I BUMPED into my old mate Paddy in the pub doorway as he was on his way out and I was on my way in.
We exchanged the usual pleasantries, such as “Jasus Bill haven’t you died roaring yet?” and “To what do you attribute your continued existence, Paddy?” It was a pleasure to smell his breath.
His last words to me as he staggered towards the JCB he uses for his farm-to-pub journeys was: “beware of the Chicken Marengo. It’s been revived by my digestive juices and it’s trying to get out.”
Forewarned is forearmed, so I ordered pork fillet and chips after preparing my delicate constitution with four or five pints of draught Stella. I managed to keep it all down, but the meal vividly reminded me of my first go at mass catering involving pork and booze which put me in hospital for a week.
It took place when I was a sergeant (acting unpaid) in Germany when the British Army of the Rhine (BAOR) was preparing to defend the Krauts from an attack by the Warsaw Pact warriors.
We were on manoeuvres in the boonies and my specific job on that particular day was to defend our transport with a sten gun, which would have been as much use as a peashooter against the Russian tanks, providing I could still use it after being nuked.
See The Visitor (12-01-11) for full story.