Ere Ken, as ya might knar be now, Pigster aint Gordon Brown. Ah dinnat think problems can be solved with a ban, even though ah really believe that this Phal sauce is mare deadly than a machine gun.
Well the Pigster loves a hot Ruby Murray. Ah dee a lush home-made liver Vindaloo and me Bloody Mary's hev been known to cure squints. At an Injun restaurant al often order a vindaloo, sometimes without the involvement of a wager. So when ah was offered a free portion o' Chicken Phal ah was in there like shit off a stick and tucked in, with gusto.
Burns victims often say that when they're actually on fire, there's nee pain. It has summat ti' dee with the body pumping out adrenaline in such vast quantities that the nerve endings stop working. Well, it wasn’t like that for Pigster. A thowt me number was up.
The pain started out mildly, burra knew from past experience that this would build to a nice canny fiery sensation. Pigster was even looking forward to it. But the moment soon passed. In a matter of seconds owld oinker was in agony. After aboot a minute ah was frightened that ah was garna die. After five minutes ah was frightened tharra might not!!!
The searing fire had surged throughout me pigs heed. Me eyes were streaming and molten lava was flooding out o' me snout. Me mouth was a shattered ruin and even me friggin' hair hurt!
And all the time, ah was thinking: “If it’s doing this to me heed, what in the name of all that's holy is it doing to me innards?” Ah felt certain that at any moment me stomach would open and everything — me intestines, me liver and me heart, would simply splosh onta the floor. This is nee exaggeration. Pigster thowt ee was dissolving from the inside oot.
Trying to keep calm, ah raced, screaming, for the fridge and noshed on handfuls o' crushed ice. This made ivrything worse. So, dimly remembering that Injun fella's use bread when they've overdone the chillies, ah cut a slice, threw it away and ate what remained of the very expensive Warburton's uncut loaf, like a famished dog.
Nowt was working
. And such was me desperation, ah downed two litres o' that pissy skimmed milk stuff, which is summat ah would never normally touch wirra barge pole. Ah woz sweatin' profusely as me body frenziedly sought to realign its internal thermostat. Ah felt sick as a bull but didn’t dare regurgitate the poison for fear of the damage it'd cause on the way oot me trap door.
Even now, the following morning, ah feel weak as a kitty cat, shell-shocked, like ah may die at any moment. And it was all down to the devil Phal. This aint a foodstuff folks - it's a ferkin' weapon. Al kid yer not, it's a WEAPON OF MASS DESTRUCTION...
...WITH A SILENT 'M' !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Bottom line (nee pun intended) - me arse now resembles the japanese flag! Ah went ti perform the 'One foot plunge' on the netty and ti say ah 'Pebble-Dashed The Pan' is an understatement. A thowt ah had a stick o' dynamite atween me arse cheeks and it deployed!! Pigster needs a bum transplant now.
Do they dee them on the NHS??
Any advice will be warmly welcomed.