This morning at work I was roasting off some beetroot. RIGHT stop THERE. IMMEDIATELY! When did it become allowed and alright and not punishable to say that you were roasting OFF something. Why didn’t you pick up on it immediately and print off this post and shred it and use the bits to stuff a mattress which you let children wee on and then burn? You’re the FOOLS for letting this verbal tosser-age stand. Roasting off some beetroot indeed. And while we are at it. Reduce down the stock. Oh? Reduce down the stock. That’s why my gravy tastes like feet. I was reducing up the bloody stuff. Thanks Gordon.

Right, there is a post here I’m sure about crap cookery writing and I will do it later. But I wanted to talk today about embarrassing situations, because this morning I was actually roasting some beetroot. On the bottom shelf of my large commercial oven. When the beetroot was sufficiently roasted, I bent down to remove the tray. And some things happened to create the perfect storm. My trousers split. I remembered that I was commando. And I was aware that a 19 year old waitress called Camilla was standing directly behind me.

What would you do in that situation? Would you drop the beetroot on the floor, stand up and spin around in one fluid motion and casually rest your bare buttocks on the scaldingly hot commercial oven door behind you? You would? Oh good. Because that’s exactly what I did. Would you then lurch forward, bellowing in agony, crushing newly roast beetroot beneath your size elevens whilst still trying to appear nonchalant? Yeah, me too. Its awfully annoying when that happens isn’t it.

And one time when I was 13 this happened to me.

I was, like every other middle class child in the early nineties on holiday at a french campsite. Probably in the Dordogne. I got a girl. A Scottish one called Ailsa who was a whole 2 years older than me. She had boobs. It was exciting. I said to Ailsa that we should go for a row in the beautiful dusky evening sunshine, down the river that bisected the campsite. She said that would be nice and I stared at her boobs for a bit.

We hired a boat and began our sojourn. I should tell you about my outfit. I had a pair of Farahs, with a flecky silver and metallic weave. I had a dark brown and algae-green paisley print shirt, tassled brogues and the piece de resistance my friends…. A blue leather (leather!) tie.

And off we rowed. Until right at the middle of the campsite, overlooked by various families eating grilled sardines and steak hache from their barbecues, I did a stupid thing. A right proper old-fashioned balls up. Because there was a bridge joining the 2 bisected halves of the campsite. And I put down the oars as we approached and I stood up. And I grabbed the bridge with both of my hands. And the boat and Ailsa kept going and I was left swinging in the summer breeze from the stupid bloody bridge.

I can still hear the laughing.

No of course I didn’t have the upper body development to pull myself up. So I did what all sensible thinking people would do, and let go. I had to crawl up the bank, covered in weeds, blue leather tie haemmorhaging blueness all over my shirt and probably some sort of fresh water fish flapping in my underpants.

Ailsa and her boobs became a distant and unattainable dream after that and I spent the rest of the holiday playing Street Fighter with a Dutch geek called Bo and listening to Nirvana on the cafe Juke Box.

I love embarrassing stories. They make me howl. I invite you to share…….

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