The Life and Times of a Huw Janus (Disaster Dinners)

Member Name: marandina

Product:	Disaster Dinners
Date:	11/10/04 (69 review reads)
Rating:

Advantages: You could be a cookery sex God

Disadvantages: You may look a chump like Huw if you don't learn to cook

It’s been a long day so far. Having been hard at it with my good lady, it’s time to take a wee break and reveal some of more of my insidious background to my good friend on Dooyoo. Of course, when I say hard at it, I mean decorating my daughter’s bed friend just to clear up any misconceptions on your part <author rolls eyes>

Well having told you all about my romantic dinner with Agatha, the Swedish mud-wrestler, I thought I’d take you back to my halcyon days as a teenager and the origins of my rise to fame in the kitchen. No, it wasn’t always the case that I was a dab hand with my slicer. No, I can still remember that trip to Bournemouth with my three amigos. Back then, all we were interested in was babes, beer and footie although not necessarily in that order.

It was the summer of ’84, a time when men were men and Maggie Thatcher stood astride the country like a Colossus or something equally big. We’d decided to head south in my old beat-up, yellow Marina Estate. It did nothing for our respective images but it got us where we were going and we could always hide it when we got there. Our babe pad was an18 footer set in the grounds of a tourist park just 2 miles from Bournemouth beach. We’d decided to avoid using our real names just for the crack of it really. I mean, I simply didn’t want to be called Huw, Huw Janus, which was the name I’d been christened with. Apparently, my dad had Welsh ancestry and my mom said that he was on the toilet a lot of the time so the rest was history. Then there was Fat Mark, so-called because…erm..he was a tad overweight (like 20 stone in actuality) and finally Dave the Dude, so called because he was a regular chancer who wore a pork pie hat. We became Mick, Titch and Mungo as we’d heard that on the radio somewhere or at least something that sounded abit like it.

It was our first night out in the Metropolis that was Bournemouth. We’d been recommended to go to the Rum Runner, a high energy night club that stayed open until 1pm (that was well late for us). Mark was dressed in leather cap, studded belt and a denim jacket. We did wonder what his game was but we went along with it. It just didn’t seem to suit his build or manner. Dave was more subtle with shirt and trousers whilst I did the shirt and thin tie routine in the hope of getting lucky. Arriving at the bar, Mark (now called Mick) ordered a rum and coke. We looked at him again but merely shrugged as myself and “D the D” ordered lagers. The place looked decidedly unfriendly with Mark/Mick attracting some attention from some large bikers with beards. They looked impressed and pouted at him. I sighed, looked at Dave and wondered whether this night was going to be as long as it felt already.

11pm arrived and we were still propping up the bar. Mark/Mick had stuck with us despite numerous attempts to pick him up, mainly by the bikers, which served to confuse us further. He told us not to judge a book its cover just as “West End Girls” by the Pet Shop Boys came on. It was then that I saw her. Standing at the edge of the dance area, a vision in blonde looking over at her mates dancing around their handbags. Just for a second, I could have swore she looked over at me. I smiled. A few minutes later my chance arrived. The first few strains of that old smoothy, Brian Ferry and “Dance Away” signalled the bump and grind section and I sashayed over to my prey. She was putty in my hands as our hips swayed to the gentle rhythms of the Bournemouth smooches.

As the clock hit twelve, I slipped passed Mick and Titch (me being Mungo, you understand) and secreted a fiver into big M’s hand. “Don’t be early” I whispered and disappeared out of the club. A cab ride later and we were at the caravan. I ushered her in and closed the door. “Man, I’m famished” she said as she threw her coat on the settee. “Gorrany chips?” she requested in her broad (broader than I’d realised) Scouse accent. I’m sure she would have missed the look of horror on my face. I’d never cooked anything in my life. Not even a boiled egg. I rummaged through the freezer and pulled out a bag of McCain’s frozen oven chips. Frantically scanning the instructions, I tore open the bag and emptied a reasonable looking quantity into the baking tray. In they went into a rather ancient looking oven and I looked at my watch. 25 minutes the bag said. Plenty of time, I thought and smirked, knowingly.

25 minutes later and we were still discussing her ailing antie Maud, who’d had bronchitis from an early age. My inner eyes had been rolling constantly. This woman could talk for England. Maybe she’d chill out a bit if I could get some food inside her. I slipped off to the kitchenette thingy and opened the oven door. Extracting the baking tin, I looked in horror at the chips that were paler than a white man caught unawares at a cannibals’ party having been given a foot spa that looks just like a very large, human sized cooking pot. My date looked across in horror. It seemed that she simply couldn’t function at this time without eating either chips or a 2 week old kebab. She grabbed her coat and left, leaving me to make up a suitably macho story to impress the lads. As luck would have it, bad luck that is, they’d seen her leave wearing that angry look that unmistakably told them that I’d either upset her by saying the wrong thing or been pathetic in the sack. I strenuously denied the latter.

Several days later, the lads decided to tell me that caravan ovens take at least twice as long to cook stuff as normal ovens…and worked even better if you lit them with a match. It was at that juncture that I decided to employ the effeminate but effective chef Justin from Chez Armand. He was a contact of Mark’s, they’d been close friends for some time and he’d promised to show me all of his talents and assured me that all my future problems would be behind me. To be honest, I never looked back after that…….

Thanks for reading and do learn to cook, young man, learn to cook.

Marandina

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