With more drama and bloodshed than a thousand episodes of Deal or no deal, I took on the gruesome twosome in the shed. Accompanied by the radio and a stray cat, and decked out in the clothes of a North Sea fisherman, I put my squeamishness to one side and began plucking the beasties that had been hidden away from sight and mind since the middle of the week.
Fuck, what a nightmare. With their limp little bodies flopping about, it was so difficult to figure out what was what in the sea of feathers that ensued. And they smelled horrible, and then I had to get their insides out.
And then you saw me dead.
They're in the oven now. Pheasants aren't even that easy to cook; they can be tough; they can taste strong (i.e. bad). But I suppose if the poor little bastards have gone through death-by-angry-boss, the least I can do is honour them by cooking them and eating them. And at least they didn't disgrace themselves by getting run over like most of their brethren do. Stupid fucking animals.
Push the button
I've ordered tickets for the Sugababes' concert in Manchester in the spring. I saw them when they supported Take That in the summer and they were top notch, so I figured they'd be worth a go.
My desire to experience or live music was fuelled after seeing The Roots (yes, hip hop/funk/soul) on Friday. They were fucking top notchamundo.
Christmas wrapped up
I've got loads of Christmas presents to wrap up. I don't know how I manage it, but every year, I manage to get something that's impossible to wrap. This year's "what the fuck have you got one of those for, you know you can't wrap them!" item is a football.
Tit.
13 comments:
Yip - first!
When I saw the words gruesome twosome, I thought you meant Connie and Donnie Darko. Then I read on.
We had a pet sheep when I was a kid and my dad had it slaughtered and made us eat it. Bastard.
Footballs and wine bottles, and goofy hexagonal doll boxes are the reason that gift bags were invented. Fuck wrapping that shit, and pop it in a gift bag.
I like pheasant, but I don't think I'd go near it if I had to pluck, gut, and roast it myself. You're a better (wo)man than I, Gunga Din.
At least he didn't make you skin it too.
I need a box I think. I really can't cope with the thought of wrapping a football; I'd rather pluck more pheasants.
Hee hee, you said 'Tit'!
Fucking perv.
I have to give you props for being willing and able to pluck those damn birds. I couldn't have done it. I watched my father do it one year after a hunting trip and ever since then I have trouble touching even a raw chicken from the supermarket. Yuck.
As for the football, I'd have to agree with Suburban Wonder - gift bags honey. The box would work too but the gift bag can be reused next year.
A box it is. Or failing that, clinging on to the faint hope that the recipient of said football doesn't actually turn up over Christmas.
I have to admit that I didn't chop the heads or feet off, but I did have to get my hand right up their jacksies and give them a good fisting to get their insides out. Yeeeuuuch.
I take it you're more of a 'receiver' than a 'giver' in the fisting stakes then?
Dirty fucking lesbo.
I have no idea what you're talking about, you dirty little bastard.
So how were the sexually abused birds?
And the pheasants?
The cock was quite meaty and moist, but the hen was a little dry.
Such filth.
One way to keep your bird moist is to smother the breast in butter and then layer bacon on top.
Dirty bastards, the lot of you.
Anyway, I just use E45.
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