This scourge managed to invade Australia last century, then multiply on a scale only previously seen with the rabbits, prickly pear and cane toads which had preceded it.
We now have a plague of calf-scour-yellow arches.
Good friends introduced me to this escapee from America 20 years ago. Despite their error of judgment they remain friends.
The quality of companionship on that day was five-star, whilst that of the food was kennel.
I vowed to never again allow such garbage to foul my perfectly pristine peristaltic processes.
Principles, even mine it would seem, can be compromised by hunger and desperation.
During my recent sojourn in Brisbane to bestow upon baby GOG some of the grandfatherly bonhomie and beaming conviviality for which I have become renowned, the only conveniently located take-away food establishment open for breakfast before the 7 am hospital appointment time was the House of McYuk.
Before entering, I paused and thought for a moment about the superior nutritional benefits which might accrue from ratting through yesterday’s left-overs in the KFC bins next door, but instead opted for something warmer and marginally less fetid and congealed.
Top of the breakfast menu I observed was a bacon and egg muffin thingy. (I’m attempting to avoid legal ramifications here)
My stomach and salivary glands spontaneously went into overdrive secreting gallons of digestive juices in preparation for receiving the item illustrated in glorious spotlit panoramic technicolor on the four-foot-square wall poster.
This was obviously going to be a meal of sufficient size and calorific value to fuel an overweight worm-infested Sherpa laden down with oxygen bottles all the way up the final 10,000 feet to the summit of Mount Everest.
I briefly gave consideration to stealing a neighbouring resident’s wheelbarrow from his back yard in order to cart this gastronomic monstrosity back to my motel, then hiring a crane to hoist it up to the third-floor balcony before somehow squeezing it through the doorway to my room using a system of rollers and a crowbar.
The product was made even more enticing by the promise of “freshly cracked eggs”.
Now I just happen to be an enthusiastic disciple of the Freshly Cracked Eggs Movement.
No antique-cracked eggs for me. You may well prefer the added crunchiness, chewy embryonic texture and subtle salmonella taste of more mature cracked eggs, but all-in-all I remain an admirer of the “freshly cracked” variety. Call me pernickety.
As it turned out I never did have to go and look for a wheelbarrow.
After taking two little nibbles I felt sorry for the starving anorexic-looking cricket who had spent all night in room 309 with me unsuccessfully attempting to gnaw her way into a sachet of raw sugar, so I gave the remainder to her.
She gulped it down in a single mandibular mouthful, then hopped up into my shirt pocket after which we wandered back across the road to the KFC bins in search of a proper-sized breakfast.
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