My mate Dave is a funny old sod, He has some strange habits and appears quite odd,
He sometimes exuberant and others so sad,
We get on really well and of that I’m glad,
He’s taller than me but it don’t matter,
Because he is also a hell of a lot fatter.
Not overly attractive with jet black hair,
And very hairy like a grizzly bear,
We speed around in his convertible car.
To Tesco’s and back, we don’t roam far,
We both like the movies the same kinda plot,
We smoke before we go, we do like our pot,
He is a chef like me and he cooks ok,
And puts up with a lot of stick about acting gay, He is going to Bermuda as a champion spit roaster, Little do they know he struggles with a toaster,
The microwave oven is his number one tool,
When his soufflés flopped he looked quite a fool,
The worst breakfast chef in the world, he cant cook an egg, He has a weird tattoo on the back of his leg,
A huge Arsenal fan he gets quite excited
When Saturday comes with a win he’s always delighted, He wears his teams shirt with a great deal of pride,
The Chelsea strip he just cant abide,
He is a really great guy and I love him to bits,
But some of the time we just get on each others tits,
We bicker and bitch but only in jest,
But in honesty we get on the best,
Merrily stoned in front of the TV, That’s it just my mate Dave, my Henry and me.
Strange that reading back this one has brought a tear to my eye. We were a tough team to break in to at this hotel, pushing for three rosettes in the top 10% of our trade. It was the last good job I had before I hung up my apron and left the building. I was on top of the world, cook high quality food, running a brigade of chef that would have walked slowly over broken glass if I shouted loud enough. I was the Senior Sous chef, meaning I cracked the whip and kicked arse, while the head chef remained the chefs favourite.
I always say work hard, play harder, and when the leash was off how we did play. The work never dipped below our combined potential and calling in sick with a hangover would have you sacked before you finished the sentence. Daves drive for perfection drove mine, I was not about to let the Junior Sous chef steal my thunder, his drive was possibly for my job, but our goals never got in the way of our bond.
The bit about the champion spit roaster is not a reference to sexual acts, he won the national competition organised by the Chaine de Rotisseurs, one of the guilds open to chefs, all a bit Masonic for my taste. Also Henry was my beautiful boxer, Dave hated him, he was far too boisterous for Dave, and the more he squealed the more Henry would believe it was a game and ramped up to hyper. Those were the days.