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A Twat in my Kitchen
As a spineless liberal, I’m a great believer in equality.
I have no time for these cavemen who believe that men should stay out of the kitchen; someone has to watch over the bints whilst yielding the shoe of immediate justice.
My wife is more than familiar with the slipper, as her gastronomical skills are limited to say the least. The bint can’t even make a cup of tea without starting a fire - I can’t apologise enough to Carlos Tevez.
They say that a poor workman blames their tools, and the wife is no exception. I overheard her tell her mother that she needs a good teabag in.
Betty even needs my help to boil an egg, as she believes my lovemaking skills make the perfect timer. She likes the yolk runny.
In a selfless effort to add a string to the bint’s culinary bow, I turned to Hell’s Kitchen for inspiration, but I found the programme highly offensive. The chef told the ‘celebrities’ that the two worst performers would become waiters, which he made clear was a punishment. This is clearly a slur against Rafa Benitez.
Instead, I’ll look to the world of football to help me in my search for a gourmet guru. My first point of call will be Wayne Rooney; I heard he recently knocked up a large tart.
I’ll also call on Rio Ferdinand, as he’s the master of the Sunday joint. Leftover turkey is not his area of expertise though, especially when refrigerated.
I hear that Sol Campbell is quite the poultry connoisseur; his signature dish is chicken wings in HP sauce. He loves dipping his bone in the brown stuff.
Alex Gerrard is also quite the professional in the kitchen: she does a mean pancake.
She recently invited me around to her place for a meal. As is customary for a dinner date, I stopped off to buy a bottle before arrival. Etiquette suggested wine, but I just wanted to get in cider.
She drank like a fish, and the piscatorial comparisons did not end there.
Regrettably, the meal did not go as well as I had hoped. I could have eaten a horse, but she just wanted a little muffin. I ended up with spotted dick and scratchings.
The next time my wife and I are intimate, she’ll know that my little toad is in desperate shape. I should point out that ‘toad’ is her pet name for my alleged manhood.
The nickname was born when her mother rang up while she was boiling an egg: I told her she couldn’t speak as she had a frog in her throat.
To reciprocate, I christened the wife’s special area ‘Afghanistan’, as it’s been pounded relentlessly for the last few years.
My anxiety over my mangled manhood has completely put me off my upcoming meal with Ashley Cole. To make matters worse, he’s told me he wants toad in the hole.
Instead, I think I’ll just buy a nice piece of venison when my three point investment on Middlesbrough to beat Fulham obliges at 13/10. I just hope it’s not dear.
