Thursdays With Uncle Boom #72

As it was the festive season, I had been invited to a number of parties and social gatherings in my capacity as a Minister of Parliament.

Today I was attending one such event, the annual gathering of the London Vogon Society.

I was not sure what to expect. Vogons? The name did tickle a memory somewhat? Weren't they aliens from some kind of book about Hitchhiking? No matter. It was duty and a gentleman never shirks his duty even when the Christmas arse sweat is gnawing at his brown 'n down.

I arrived at the building the event was being held in. It was a grand old affair in the heart of London. A peon offered to take my jacket whilst gesturing me to the entrance of the hall holding the event.

I bared my teeth and snarled at him and he quickly retracted his outstretched hand as I walked past.

It was the usual social affair once inside. I moved from group to group of people, pressing hands and making idle chit-chat. There were no apparent aliens. Although the attendees did mostly look like hitchhikers. They were an exceedingly bland bunch. All conservation this and save the animals that.

To say I was bored out of my chump would be an understatement.

At various points, some emaciated looking person would get on the small stage and give a heartfelt speech about whales or turtles or some such twoddle. How fucking dull.

I pulled my pipe out and had a right good old puff of my new baccy that Anulus had given me for Christmas. Myrtle's Beak, a fine baccy with subtle hints of cedar and sulking ladies oysters.

I was beginning to think I had been sold a pup and that there were no aliens here at all. Perhaps I had misread the invite? I was sure it had said Vogons.

I quaffed some more of the free brandy that some peons were ferrying about on platters.

An ill-looking scarecrow of a woman jumped onto the stage.

Ladies and Gentleman, thank you for attending today. We will be bringing out the food shortly, tuck in!

I moved toward the trestle table that the food was being bought out onto. It was finger food. Bollocks. I was hoping to have got my gnashers round a good steak.

I took one of the silly little plates and gazed in dismay at the odd smelling fare that was being ladled out.

What the fuck is this?

I pointed at a collection of small and pale looking cigar-shaped things.

The aproned peon behind the table gave a disdainful sniff.

Barbecue style pulled Jackfruit bites, milord.

I rumpled my face up as if his long-dead mother was trying to give me a hand shandy.

Pulled Jackfruit? What the fucking fuck is that?

It's very similar to pulled pork in texture, quite a lovely thing.

I huffed like an old ladies boiler.

Why not just use fucking pork then?

The aproned peon staggered back as if I had slapped him roughly with my todger.

Pork?! Pork?! Well, that wouldn't be very Vegan would it?

I took my pipe out of my mouth with some dismay.

Vegan?

The aproned peon tittered like a budgie eating farts.

Yes, sir. You know, one who does not eat animals or animal products?

What!? Why the fuck not?

The peon started waffling about the commodification of animals or some such rubbish.

I sighed and pointed at the quiche that was just being placed down.

What about that, that's a quiche. Made with eggs. Eggs animal enough for you?

The aproned peon laughed again.

Our quiches are made with flegg, sir. Flax seed and water creamed together to act as a thickener and combiner.

I stepped back. My arse was itching worse than ever with the sheer horror of what I was hearing. Could there really be no animals to be eaten?

What kind of barbarity was this?

Fuck it, I decided to head to the kitchens and find a bit of beef.

They weren't hard to find, I just followed the smell of yeasty feet.

There was only one person in there. A swarthy looking young man, he was bashing a garlic clove with a big knife. He didn't look very chef'y.

You there, rustle me up some beef or ham or something will you? Can you fucking believe there's no meat out there?

The chef made a face as if I had just peed in his bin. He waggled the knife at me admonishingly.

Of course there is no meat, this is a vegan kitchen!

I harrumphed loudly. This was getting to be too much.

Fine then, some salmon will do, fuck it, I will even stoop to tuna if that's all you have.

The chef's face darkened with anger and he slammed his knife down with a clatter.

We do not have any meat. Fish is meat, what part of no meat don't you understand? Are you a fucking simpleton?

His question hung in the air like the odour from a Texan ladies gusset.

No meat at all? And me, a simpleton? I don't think I liked this man's attitude.

I pulled my pipe out thoughtfully.

Put that out! At once! This is a kitchen, you can't smoke in a kitchen!?

Chef stormed around the counter to face me, interspersing his words with a pointy finger. He was apoplectic with fury now.

I smiled apologetically, taking my pipe from my mouth then quickly reversing it and slamming it into his left eye to the hilt.

He jerked and crashed to the floor. His body spasming and twitching a few times before becoming still.

I retrieved my pipe and wiped it on his rather clean apron. Humming a jaunty tune, I stood and inspected a pot on the stove in which a dark purple stew simmered away merrily.

I looked down at chef and up at his large knife and let out a giggle.

Back in the hall I stood, nibbling at some filthy meringue thing that the aproned peon serving had assured me was made with chickpea water.

A mad old lady in a hat motioned her plate at me.

I say, have you tried the roast beetroot stew? It's rather magnificent. In all my years of veganism I have never tasted anything like it!

I gave her a crooked smile.

It does seem quite popular doesn't it? I am afraid it's not for me though. It seems a little too 'gamey.'

She laughed.

Gamey, ha, good one. Tell me, how long have you been vegan?

I set aside the little meringue thing and pulled my jacket sleeve down over my shirt cuff which was badly stained with roast beetroot.

Oh my dear, I couldn't possibly say, after all...