British Sausage Week

It’s British  Sausage Week!

Everyone, bring out yer  bangers to celebrate !  Ooh – er Missus, that sounded a bit rude – by bangers obviously I mean sausages not the other meaning. We can’t have people running round the streets bare chested shouting ‘Look! I’ve got me bangers out for British sausage week.”

Oh, there is so much scope here for  a whole post of Benny Hill type smut but I  am resisting  the almost overwhelming urge to regress to the level of a twelve year old boy and moving  on swiftly before I lose the battle:

What do you mean you ‘ What the hell are you talking about now?’

British Sausage Week, of course.  Didn’t you know about it?

Let me explain.

Thursday. My favourite day of the week.

Thursday starts with an early morning dance lesson. We’re still on the Paso Doble and it’s progressing nicely, thank you. Thursday’s  lesson deserves a whole post to itself so I won’t say any more just now.

Thursday is the day me Bezzie mate and me get let off  our respective  leashes for a few hours to catch up on the gossip, get a spot of lunch, throw in a bit of shopping because it would be rude not to, and then we generally round off the afternoon by going  to the spooks  for  a bit of God bothering at our local spiritualist church. We know how to live!

The chosen lunch  lunch venue this week was Oswaldtwistle Mills, known locally as ‘The Bubble Factory’.  I’s a nice place to spend a couple of hours as long as it’s timed correctly so you manage to avoid the  pensioners who arrive by the coachload and then rampage round the place wreaking havoc on your shins with their zimmer frames and motorised wheelchairs. A posse of pensioners with a determined gleam in their eyes like aged Hell’s Angels, wheelchairs in formation coming at you at speed, can be a bit daunting while you’re nosying through the nick knack section. The  best course of action we’ve found is to leap out of their way before they reach you in order to protect your ankles and absolutely DO NOT MAKE EYE CONTACT! That can lead to a full half hour discussion about their latest body part replacement while you look around wildly searching for an avenue of escape. “I’VE GOT NO SPLEEN, YOU KNOW.” They’ll announce at full volume at you as a good enough reason to snatch off you  the item you’ve just been longingly holding and planning to buy.

So, avoiding the marauding pensioners, we made our  eventually way to the fancy food section so I could peruse the goodies on offer and hopefully pick something up for Friday’s  dinner party.

Puh-lease!  We’re supposed to be leaving the smut behind us! When I sad ‘pick something up’ I meant food! Tsk!

As we walked drooling past the puddings, the cheese and the baked goods we arrived at the butcher’s counter and saw this sign:

Source: Martin the butcher via twitpic

Try you (sic) hand at sausage making? That sounds like it could be a lot of fun! Come on!

“Can we have a go?” I enquired, just  as bezzie mate’s eyes alighted on this picture:

Noddy Holder, British Sausage Week

“Oh. My. GOD!!! She squealed with delight as she came over all unnecessary. “Look at this.” She waved a leaflet under my nose, wafting it round excitedly. It took a moment for my eyes to be able to adjust to the frantic wafting but I finally managed, after grabbing hold of her wrist to keep it still, to make out that it was none other than Noddy Holder himself.

Her hero. Hard to believe, aint it?

We were both big fans of a band called Slade in the seventies. She had a bit of a thing for Noddy Holder when we were kids. Obviously, she still has.

” ‘Course you can have a go,” said the butcher, smiling at  bezzie mates squeals, ” come back in twenty minutes and we’ll be ready for you.”

Twenty minutes later we presented ourselves back at the butcher’s to clock in as trainee sausage makers.

Well. What can I say?  It was hilarious!

First we were led to a sink to wash our hands, an easy enough task you might think for women of our mature years.  How exactly does one operate a sink with no taps?  We stood their scratching our little blonde heads (our own, not each others) until the answer was shown to us by the good humoured  butcher in charge of   middle aged, slightly manic, amateur sausage makers.

The sink had a knee operated tap. Durr. Did I feel stupid!

We were shown how to thread the slimy, cold sausage skins onto the nozzle of the filling machine and proceeded to churn out a lovely looking six foot long sausage each. Not too shabby at all, if I do say so myself. Next came the linking of said sausages. Bezzie mate took to it like a duck to water. “Push them through at 12 o’clock, pinch, twist drop. Repeat.”

That sounds so easy, doesn’t it?  Could I get the hang of it? Could I hell!  Much hilarity followed, most of it at my expense. Those sausages flipped and flopped and  dropped and did everything but link. Big fail in the sausage linking task. The butcher got fed up of watching me destroy the six foot long sausage and  took over proceedings. Eventually the  sausages were linked and off they went to be sold in the shop. Our sausages! Sold in the shop! Ha!

Here were are with our bangers on display.

Source: Martin the butcher via Twitpic

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