My Bijou Bistro plans are coming on well, dear readers but I decided to launch my new restaurant after the Jubbly celebrations because I didn’t want the Queen taking my lemon light. I haven’t heard anything from the BBC yet but I’m sure it’s because they’re licking their wounds and too proud to admit they were wrong. I wouldn’t accept an offer from them now anyway as I’m sure ITV will be in touch soon. On the down side I found out that the food critic was from the village magazine and not a glossy publication as I’d been led to believe. I was livid, dear readers. She was just some old cake making dot from the WI, so she was and they haven’t even mentioned me in their poultry rag. I have written one of my very terse letters and informed said Dot that she is barred from my Bijou Bistro.
Anyway, there was an air of excitement and anticipation filling my cottage, dear readers as the impending Queen’s Jubbly approached. Gracie and I were busy in my kitchen, our baked beans burning from all the snackette de morderes we had made. We stuck to traditional on stick morsels such as mini Scotch eggs (Marigold Head has boosted morale in his cul-de-sac, the details of which I don’t wish to discuss), sausages, gherkins, cheese, pineapple, cheese and pineapple (Mr. Pig will only eat them together), prawn balls, chicken nuggets and just about anything we could find that will go on a stick. Baked beans blistered and sore we plonked ourselves in front of the picture box for our daily episode of the quiz show Oeuf Heads.
Mr. Pig was busy outside practicing his egg and spoon race ready for the big day. I’d allowed him to cheat by superglueing the wooden spoon to his paw because he just couldn’t get passed the starting line without dropping the egg and I knew he was going to make a fool of himself, so I did. He was also taking part in a ‘Hare and the Tortoise’ style race but taking the place of the hare. Apparently it’s an old guinea pig tradition at fairs and fetes to attempt this race and all his family were placing bets on him to win. I have allowed his rogue famille to stay in my cottage garden until after the Jubbly Celebrations mainly because I liked the idea of having a free band at my party. They also helped to fill my estate making it look like I had more guests than anyone else in the village.
Anyway, I digest. All the way through our picture box programme Mr. Pig kept running in and annoying us with his pathetic nonsense. First it was because he couldn’t get the spoon off his paw and was finding it difficult to practice his running race. Do you want to win the oeuf and spoon race or beat the tortoise was my question to him. He said he wanted to win the tortoise race because his family were betting on him and if he lost they would be sure to embarrass him in front of everyone and Mrs. Eileen Pig and the ragonteurs would never forgive him. So, to help the little wee fella out I gave him a copy of the Tortoise and the Hare. Some of the pages towards the end are missing but he should have got the general gist of it all. We told him to run a few laps of the village as part of his training. He soon came back complaining that the wooden spoon was still hindering him, yippety yip yap. So, I ‘moved’ him towards the kitchen, ‘placed’ his spoon clad paw on my butchers block and chopped the offending item off with my meat cleaver. He still had the stick part attached but that’s his fault not mine; he had told me he wanted to be the best oeuf and spoon racer in the whole world and that’s why I had stuck it on. Off he went again and came back a few cat minutes later because he said he couldn’t run in flip flops and they were rubbing his toes. By this time, Gracie and I were halfway through an episode of Inspector Morse and we were becoming annoyed at the constant interruptions. During the commercial advertisements we ‘removed’ said flip flops and ‘popped’ him onto She’s treadmill at a reasonable speed and told him not to get off until we told him to. After all, if he wanted to win the race, he had to do his training.
Once we’d watched two episodes of Inspector Morse we went to see how he was getting on. The treadmill was still running but there was no sign of Mr. Pig. Eventually we found the lazy little rongeur wedged into She’s bookshelf. He appeared to be in a deep sleep and had hidden himself quite tightly between Jane Austen’s ‘Pride and Predjudice’ and Enid Blyton’s ‘The Magic Faraway Tree’. He was in such a deep sleep we had to put him into an ice bag from my freezer and ‘shake’ him up a bit. When he came to we told him that laziness wasn’t going to win him the race. He stomped home in a sulk, complaining of a headache and a bad back.
Finally the Jubbly day arrived and all my guests had a marvellously wonderful time, so they did. I handed out leaflets advertising my new Bijou Bistro and informed my potential customers of my ten year restaurant plan. Unsurprisingly Mr. Pig lost the oeuf and spoon race and also the race against the tortoise. He’d followed the book I gave him to the letter. I told him he was supposed to make note of the training not the technique. Too many snacks and nap stops and Damian, the tortoise from next door won, baked beans down. He’s a strange creature, so he is. We offered him some party nibblets just as he crossed the finishing line but he said he just wanted to keep walking now that he was free. He’d watched Forrest Gump on the picture box and it was his dream to recreate the film.
Anyway, congratulations to Queenie and thank you for the Jubbly Celebrations even though I had the poorlies for two cat days having consumed too much sauce.
I must flee, dear readers, I’m having a violin lesson…I don’t want to say anymore about it other than I am extending my intermellectual culturism, so I am…
Your bestest fluff
Wilfred.
Piss. S. Mr. Pig suffered quite an embarrassment after losing the race against the tortoise. His family forced him into a purple and cerise pink shell suit and made him reinact the picture box game show, Wipeout in their swimming pool. After eight rounds of it I decided enough was enough. He was drawing quite a crowd and distracting my guests from my Bijou Bistro tour and seminar. In all honesty I know him better than anone else and I could tell he’d had enough so I rescued the little wee fella and ‘pinned’ him to my washing line to dry. Unfortunately the shell suit shrank in the scorching sun so he will be ‘wearing’ it for the foreseeable future. It’s resembling a very tight Bonnie Langford style lycra leotard and he could easily be mistaken for one of the cast from the theatre production, Fame, so he could…