A bowl of Irish Stew (in the name of the law) is flanked by a nuclear sub-roll containing a deadly cargo of heavy water cress.

The egg oozes satisfaction as it lies exhausted on the bacon. Squeezed in a most delightful manner by Mr. and Mrs. Toast, who have both been very naughty, it awaits the next move.

A mug of coffee, a Napple and 2wo yogs circle a beef and cheese baggette. They are in standard orbit. Soon the Captain of the Napple will beam down a landing party of pips to investigate.

This is a festive goose. He's dead. We killed him by pulling all hiss feathers off and putting him in a very hot oven.

Sausages, fried potatoes and a half tin of mushy peas open negotiations with the bottle and a half of red wine which already exist in my stomach. I hope they can come to an agreement. If they cannot it could means decades of bloodshed.

A steaming poached egg dollops atop a piece of toasted bread. It has been grooming 2wo slices of black pudding and a portion of mustard enhanced baked beans.

The beans produced a score of 14 on the fartometer. Not bad for a Saturday morning.

Some sausages were sliced and slammed onto some twisty pasta stuff and encased in a web of saucy tomato and onion. It was then forced into my mouth at gunpoint.

Mr. D approaches the bar hoping for a pint of tea but is suddenly replaced by JTS, half man - half toilet roll.

Thankfully this is not a pilchard. It is a festive peppered mackerel fish served with some mixed salaard and a splodge of balsamic vinny something. It gave me a terrible thirst upon completion. So much that I had to go to The Auxilary Pub and dilute the salty sea flapper with bathtubs full of wine and soda.

Instead of pilchards we had nice salads in the past. This one was so healthy it made me unhealthy.

More sodding pilchards for tea at Mostonia. I'm bloody sick of them. I wish that fat bastard would change the menu.