BBQ Wars
What a fine creature is the Englishman,
Who stays English wherever he may roam -
He regards his house as his castle,
And always comes back to his home.
And I’m no different to the others,
A middle-class semi is my domain:
Like a dog, I mark out my territory,
But the neighbours can drive me insane.
In the Summer, the house seemed way too small -
I just couldn’t wait to get out in the garden.
I liked to spread out as much as I could,
And for that I’ll not beg any pardon.
The Supplements call it “patio living” –
I’ve no idea if that’s really true –
I just want to get out there and party,
And to wheel out the old barbecue.
I’ll admit that my cooking contraption
Had probably seen much better days,
But I’d used it over and over -
I was too old to be changing my ways.
The sides might have been grease-encrusted,
Harbouring a well-blackened grill,
But the rusting pan still held the charcoal,
And you could smell the smokiness still.
A quick dose of petrol and firelighters
Was enough to get them coals glowing,
A beer in my hand, the stereo blasting,
And soon we had the sausages going.
Set among the cracked patio slabs
With some rickety, broken plastic chairs
And a great big wobbly plastic table
It was a bit ramshackle – but who cares?
That was until I looked over the fence,
To see what it was my neighbour had done.
I know it’s not meant to be a competition,
But his guests seemed to be having more fun.
I saw that he’d started to up the ante,
That he’d got a bigger, better barbecue.
It was one of those high-end models,
And not only that, but it was quite new.
It had multi-burner gas rings,
Thermostats and finger-tip controls,
Shelves for the food and utensils,
And synthetic, re-useable coals.
I stared in horror and disbelief,
At this top-of-the-range barbecue beast,
As he loaded his flavoured cooking wood,
And served up a veritable feast.
There were coloured marinade brushes,
A rotisserie and a pizza stone:
It was truly the dog’s bollocks of “homeware”,
And, as he cooked, he jawed on the phone.
His guests lounged on ample bamboo sofas,
Under a candy-striped open marquee,
The sun shone on the glass-topped dining-table,
And his well-tended lawns were easy to see.
I looked back at my miserable display,
At my bare patch of ground with no plants,
At my shed that was tumbling down,
And decided the whole thing was just pants.
My middle-class angst overwhelmed me,
I could see how I’d be marked as a “fail”,
I hated next door’s culinary nerd -
I was beaten by the local Alpha Male.
My burgers and ribs no longer appealed,
That was to be no more cooking that day -
Steak that for a game of soldiers, I thought,
Went inside, and ordered a takeaway.
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