fitting. But let’s not pander to his wishes.
Instead, he’ll be known as ‘THE SORE LOSER’, which works on a couple of levels, one of which is because he has been moaning about his arse rash this weekend. Mr Jus listened sympathetically and recommended Sudocrem. Middle aged men are just so dreamy…
I played ten games with THE SORE LOSER and won nine. He refused to let me have ‘Hungry Hippos’ as a toy, arguing that it was a game, yet later awarded himself a point for ‘jackdaw’ – something soft that begins with a J, apparently. I didn’t need the extra marks, so let him have it, but he’s a fucking cheat at the end of the day. He told me he wouldn’t give permission to mention his itchy anus in this post, but, as I said, he’s a fucking cheat, so I’m not going to pander to his wishes.
So. Today’s meal took place just down the road from home at The Prince Albert. Its name makes me feel a little tingly down below, because of cock paraphernalia connotations and how sex-starved I clearly am.
Its decor means it’s too normal to bring the local hipster boys to the yard, so is never very busy, despite those bearded bastards being everywhere these days. I only called them bastards for alliterative purposes – I’m partial to a beard, although draw the line at a man bun. There’s no need for those – they just look like gravely ill Sumo wrestlers.
The lack of patrons made me feel slightly more aroused than the thought of penile piercings, if I’m honest, because I like a guaranteed seat these days, even more than a dick with decorations.
I don’t want to wait for a table, but it should be busier in there. Why? Because the Sunday dinners are delicious. Why else? Because it’s a local pub, but one you’re unlikely to be glassed in. What’s the third why? Because the main barman is northern, so is, by default, a good guy. I know that doesn’t really work, because of people like Peter Sutcliffe and Harold Shipman, but other than those two swines, all northern people are great. Oh, maybe not Shannon Matthews’ mum either, but she doesn’t work there to my knowledge. Let’s have a look at today’s food again:
This was before I put the extra gravy on and palmed off the apple sauce, which I don’t need. I had a banana a few weeks ago, so I’m good on the fruit front. I imagine you’re concerned about the Yorkshire pudding’s dryness too. but don’t be. It got wet. As did I, a couple of weeks ago. Did I mention I was sex-starved?
As with last week, the gravy wasn’t gloopy, but it was glorious again. So I was joyous. The roasts weren’t at the goose fat level of Chez Bruce, but they were great. The meal featured broccoli, carrots, and parsnips, all well cooked, and two of which benefitted from a buttery base. It wasn’t the broccoli, so you work it out from there. They had ground pepper too, which I applied with gay abandon, much to Mr Jus’ disgust.
The Yorkshire was robust, even after I drowned him. The pork was tender and its crackling spot on.
The whole thing was, in short, a triumph, made all the more delightful by being located within spitting distance of my front door.
Being so close meant I didn’t need to bother dressing up for the occasion. I wore an Adidas tracksuit, trainers, a headband, sunglasses and an overcoat. It looked like I was literally wearing my mental illness on my sleeve. And the rest of my body. But I didn’t care. I’m comfortable in my own skin and tracksuit.
Granted, I’m getting a bit pissed off that my hair won’t grow. It’s like it’s given up. A sign that my body is dying and just can’t be arsed. I’ve tried twisting my shoulders, a la Girl’s World, but fuck all happens. I’ve looked like Andy Warhol with anaphylactic shock for about a year now and it’s getting me down a little. But what did Mr Jus think? About the meal, not my hair – I know he’s repulsed by the latter.
“I’m loving your perseverance and tenacity,” he told me. “The important thing is to get one out every week and not worry too much about it.”
Well, that wasn’t about the meal, but it’s kind of supportive again, I guess. Just write a blog post, even if it’s shit. And that’s exactly what I’ve always done.
I hope you, and your mums, have a wonderful week.
Final score: 29/33