The view from behind the belly
By Rich B
March 13 2008
The Doncaster experience....19th Jan 2008
First and foremost, the food. I elected to dine pre-match at the delightful 'Dickinsons Fast Food Bar' which is situated in the prime location on approach to the South Stand, just outside the car park which was once Fullerton Park. From their surprisingly varied menu, I selected a quarter-pound cheese burger which came topped with select fried onions, served in a more than ample bread bun. I then chose a mustard garnish from their counter-arrangement of self-service condiments. The burger was generally solid throughout, the onions tasty (if a tad uninspiring) and the mustard garnish delightfully piquant. My only small criticism was that, towards the end of the meal, the bread had become rather saturated with grease and I almost cracked a filling gnashing my teeth together as the final mouthful slid unexpectedly down my throat, without touching the sides. Overall though, a thoroughly pleasant culinary experience - one I would definitely recommend.
Tranmere Tales - 2nd Feb 2008
First and foremost, the food. Following my excellent cheeseburger experience at the Doncaster game at Dickinson’s Fast Food Bar (a delightful establishment located just outside the old Fullerton Park en route to the South Stand), I elected, once again, to sample its simple (but alluring) charms for my pre-match meal. Having skipped excitedly down the main road from the Drysalters, I again found myself captivated by the sheer variety of its rare but exotic menu. After much deliberation, head-scratching and nail-biting, I finally ordered an exquisite-sounding meal, described intriguingly on the menu as a “jumbo hot-dog.”
Regretfully folks, I have to declare that I fear I will look back upon placing this order as the high watershed of my romance with Dickinson’s – the events that followed left me (both metaphorically and literally) with a rather poor taste in my mouth.
The disappointment began quite simply with the presentation of the “jumbo hot dog”. Given its description, I had, quite understandably, been expecting something Chinese or even Thai in origin. Yet I swiftly found myself holding just an average-sized bread-bun, containing nothing more than an elongated, smooth-surfaced sausage and a small pile of Dickinson’s (admittedly delightful) fried onions. One nervous nibble at the corner of said sausage later, and it was clear that it contained neither elephant nor dog meat. In fact I would deign to comment that it was little more than mulched pork remnants with that unmissable plastic smack of additives, e-numbers and preservatives. You can imagine my despair.
I immediately raised my concerns with the management, only to be greeted with a cursory glare and a grumbled murmur, advising me to “put some f+++ing mustard on it.” I took the advice in good faith – the mustard garnish had indeed been a terrific component of the Doncaster cheeseburger – but I was again disappointed as the mustard seemed to slide uncontrollably over the smooth surface of the sausage and down into the body of the bread-bun, where it formed itself into a gelatinous covering over the small pile of onions, which had also slid ominously to the bottom of the whole arrangement. Despite everything, the meal was not entirely unpleasant, though the spice combination of onion and mustard failed to penetrate the body of the sausage and, due to their having settled at the base of the bread-bun, caused the final few mouthfuls to be ridiculously over-seasoned. Plus it dripped on my scarf, which really p!$$ed me off.
Overall, I have to say that the “jumbo hot dog” was but a pale shadow of the Doncaster cheeseburger. And I can’t help thinking that – given their quite blatant mislabelling of the meal – it is simply a matter of time before a disgruntled customer instigates legal action under the Trades Description Act.
Forest Food Tales - 12 February 2008
First and foremost, the food. After a disappointing Jumbo Hot Dog at the Tranmere game where the onions and mustard slid uncontrollably over the smooth surface of the sausage to congregate unpalatably at the base of the bread bun, I headed excitedly pre-match back to Dickinson’s Fast Food Bar to inform them that I had discovered a solution to the problem.
The queue seemed unusually large (can’t help wondering if my previous ‘advertisements’ had contributed to this?) and I found myself stepping impatiently from foot to foot as the minutes ticked interminably by. Finally I reached the front and began to blurt out my theory on how to rectify the sausage problem. I explained that all they needed to do was take a steak knife and delicately carve grooves with an approximate depth of 5mm along the length of the sausage. This would allow both the onions and the mustard a sort of culinary foothold, whereby they could cling to (and sink inside) the very body of the sausage, allowing the spice to permeate the meat in a uniform manner.
I have to say the gentleman behind the counter looked slightly baffled by this – I was clearly blinding the poor chap with science. I began again – this time more slowly using the simplest terminology I could manage – and I was surprised when he quite rudely interrupted to enquire whether “I wanted f+++ing serving or not.” Needless to say, I ignored this impolite interjection and continued unabashed with my description, outlining in simple terms how the insertion of grooves would help to avoid the gelatinous aggregation of onion and sauce at the base of the bread.
