Tag Archives: kebab

Taste My Special Sauce

23 Aug

As I queued at the kebab van, drunk and bleary eyed, I couldn’t help but drift off into a daze, thinking about how nice it would be to finally get home and climb into bed, snuggling up to my greasy food. There are not many things better than a massive portion of fat riddled food at the end of a drinking session. Licking the hardened burger or garlic sauce from the side of one’s mouth in the morning or waking up with the half eaten kebab having formed some sort of elaborate chin strap on your face, are both things that have happened to many of us.

My thoughts were rudely interrupted by a gentleman who was at the counter in front of me.

 

“Excuse me, but where is my food?”, he enquired.

 

He was softly spoken, and quite posh I thought. He must have been in his mid-twenties.

 

“It’ll be ready soon”, replied the bloke behind the counter.

 

“But I’ve been waiting ages. You’re serving other people before me”, said the posh fellow, now raising his voice slightly, but still maintaining an air of decorum.

 

“No I haven’t”, snapped the kebab van owner.

 

By now, a few other heads in the queue had turned and we watched like spectators at a tennis match, our heads moving from side to side as the posh man and the kebab man exchanged words of “Yes you have”, “No I haven’t”. With the posh chap getting ever so slightly more irritated at the kebab van owner, I wondered what the next move would be in this bizarre exchange.

 

I didn’t have to wait long.

 

The kebab van owner picked up one of the squeezy ones bottles of garlic mayonnaise, and aimed it at the now ‘agitated’ posh man. Without a word of warning, he applied the pressure required to send an arc of gooey sauce into the man’s face, making him take a pace backwards. The attack of garlic mayonnaise did not cease though, and the bottle continued to be squeezed harder and harder; a relentless torrent of white sauce coating the posh man’s face in its entirety. The rest of the queue stood aghast, wondering what the reaction would be to this quite unnecessary attack. The final dribble of sauce left the bottle, dropping onto the cold pavement, and the posh man put his fingers to his eyes and scooped away the garlic mayonnaise. All I could see were his startled eyes, and nothing else.

 

“What was that for?”, he asked. How he kept his calm I’ll never know. His shirt was also covered, and the sauce dripped off his face onto his chinos. He was a mess.

 

“All I wanted was my food, and you’ve squirted sauce all over me. What is wrong with you?”, he said, this time a bit louder, and stepping forward to the counter. With that, the kebab van owner picked up a bottle of tomato sauce, and unleashed another attack. The sauce pounded against the man’s face, and I have to admit I was now crying with laughter. Again, the full bottle was emptied against his face, covering it again. His clothes were now completely wrecked.

 

“WHAT WAS THAT…Fghghh gghhhh ghhh”, he began, his shouts interrupted as a cascade of sauce filled his open mouth.

 

“FOR?”, he managed to spit out.

 

The commotion had attracted the attention of a couple of policemen who came over to see what was happening. They watched, with the rest of us, as the posh bloke berated the kebab man for his antics, pointing his finger at him. It reminded me of a head teacher telling off a naughty pupil. Once his rant paused briefly, the policeman took him by the arms and started to lead him away.

 

“Me? You’re are arresting me?”, protested the posh man, still dripping with sauces. He looked towards the queue, hoping someone would back him up, but most people were either wondering what the fuck had just happened or laughing.

 

Then noticed me laughing, which to be honest, wasn’t hard, as I was almost bent double. It had tickled me somewhat.

 

“Oh you think it’s funny do you?”, he asked, turning his head to look at me over his shoulder.

 

“No, I just don’t think red is your colour”, I drunkenly replied, and I laughed at my own, lame joke. He did not look impressed.

 

And that was that. The posh bloke was led away, and the queue continued to be served as if nothing had happened, with people trying their best not to step in the sauce that had dropped onto the pavement.

 

“Yes Sir, what can I get you?”, asked the kebab man to the bloke next to me.

 

“Where is my food, I’ve been waiting ages?!”, I joked.

 

“Oh fuck off!”, he replied, smiling, and handed me my kebab. I left, content.

Taxi Abuse

13 Jul

Taxi drivers tend to get a bad press but I’ve never had a major problem with them. Yes, some of them do try and rip people off, but on the whole they’re ok. I’ve only ever had one bad experience in a taxi, and that is the topic of this post. It happened on a Friday night on my way back from the delightful town of Aylesbury. Both myself and my best mate Rowley, who was with me at the time, had consumed a lot of alcohol on this particular night. We’d decided enough was enough and felt it was time to call it a night. We sauntered out of the bar we were in and headed straight for the kebab van. It’s an unwritten rule that greasy food must be consumed after drinking anything above 6 pints of alcohol, and we were both eager to get something quite rotten into us before heading home.

