I've never liked barbecues. It's what sets me alone, a rock amongst my fellow Englishmen.
Along with wearing sleeveless vests, Taylor Swift, tattoos, swimming for fun and carveries which are all about as popular as Farage seemingly is around here, I am an island. True, an island where time has stood still since about 1994, but escape seems somehow too late and too much effort.
At a recent party for a friend's 50th birthday, which was a bit too like a dinner soiree rather than the mosh pit of various lurid-coloured alcohols and curios that was his 20th, we discussed the 70's born question: If you had unlimited 48 hour access to Marty McFly's DeLorean and enough plutonium to power North Korea's "factories", where would you go? No-one else said 1981. But I would, despite being a seven year old back then. And it's mainly because of Ipswich Town. Everyone else plumped for great historic events. Pffff. As if you'd want to come back carrying The Black Death, ricketts, scurvy or smelling of dung and pestilence.
Barbecues are best suited to very hot countries, and even then should be rigorously patrolled for flies. Here, they are bastions of unknown food bourne illness. That creamy-looking potato salad sat congealing in a tupperware bowl. Those burnt sausages. That steak. God that steak. Cooked by the owner of the house where the barbie is held, despite him ordinarily burning toast. Flapped like a broken wing onto your plate, one end well done, the other bluer than the flares outside PR when we played Exeter and Huddersfield. The invention of the oven wasn't a gimmick. It cooks food better. You can eat it civilly, indoors, at leisure, without balancing a plastic cup of wine on the arm of a deckchair.
Terry, of course, doesn't agree, I doubt many do. It's one of my Room 101's. They are many. Aside from the above, I also have never liked cheesey chips, Enid Blyton, heavy metal music, conifers and the smell of cooking beetroot. Eclectic tastes.
So I went to Terry's barbie on Friday at 5pm, day off work not because, as my colleagues grumbled, I'd be hungover after the England game, oh no. Never even watched it. Forgot about it. I've only watched about three or four games in the Euro's. Not through choice, but just because I've had enough of football. The last season was a perfect as seasons get if you prefer your club footy. Anything else is gilding.
On arrival, he hugged me, and then Mrs Tel kissed me and did introductions. Neighbours, friends who I hadn't previously met, Sandy and Tony and their sulky-looking kids who I had, some bloke called Wes who supported West Ham and was somehow involved with Koi carp and who bored me with unblinking chatter about both. The neighbours seemed friendly enough, although there was a certain 'Rosemary's Baby' vibe, as though they could justifiably be a coven that Tel had joined 'for a laugh' and then couldn't shake. Mr Tel looked as lovely as ever in her Stranglers Rattus Norvegicus T-shirt, pale grey jeans and black converse boots.
We had the drinks. I had a bottle of Asahi. I was staying the night in Halstead with them, to help clear up and to test their new sofa bed in the spare room, which was comfy. The food sizzled on the barbecue, filling the garden patio with aromas of firelighters mixed with slowly cooking meat. The burgers were thick, the burger buns brioche from Marks, the salads kept in the fridge in glass bowls under cling film. "I've done sausages in the oven and the steaks are last on, marinatin' 'em in hot sauce" he muttered as I helped him turn the burgers and jiggled the chopped onions in their silver foil on the embers.
This was meant to be their housewarming party. He'd bought champagne and I bought a bottle of Creme de Cassis for Kir Royales, his new favourite non-beer or brandy drink. We made them to drink with the burgers but only four people had one, and that was Tel, Sandy, Tony and I. Everyone else just had the champagne. Good champagne (Moet) as well. We toasted Tel and Mrs Tel and the house and Tony's kids, one of whom starts work for PWC in London on Monday, the other is entering his final year at Uni. They both looked suitably embarrassed, as kids always do these days. If they're not checking out their phones or being sullen.
The steaks were OK. I wished I'd eaten at their dining table rather than sat in a patio chair in front of a cramped glass-topped table listening to the mating rituals of Koi carp and why Moyes had to go from the earnest-looking Wes (Tel later said he'd got Aspergers and was a friend of a friend who couldn't come but Wes turned up anyway, despite the invite being made through third parties).
Anyway, we got drunker as the night shadows lengthened and you couldn't see the end of the garden. People left early, until it was just nine of us, Tel, Mrs Tel, Tone and Sandy, their two kids, me, Wes and a neighbour who told ribald stories of his days working in the print and who wasn't deterred even when his wife went. Wes went at twelve, leaving me his business card in case I fancied a few carp in my garden or to watch West Ham, I never really knew which. The neighbour walked back to his house, three sheets, still laughing at his own stories. Tone gave his car keys to Sandy (who hadn't drunk a drop all night) and the kids piled in the back as she reversed their silver BMW 5 series off the drive. It was a fairly good night.
"Footy season's geddin' closer innit?" said Tel as we started on the brandy. Yup. Can't wait. But first, a little Tour de France detour. |  |
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