Heston Bloomingbollards

Due to Skrowte's new mission to line his pockets, which he officially calls 'downsizing', the outside caterer who graced Gripewater Grange's table with the most gorgeous foods and cuisine that could have been created in the kitchens of heaven by angels for the good Lord himself, has been stood down.

I loved Heston Bloomingbollards; I would drool in anticipation when I knew one of his visits was imminent. His food was divine. His buffets and banquets were the 'to die for' invitation at Gripers and when the word went out that Hest was doing the catering, there would be an uncivil clamour for an invitation.

Word would get out in the village, and the chavs would drop enormous hints, especially the more social climbing chavs and the grovelling for the invitation would be quite spectacular.  It was shameless how some of the well-heeled and well to do would behave in order to be at the table when Mister Bloomingbollards himself was creating in the kitchen of Gripers. Lady F would hide a wry smile as some of the more 'upfront' invitation danglers unashamedly tried, unsuccessfully, to be at the table. Only the very finest and upper crustiest were on the 'A' list for Hester’s feasts.

At every meal, Lady F always places my own personal cushion on the table next to her place mat and feeds me scraps from my own porcelain plate with my own silver fork with the family crest on it. Much better than the stuff Skrowte slops out from sachets into a bowl on the kitchen floor when he is left in charge of feeding me.

My personal fave of Heston's was marinated hedgehog breast smothered with lark's vomit. Simply heavenly. His gherkins stuffed with maraschino cherries and topped off with a froth of slugs bathed in garlic just makes me salivate at the thought.

I would sprawl on my cushion, with the Gruffington-Gusset arms embroidered on it, on the dining table next to her ladyship, who would then feed me slivers of this epicurean delight with a silver fork, much to the amusement of the other guests who were dining. I couldn't be fed enough of this cuisine by Lady F as she tempted my taste-buds, dangling each exquisite nibble before me on my little fork, certainly not something the chavs’ cats in the village would be partaking of.

I don't normally 'do' desserts but the pretzel doughnuts coated with yoghurt then sprinkled with crispy bacon and deep fried crushed cockroaches were Mr Bloomingbollard's piece de resistance. I couldn't get enough of them.

Now that Nobed Skrowte is in charge of the household a freezer company called Greenland deliver the catering, frozen; the only 'making' that Skrowte does is ‘make’ it get out of the packets and into the oven.

Last night we had a party at Gripewater Grange. Chavs have 'do's' we upper crusties have 'parties'. Chulls and his wife popped along so too did Izzy and Flip. In fact most of the county's nobs and horsey people were there, all braying and jockeying for position to sit with Izz and Flip. All wearing their old jewellery and tiaras and reeking of eau de mothballs.

I caught Skrotwe decanting the wine. He was filling old Moat and Chandeliers champagne bottles with Babyshame, some cheap sherbet that chavs down in Lower Sozzlebury consume in great quantity on Friday nights before their weekly communal fight on the common outside the village pub, the Goat and G-String.

The frozen rhino balls sautéed in crocodile juice were not my cup of tea, but Flip declared them to be delish 'as if he had shot the buggers himself.' The horseradish ice-cream, drizzled with syrup of figs, went down a treat. Izz asked for the name of the caterers as she would like to have them do a bash at their pile when her grandsons Wonky Wombat and his brother Ginger Poobs have their next fancy dress party.

All Skrowte would say was that they came from the frozen Artic.

Bit of an embarrassing moment when Sir Droolbanger-Thomas asked for a doggy bag and Skrowte inadvertently bought in the remains of the dinner wrapped in a Greenland carrier bag.

"Greenland?  GREENLAND?" shrieked Lady Audrey Droolbanger-Thomas almost in a fit. "That's where chavs and the job dodgers shop. What on earth are you doing shopping at Greenland Fans?" she demanded. "All goat scrotums and cows eyes and heaven know what else we've been served this evening." By now she was a rather fetching shade of green.

"I simply cannot imagine you stepping foot in Greenland dahling," she rattled on, almost about the throw up on the finely embroidered table cloth Queen Victorious gave to Lady F's grandmother.

"Staff catering," replied Skrowte calmly. "I wouldn't dream of eating anything which has passed your refined lips this evening Madam. My lowly, untrained palate is only worthy of the very lowest cuisine, ma'am," he added as he cleared away the fine porcelain plates given to the Trumpington Trubshaws by Elizabeth the Thirst.

"Thank you Skrowte," fluttered Lady Droolbanger-Thomas quite placated  as she reached for another cherry fakewell.

"Next time I'll serve the left overs in a doggy wheelbarrow," he muttered as he left the room with a pile of crocks licking the crocodile juice off his fingers.

Carol Lake