 We both purchased chips with cheese and chicken meat, with burger sauce and of course, salad. The salad helps balance out the bad food and makes for a more healthy dining experience. We considered tucking in before heading home, but then spotted a waiting taxi and decided to jump in before someone else grabbed it.

 “No eating in here please”, said the taxi driver as we got in.

 It wasn’t an issue; we’d eat when we got home. It was something to look forward to. We told the driver where we needed to go and I carried on the conversation with the traditional questions that all taxi drivers have to be asked:

 ‘Been busy tonight?’

‘What time do you finish?’

‘What football team do you support?’

‘Has a girl ever given you a blow job instead of payment?’

 The driver responded with a few grunts and we were on our way. I say ‘on our way’ – we were actually fucking flying. The driver was either The Stig, or on some sort of time trial mission.; he had his foot to the floor and we were screeching round bends and overtaking other cars a terrifying speed. Even in our drunken state we realised that the driver was crazy. We pulled our seat belts tighter to us and held on tight. I looked at my friend and mouthed ‘Fuck-Ing-Hell.’

 “Do you think you could slow down a bit, mate?” Rowley asked quietly. The drivers eyes looked up into the rear view mirror.

 “I’ll drive how the fuck I want”

 “Well can we get out then?”

 The driver ignored us and just carried on driving. He had a death wish.

 Once again I looked at Rowley. I whispered,

 “I’m not paying this cunt. Shall we run?”

 “Yes. We’ll run. He is a massive cunt”

 We were now only a few minutes from my house.

 “Can you drop us off at the parade of shops please?” I asked.

 The driver merely nodded. The shops were only a short walk from my house and I didn’t want the driver to know where I lived so it was an ideal drop spot. We would be able to do a runner from the taxi and then head behind the shops to a small alleyway that led to a cul-de-sac. I had the plan all set out in my head, but as I’d never actually done a runner before, I was quite nervous. I sensed Rowley felt the same; we both sat in silence ready to leap from the taxi. My heart was thumping against my chest and I had sobered up a lot. One of my hands clung to the seat in front, the other gripped the carrier bag in which I had my food. I nudged Rowley and told him not to run straight away, just to follow my lead, and he gave me a knowing look back. We pulled up outside the shops; the drive from Hell was over; for now.

 “How much do we owe you?”

 “Eighteen quid”

 I reached into my pockets as if to get the cash.

 “My bloody jeans are tight, I need to stand up to get my money”, I said, laughing nervously. I opened the door as I spoke.

 Rowley was reaching for his door handle as well. Then I snapped.

 “YOU FUCKING WAAAANNNNNKKKERRRRRR!” I shouted furiously, flinging my food around my head and releasing it so that it flew towards the drivers face. The bag exploded against the windscreen, showering the driver in chips and salad. The burger sauce had covered the dashboard and lettuce and tomato hung from the air vents. I was already running away and Rowley was a few paces behind me.

 Suddenly, Rowley stopped running and turned back towards the taxi. He opened the front passenger door and launched his food into the car.

 “TA-DA BOB!” His face was contorted with rage. Once again he turned to run in the direction I was heading.  I was laughing and it was hindering my speed somewhat. We darted through an opening between two shops and peered through the gap. The driver was sat, dumbfounded and dazed in his taxi, with food hanging off him. He was an absolute mess.

 We watched and waited in silence, waiting for the taxi driver to decide what he was going to do. Rowley was stood slightly in front of me and I could see his shoulders moving up and down. I peered round and he was struggling to hold back his laughter. This set me off, and I had to bite my fist. Tears filled my eyes and I kept snorting, trying to fight the urge to erupt into a full on guffaw. A couple of minutes passed and the driver started to move off. He drove a couple of yards slowly before speeding off again into the night. We laughed loudly, it was nice being able to release it after holding it all in.

 Eventually we calmed ourselves down and emerged from our hiding place. We made our way across the road towards my house, keeping a look out for the mental taxi driver.

 “Rowley?”

 “Yes mate?”

 “I’m fucking starving”

 We both began pissing ourselves again.

Never again have I done a runner from a taxi, nor do I intend to, but trust me, this one deserved it. As I’ve said, every other taxi driver has been a decent bloke, this one was just, well, weird.

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