In my last post, I suggested that I would write about whatever the people want me to write about. I am a man of my word. Unfortunately that word is ‘gravy’.
Gravy. The very word can make a Northerner salivate from sixty paces. It tastes good with a roast, it tastes good with chips, it tastes good with fried chicken. Acceptable on most meals, yet not acceptable on its own as a savoury alternative to tea or coffee. It’s not a condiment, it’s not a garnish, it’s not a sauce. What is it? It’s the enigma of the dinner plate. The stranger that’s welcome at any family meal.
There are allegedly some people who don’t like gravy. These people are known in the industry as ‘wrong’. In fact, I read that someone once put ketchup on a roast dinner instead of gravy. That person was forcibly removed from society and presumably eaten by crocodiles. With gravy.
Gravy is actually quite sexy. Think about it. It’s viscous and glossy, but looks dirty and wrong at the same time. Much like Katy Perry. According to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gravy, gravy is a sauce. I don’t believe it, but apparently it is. If it is a sauce, it’s the sexiest sauce going. Other than garlic mayonnaise.
The other subject I considered writing about this week was ’50 Shades of Grey’. It seems that woman has discovered pornography only 99 years after Emily Davison threw herself under the King’s horse at Epsom. It is a book so popular Facebook is overrun with statuses from women declaring the commencement of their nightly masturbation session.
However, I don’t profess to have read the book. This is not my English degree, I can’t just read the first chapter, last chapter and the Wikipedia synopsis and use that as the basis for an essay. So alas, my take on the literary classic shall remain unwritten. I shall not libel that which I am ignorant of. But I can write about gravy. There must be some link between gravy and erotic fiction…
“I’m going to pull on your plastic lid until you pop off”, she said, desperately trying to get to the savoury satisfaction contained within.
“I want to have you with my chicken pie.” she whispered, almost as if she expect to tease the inanimate sauce.
Rihanna licked the scarlet Bisto pot around the edges, as though it were an erect penis. She dreamt about pouring the hot, saucy contents over her lithe, Barbadan body. She had never been to Doncaster before, and she had never expected to find pleasure in something so simple; something so instant. Not since those adverts with Linda Bellingham that were shown during her childhood and the subsequent wild fantasies about stock cubes had she been so turned on by a foodstuff. But now it was all about gravy. Gravy was the very essence of sexiness. It made her nipples harder than solving a complex mathematics problem after you’ve just fondled yourself to a poor quality Youtube video of your friend’s mum doing the dishes in a dirty slip.
“I will guzzle every last drop of you,” she moaned, pining for the rugged brown moisture to work its dirty magic.
“I’m going to rip this Fray Bentos apart with my teeth and then you and I shall find love in my hopeless place.”
Rihanna couldn’t wait any longer. The kettle was taking an eternity to boil; it was shrieking like an ovulating kestrel. Unable to resist the container any more she tore it apart with her bare hands as thousands of tiny beads poured themselves over the kitchen floor like a velvet carpet. Naked, she thrust her body down upon the lino flooring and squealed as the granules entered her in places she never thought possible.
“Aah, Bisto!” she sang.
19 views is always going to be a tough number to beat. Now that I have established the fact that I don’t really have an audience, I have to live with the fact that this blog has very little direction as well. Writing about nothing and having no one read it is on a par with being a tree. Sure, you have this smug sense of self-worth, but the reality is you have small animals living inside you and you’re going nowhere until a Canadian comes at you with a chainsaw, buddy.
Inevitably, one must write the follow-up post. You could call it quits after post number one and then reminisce in 2022 about how you once started a ‘hilarious’ blog. Whilst sipping a futuristic cocktail, listening to country rap, wearing a jumpsuit and euthanising your friends. But where’s the fun in that? No, one must make multiple failed attempts to capture an audience.
Maybe this time if I actually write about something it will surpass the 20 hit-counter. But what could I actually write about? Maybe I should let the audience decide. Actually Dan, that’s a brilliant idea! Whilst you might now be stranded in a strange place where you are conversing with your own thought patterns via your keyboard, if you let a third party make a decision for you, you can establish whether or not you have the potential to build an audience and simultaneously stumble upon some subject matter. I knew you had it in you.
So I guess this could be the end of my little blog. I will not be writing again until someone suggests a topic for me. Direct me. I am the ovine investigative journalist. You send me out into the field and I will write about it. Providing it’s not Harry Potter. I fucking hate Harry Potter. If you ask me to expand on this, this is how the conversation will always pan out:
“But have you read it?”
“Because I’m not eight. I don’t ask you if you have eaten mud and pretended to be a chicken recently.”
I was a weird 8-year old.