It was at this point that I began to notice that the line of people immediately behind me in the queue had also begun to get agitated. Surely they realised that my efforts to explain my solution to the sausage problem were entirely to their own benefit? Their meals would be hugely improved as a result. Clearly, however, they did not understand, so in dogged fashion, I launched myself into a pre-planned coup de grace, which I had been saving as a last resort. With one dramatic movement of my left arm, I swept all the sauces, vinegar and other condiments off the surface of the counter and removed the carefully rolled-up blueprint I had been concealing up the sleeve of my jacket. Ignoring the rather ill-mannered gentleman in the queue who was bleating something about his daughter being covered in brown sauce, I carefully unravelled my blueprint over the counter and explained using the diagrams exactly how to wield the steak knife; where to make the insertions on the sausage and gave as graphic a description of the culinary benefits as I could muster.
Strangely however, the gentleman behind the counter and the people in the queue had all turned a very peculiar shade of crimson and I couldn’t help thinking that their sudden unexpected barrage of expletives was somehow aimed in my direction. In desperation, I decided that the only means left to me of conveying my message was in the form of a practical demonstration. In one fell swoop, I pulled a steak knife from my inside jacket pocket, pointed it at the gentleman behind the counter and asked him if he would kindly place his sausage in my outstretched left hand.
What happened next is still a little hazy. Before I knew it, no less than seven queue members had leapt upon me in what I assume was a spontaneous outburst of violent jealousy at the sheer genius of my solution to the sausage problem. Despite the overwhelming odds, however, I rallied and I am proud to say that I was fully conscious again in less than twenty minutes. I came round in a large mud puddle in the middle of some nettles at the rear of the car park and, as I stood up, I discovered the hard way that they had carefully rolled my blueprint back up into a cylinder and then folded it in half.
Disgruntled, I removed the offending item and f+++ed off for a McDonalds.
Culinary Crewe - 23rd February 2008
Before we start today’s report, I’d be obliged if you’d humour me a little, while I guide you through a short mental exercise, designed to improve your powers of emotive visualisation. A sort of aerobics session for the imagination, if you will. So then, are you sitting comfortably? Good. Then, I’ll begin.
Right first blank your mind, then conjure up in your mind’s eye an image of a little baby tortoise and make her as cute as you possibly can. Give her a name, if you like. I’m going to call mine Priscilla, but you can choose any name you like. I want you to imagine yourself cradling Priscilla in both hands and holding her out in front of you, so that she’s looking right up at you, her shell pointing downwards. I want you to focus in on her excited, but trusting features. Her happy little smile, the loving way she looks up at you. Now tickle her very gently just under her chin. That’s right, go on – don’t be scared. Watch her lips open slightly as she tries to break into a smile – watch her blink as she gently moves her head in time with your finger. Tortoises can’t giggle – but if they could, Priscilla would be laughing out loud by now.
Now subtly slip your tickling hand down from under her chin and begin to tickle her belly. Now the soft underbelly of a tortoise is indeed a sensitive area, so be very gentle, but notice how much extra joy tickling her belly is giving her. See her eyes brighten and widen, watch her mouth open and close as though she’s really trying to laugh, see those little arms and legs flailing around in paroxysms of delight. Vary your tickling a bit, if you can. Up and down. Then left and right. Maybe play ‘round and round the garden’ like you would with a baby. See the laughter in her eyes. See the pure, unadulterated joy in her features. If a tortoise could say ‘I love you,’ then Prissy would be yelling it to the rafters right now.
When you’re convinced that Prissy is indeed at the height of her pleasure, I want you to suddenly stop tickling her and press your hand down hard on her belly. Watch the amusement come to a sudden halt. Observe the confusion overtaking her face again. Press harder and watch the bewilderment turn to pain. As you probably know, the natural reaction of a tortoise will be to retreat into its shell, but with firm pressure on the underbelly, this is a physical impossibility for Prissy. You’ll be able to feel her trying, though – you’ll feel the tension and contractions around each of her limbs. You’ll see the strain on her face as she tries to retract into her shell and cannot comprehend why she’s unable to do so. As you see her distress turn into panic, this is the time to reach into your back pocket and pull out your Stanley knife.
Watch the fear cross her face as she senses the mood has changed.. Feel her body stiffen under your hand. See the terror in her eyes. See her pupils dart to and fro seeking some kind of explanation. Now cut her up. Start with her arms. Slice them right off. One movement. Cold. Clinical. Mercenary. Then her legs. Revel as you sense the screaming pain welling up inside her. Press harder on her belly. Watch the fountain of blood cascading from her wounds as you press your weight down upon her. Feel the reflex twitch of her muscles. Feel her whole body go into spasm as the end draws near. Sense the agony in her contorted little face. See the sharpness of her horror reflected in her eyes. As the blood drains from her body, see her expression change to one of resignation as the numbness begins to envelop her. See the fear subside and observe the look of betrayal which flits across her face. Why? Why have you done this? See the hurt in her expression. Sense the overwhelming loss of trust as she slips away from this mortal coil. See that one final bewildered stare. Watch the lights leave those sweet young eyes for ever.
