The LTLP gazes unusually kindly upon me as I stumble round the kitchen. I have returned from a memorial service that has made me a) maudlin and sentimental and b) horrendously and embarrassingly pissed thanks to the generosity of the family concerned, and the fast-track ‘get horrendously and embarrassingly pissed’ gold card facilities of the Village Pub.

There is a crashing noise from next door, announcing the fact that Short Tony has returned also.

Something to eat is a priority. The LTLP offers several options, none of which seem quite right in the circumstances. There is something nagging at me. It is unusual to have something nagging at me that is not her, and I spend some time trying to identify the source of nag. Eventually I dredge up an old memory, of a man coming to the front door bearing a leaflet.

“You do?!?” I splutter at the telephone, incredulous, like a younger J.R. Hartley with half a pint of Adnams soaked into his shirt. “My name? It’s…”

I get on the phone to Short Tony. “I’vefoundakebabshopthat’lldeliver,” I slur. “To the Village.”

There are disbelieving noises at his end of the line. “It’s just,” I continue, “that they have a minimum order requirement.”

“Sorry. I’d love to,” he slurs. “But I’m cooking some pasta. For the diet.”

There are disbelieving noises on my end of the line, followed by a short argument. I ring off, and crossly ring Big A.

“He’s gone straight to sleep,” barks Mrs Big A. “No – he will not be having a kebab. I’ve cooked him dinner. I had cooked him dinner. And what the hell have you lot been…”

I ring off once more. Boooooooooo – nobody else wants a kebab. In the end I order sixteen pounds worth of kebab for myself and fall asleep during the first one.

I’m not sure how I can possibly get across what an implausible yet marvellous thing it is to find a kebab shop that will deliver to the Village. It is like a magic doorway of sustainance leading out from isolational hell. The only realistic parallel I can think of is that of a starving village in Africa where Oxfam have gone and built a well. And we didn’t even expect Oxfam to come to do all the kebabbing for us, which sheds some perspective on that continent’s difficulties. I will inform Bob Geldof and the man from Toto.

The Cottage smells of kebabs the next morning. I consider microwaving one up for breakfast, but decide against it.

28 thoughts on “I make a shocking discovery.

  1. Blossom says:

    If there is a “next time” when you are feeling maudlin and pissed, (or even just hungry) maybe you could all pitch in and get the large order of kebabs delivered to the pub, neatly bypassing the various food diversions at home?
    Do they deliver to Namibia? You could send the man there with the extra 15 pounds worth.

  2. Fanto says:

    Ooooh. Any pakora left??

    I could right go some pakora just now.

  3. Jimbob says:

    Ah yes there is nothing like a good greasy kebab after partaking of a few alcoholic beverages, and eating the cold remains in the morning is a great hangover cure to.

  4. mb says:

    we started doing kebab runs from our office for lunch on pay day friday. It was nice as a once a month treat.

    Then someone was off on that friday so we also had to go the week after. And then it became a weekly kebab run.

    Then someone was off on the friday. So we went on the thursday as well. And hell, if you can go on a thursday, why not monday, tuesday, wednesday.

    Now we can’t stand the sight of them.

  5. Hugo says:

    Kebabs in the morning must be grilled and NEVER microwaved.

    That would be wrong.

  6. Next time can you ask if they will consider delivering to the nether regions of the French Alps, because we don’t have kebabs (or Oxfam) either.

  7. JonnyB says:

    Hullo mountain dweller. I would imagine if they will deliver to the Village then they will probably do the French Alps as well. But surely there is a decent kebab shop there?!? The French are famous for their love of food.

  8. sablonneuse says:

    I’m amazed the LTLP didn’t find a use for the leftover kebabs as a punishment.

  9. Pat says:

    I’ve never, knowingly, had a kebab. I’m feeling a bit deprived.

  10. Lisa says:

    The Nova Scotia version is called a donair. The sauce is supposedly unique to here, which is likely a good thing when you take a look at the ingredients:

    And the economic out-migrants everywhere crave this disgusting taste of home.

  11. JonnyB says:

    Ye Gods! Lisa!!!

    What on Earth is ‘Italian Seasoning’?!?

  12. john.g. says:

    I,too like kebabs. Did you have the green chillies and bum stinging chilli sauce as well?

  13. zed says:

    “It is like a magic doorway of sustainance leading out from isolational hell.”

    Welcome to my neck of the boondocks where the only thing we can get delivered is a bloody pizza. From Pizza Hut, of all places.

  14. My condolences on your loss, Jonny. I am however reassured to see the speed with which you have mastered your grief, skipping the orthodox Kübler-Ross five-stage model in favour of your own slimline version, starting with Denial but then taking a short-cut through Inebriation directly to Kebabs. This has the added advantage of allowing us to refer to you and “slimline” in the same sentence, which is certainly a first so far as I can remember.

    I’m sure the dear departed is touched to be commemorated in so moving a fashion. Others may think you shallow, Jonny, but heed them not. For myself, I find it comforting to know that there’s one blog out there that I can stroll through anytime without fear of getting my ankles wet…

  15. JonnyB says:

    Zed – I honestly didn’t know that Pizza Hut did pizza?!?

  16. Rufus S Later says:

    Just as I am about to type a witty comment, from the kitchen comes the call “dinner”.

    With my warmed up non-kebab chinese new-year leftovers I have a glass of beer to commemorate your kebab.

    Gung Hei Fat Choy!

  17. Alda says:

    Ivan the Terrible wins comment of the year!

  18. omykiss says:

    you could always feed the leftovers to the chickens … isn’t that what chickens are for?

  19. Sophie says:

    Damn, it’s 10.30am and I Want A Big Greasy Kebab And I Want It Now! But there are no kebab shops in Dunoon. And, as I said, it’s 10.30am. Bugger.

  20. zed says:

    JonnyB – it is debatable.

  21. Mr Angry says:

    My local curry house delivers quite a long way.

    The golfer Nick Price was so enamoured with the Chef’s speciality Balti that he had six of them flown to Canada for a tournament he was competing in.

    It made the national newspapers (of the red top variety, admittedly).

    I do not know if he had to order six of them just to get his bill to sixteen pounds.

  22. Duck says:

    Were you drinking Diamond White? Kebab’s are my Pavlov’s response to Diamond White. Nothing else on earth provokes the same craving.

  23. Richard says:

    For future reference, Jonny, the best kebabs on earth are from Kebab-Ye in Welling, Kent. Even I like them. Not sure they’ll deliver.

  24. QldDeb says:


    I live in the wilds of Tropical North Queensland, having moved up here 3 years ago from Sydney.

    We cannot get a decent kebabs up here either, and I am very picky having lived among the true ethnic creators of them. Most kebabs here are a chiken & salad wrap, no real spices etc. When I visit Sydney or Melbourne the first place I stop after getting off the plane is the kebab shop!

  25. ell says:


  26. JonnyB says:

    Hullo QldDeb and welcome!!!

    Chicken and salad wraps are not kebabs. You will be telling me they do not serve them from vans next.

  27. Oli says:

    I am more of a pizza man myself, perfect for breakfast an all.

  28. GingerBollox says:

    I was just wondering what the socially acceptable time for eating a doner is? Is the “It must be dark” rule of thumb the one to follow?

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