Len the Fish passes round the plate.
“Potted head, anyone? It’s just the head boiled up then formed into cubes.” I take a piece and smother it in mustard. It is very nice; in fact it is the best potted head that I have ever tasted. The remainder of pig rests glumly on the table whilst the audience looks on.
Len the Fish has been booked to address the W.I. next year, a prospect that, as a reasonable man, fills him with terror. The LTLP accordingly offered to allow him to practice his butchery demonstration in our kitchen to a crowd of assorted friends, who are less likely to cut up rough than the Institutionettes, who can be notoriously fierce – especially when there are knives.
“The Toddler would like this,” I offer, munching on my head.
Eddie fires up the great cogs and pistons of the sausage machine as Len the Fish starts making incisions. Meanwhile Short Tony is told to start skinning in order to produce some crackling for a starter. A hundredweight of potatoes go into a stockpot ready for boiling.
Three hours later we are all tucking into the most home-made meal of bangers and mash that you can possibly think of. There are rolled joints, and a bag of sausages for everybody to take home.
At this point I realise in alarm that we have turned into the smug people at the end of cookery programmes where they all sit down at the table and make complimentary remarks to the chef for the benefit of the camera. It is a horrifying thought. Fortunately the mash is a bit soggy, so I can say so and break the illusion.
There are two pieces of head left. I offer them round; there are no takers, so I bung them in the fridge. Having finished a crate of Broadside we decide to go to the Village Pub. I would stay for the LTLP’s tidying-up demonstration, but there is nothing worse than people looking over your shoulder when you work.