Now boil her. And I don’t mean in a small pan, either. I mean chuck her in a really big pot, turn the gas up full and leave it there ‘til the water’s boiled dry. As the bubbles engulf her, watch her lifeless head loll from side to side, watch her dead eyes roll back in her skull; watch those eyes slowly melt as the boiling continues. Watch her whole head begin to lose its shape as it gradually disintegrates in the boiling fluid, which is now red with the final drops of her blood. As the pot boils dry, notice how her shell is now glowing red with the heat. Flick her over with a fork and view the squidgy mess that was once her taut, tickly underbelly. Finally, lift the pot into the sink and turn the cold tap on her. Hear the sizzling as the jet of cold water cannons off her red-hot shell. Hear the shell cracking as it contracts and splinters. See the cloud of putrid black smoke gust off her body as she cools. Breathe in its foul, fleshy, rancid odour. And when the smoke clears, look down with disgust upon the now pathetic, oval-shaped carcass at the bottom of the pot, its shell cracked and splintered; the coagulated mulch of body beneath it unrecognisable as the joyful little baby tortoise you were playing with, just a short time ago.
Now.......and only now...... do you have an image in your mind which comes close to resembling the absolutely disgraceful excuse of a pie I was served with beneath the West Stand, this afternoon. I’m sorry, but I’ve been coming to Elland Road for almost thirty years now and I DO NOT EXPECT to have my match-day experience ruined by such appalling culinary standards. The crust was not just overdone, it was effing cremated. Black, charred and cracked to pieces with the overcooking. Little splinters everywhere. The meat – if you could call it that – was just some congealed mess of vile-smelling, coagulated decomposed remains of some creature that could not have seen the light of day for a decade. I’m sorry to go on about this, but a pie should be a glorious thing. A good pie has an aura of joy and brightness about it. It gleams in the light, almost smiles at you as you raise it to your mouth. A good pie can truly embody everything that is good in this world. But this thing! This hideous burnt offering from beneath the West Stand. This was just sacrilege. Pure sacrilege. Anyway, perhaps the less I say about it on here, the better. Suffice it to say that, first thing Monday morning, I shall be placing the matter firmly in the hands of my solicitors.
And my dentist.
Bournemouth Bulemia? 8 March 2008
Disaster has struck. After many arguments and remonstrations, Batfitch has insisted that I undergo a lifestyle change and she has forced me to submit myself to a modern variant of one the odious torture regimes developed by the N-azis in the Concentration Camps during World War Two. Apparently it’s called a “diet.”
Undeterred by my beggings, my pleadings and my offer to waddle around Wakefield stark naked with a pair of her knickers on my head for her and her sister’s amusement, Batfitch stood her ground and served me with a pre-match meal of kebab-padding (I am given to understand that this is called “salad” in its purest form), with some very flimsy strips of ham, all sprinkled with…. wait for it… a big handful of pine nuts. Wa-hey! Good source of protein, apparently. Yeah. For f++king squirrels, maybe. However, this is to be my life for the foreseeable future. Apparently I am to remain on this “diet” until such time as I can comfortably enter and exit every room in our house, without the prior need to strip naked and butter myself.
Might be a while, then.
So, on a decidedly empty stomach, I arrived at the Drysalters at around 12.30 to “enjoy” a couple of halves of diet coke, while my four mates got merrily plastered in front of me. Actually, I think I should take a moment to thank these four wonderful friends of mine, who were ever so sympathetic and supportive. I would particularly like to thank them for continually wafting their pints under my nose every time I took a sip of diet coke; and for ensuring that they bought one packet of every single flavour of crisps, peanuts and pork scratchings in the pub and ate them so very, very slowly, one packet at a time, ensuring that there was always at least one open bag on the table at any given time in the two hours we spent there. I would like to thank them for allowing me a full 43 seconds respite from their p!ss-taking, during which time we discussed the upcoming match; and for buying two extra rounds of drinks just as we were about to leave – one for the road and one to simply pour dismissively away down a grate, while I just stood there, dribbling.
On the way to the ground, I would like to thank them for stopping at every single burger stand en route, and taking the trouble to pin me down and sit on me; and I would like to thank them for taking turns to eat cheeseburgers, whilst sat on my chest, ensuring that the fat dripped tantalisingly onto my scarf, just out of reach of my outstretched tongue.
As we neared the ground, I would like to say thanks for forcibly dragging me past United Fisheries, The Sandwich Shop and the newsagents; thanks for swiftly enlisting the aid of six passers-by and two police horses to help unclamp my jaw from the counter of Subway after I’d cunningly given them the slip; thanks for helping to carry me out of Subway (again with the aid of the horses); thanks for helping the staff to mop up the rather embarrassing pool of saliva I left behind on the floor; and, finally, I’d like to say thank you for respectfully looking the other way as I suffered an uncharacteristic bout of premature ejaculation, as the McDonalds sign came into view, just past the end of the South Stand.
Thanks for all that, guys. You were a great help.