As Jamie Foster and I addressed our Ultimate Burgers in the sunny garden of a café we like to frequent, we both sighed. This was the life. The sun roasting. A cool beer close to hand, the burger’s beef & bacon from free range suppliers Devon Rose, the hand baked buns from Hobbs House Bakery & salad sourced from the Severn Project. Together with the perfect cheese, pickle & this charming café’s homemade secret sauce – there is a lot of love to be had for the Ultimate Burger, delivered up by a waitress with a talent for turning the sun triplicate… such alluring eyes.
I did not expect to hear from Mr Foster for three minutes. Like a giant sealion gulping down fish whole, Foster has been known to devour an Ultimate Burger in just three bites. No point talking to him during the short period of sacrifice … better to wait for him to tackle his chips, which, it has to be said, he eats very daintily for a big man, dipping them individually in sauce before nibbling at them, as might Liberace consume egg soldiers.
But after just the first bite of the Ultimate Burger, there was an uncharacteristic groan emanating from our large friend. I wondered whether he might have dislodged a molar or been stung by a wasp (well, a hornet in his case – a wasp might not penetrate). Were the dills off?
I looked up from my plate and saw a look of contempt writ across Jamie’s face. His groaning continued. He began pointing up the garden of the café and in the direction of some tables usually taken up by sweaty MAMILS talking crossbar design and close-shave truck avoidance. The local socialists sit in that zone too, sporting the latest jumpers from the Heart Foundation, ranting about rancid Rosa Luxemburg, while crunching through their black quinoa, nuts and seeds… you are what you eat, so they say…
I thought at first that Jamie was pointing at some of the artwork hung from the walls of the café garden. Earlier he had described them as “flat” – a characteristically charitable comment from him which can be interpreted by those of us more matter-of-fact as “Goddawful shite”. But no, Jamie had spotted an elderly couple heading down the garden towards us. A man wearing Jesus creepers, sporting a bushy moustache and bedecked in a bright blue hoodie covered with the EU flag. Beside him his rotund wife hobbling along in a tent-sized EU t-shirt. One could tell from all of a hundred yards this couple were not locals…. like Schatzi and Bubi from Octopussy …. this pair were GERMAN.
“Good God,” remarked Foster, “like showing up to Berlin in an Adolf T-shirt”.
There were some sniggers from nearby tables.
“Ve are here vor di march,” Bubi announced in a loud voice to those in the garden.
Silence from all present. (Even the socialists were quiet – breaking briefly from a heated discussion about price controls – then returning to their nutty mastication.)
A bit like Saturday really…
Was there a march? As big as the 400,000 that marched for the Countryside? How many of those that showed up were Germans?
The Ultimate Burghers – those who voted successfully to extricate Britain from the awful EU – were busy getting on with living.
Come on, Theresa.
Now bring home the bacon.