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Huncamunca acres were lucky enough to get a couple of Kg of sausages from a well known local Butcher where people queue up ,this weekend. for free.


I dont do sausages, but compared the the stuff we usually feed the staff, they did seem extraordinarily greasy & the grill was about 3M deep in porky lard.


is this usual for sausages ?

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Snorky at the BBQ in his Kath Kidston apron, bottle of something for over a tenner from Green & Blue on the go, Groove Armada and Air providing the vibe.


He tosses a morsel of a grilled Moxon's scallop to his favourite cat Snorkles.


Yep, buying the hut in Whitstable was the best decision he ever made.

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Michael Palaeologus Wrote:

-------------------------------------------------------

> Was this a Corporal Jones "I've slipped an extra

> sausage in for you Mrs Fox" gift perchance?


Dear Mr Palaeologus,


I'd like to take issue with you for having written the majority of your (5000ish) postings before I moved to ED and joined the EDF.

Dashed unfair and raaaather jolly unsporting of you old chap.


On a separate note, does anyone remember a thread in the General Issues section that got a bit heated and Sean Mac (RIP, sob etc) said "gosh, this is not just about the sausages". It was my favourite LOL post but yeah, you had to be there. Sorry can't remember the full context.

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When he won the Wm Rose Butchery Masterclass in the JAGS summer fair raffle he never thought he'd actually attend but here he is, trailing in on a Thursday morning like a kid into the head teacher's office. He's one of three on the course: the other two in Boden, one has even brought his own knives.


Under tuition he dolefully mixes 2kgs of sausage meat and fat, stuffing it silently into the thick casings.


The ruined hospital moulders across the street.


At the weekend, the sausages burst and spit their fat on the grill, onto the ground, leak into the buns, secrete their shame across the hot plate. It starts, at last, to rain and everyone can go inside to eat crisps and watch BGT.

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His heart flutters momentarily as he suffers a spasm of anxiety about his identity crisis, but it was a feeling he was quick to subdue. The children chasing around his feet filled him with an uncomplicated joy that easily relegated cares and concerns to a dusty cellar.


Ruffling the tousled hair of his eldest, he navigated his way through the havoc whilst tugging the faux tuxedo oilskin apron over his head. Despite the way he carefully arranged it on the ornately carved wooden wall rack, he couldn't escape an uneasy feeling that something was remiss.


Ah! That was it! He carefully shifted the apron down two hooks and twitched it slightly to expose the full text of the engraving... 'You don't have to be mad to live here, but it sure helps!'.


He smiled quietly to himself, lost in admiration at the way that friends you've yet to make could capture his household bliss with such sweet simple words.

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