Steak Pies

Darren met Joanna on a blind date in a pub. Joanne was a cheerful, extrovert girl with big thighs. She worked at the Endyerdaze Nursing Home, or whatever it was called. Darren liked women, beer and Manchester United Football Club, in reverse order.

Darren behaved himself and drank less rapidly than he would have done with his mates, but Joanne did not stint herself.

“If you eat at Endyerdaze, don’t have the home made steak pie,” Joanne told Darren.

His grandmother had died in Endyerdaze, before Joanne’s time. He had often visited her. He had eaten there several times. His favourite was the steak pie. The meat had been particularly tender and delicious.

“Why not?”

“Some of our oldies chew the meat, ‘chew the goodness out of it’, then put it back on the plate. It goes into the next lot of pies. Some of it must have been round three or four times before somebody swallows it.”

Darren went to the toilet. He knew that the meat was long gone, but he vomited into the toilet bowl anyway.

As he came out of the stall, another drinker said to him, “I’ve seen blokes who can’t hold their drink, but you must be some sort of champion at it.”
Darren went home, leaving Joanne to wonder why it had happened again.