50 Shades of Gravy
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.