Tea and Biscuits. Clotted cream in scones. Buttered Crumpets. All of these I would could proper British Institutions. However, there is one British Institution that is Great. And that is moaning about stuff. However, that would not make a particularly riveting blog post for you all to read. So instead, I shall talk about another Great British Insitution that we all love and cherish. Fish and Chips.
I got to savour that institution last night, and as you’d expect, it’s food, and I’m going to blog about it. One track mind and all that.
So, I’d been out all day doing some lighting work for the youth event I’m doing tomorrow (just generally programming chases in, and fiddling with our new LED parcans which are <3) and when I got home, I got told the best thing that I could’ve got told. My step father was too lazy to cook, and my mother was out all night at some reception dinner thing. So we were going to get Fish and Chips. Joy of joys! Seeing as it has been quite a while since I’ve been back home, my parents have not become accustomed to my more…energetic appetite, so my standard order had to be upped a little bit…or rather, multiplied quite a few times.
30 minutes pass, and with the news alive with reports of Tectonic activity in a suburb of Cardiff, which was really just my stomach rumbling, the food arrived. Pile upon pile of lovely greasy smelling packages, the fresh fatty juices from the batter of the fish oozing through the folds of the newspaper it was wrapped in, the oil from the chips dripping from yesterday’s crossword puzzles. I’ll tell you now, that smell is HEAVENLY. I really wouldn’t want to know exactly how much fatty juices and oils are in all that lovely food. No, because I’d rather all the food be in my face rather than some know it all yak yak yaking away at me. And then that know it all would be joining the food in my face, and then my stomach and then would add just that little bit more of oh-so-wonderful pudge to my frame.
So, there we have it, a fair mountain of food in front of an increasingly hungry dragon. I mean hell, I’ve been waiting for half an hour! This is like TORTURE. I don’t care that you have to cook it, a fatty is hungry and that means there should be food in his face. No excuses. Thankfully, I was in a more patient mood and sedated my stomach for that achingly long time with some coca cola (some of that tectonic activity would have been from my belches too I think…) I spared the lives of the delivery guys. Except one, a short stout fella who just stood there staring at me. I don’t like it when people stare at me. It creeps me out. So down the gullet he went (Was a surprisingly tight fit, his belly was quite a fair bit bigger than I expected, I had to unhinge my jaw to get him to fit!) before I turned my attention to that pile of yummy British artery-clogging noms.
Table manners is not something that I pride myself with. Being a glutton like I am, and with a stomach that’s never really satisfied, I tend to rush my eating a little bit. However yesterday, any remenants of table manners I had left were completely disregarded. I was hungry and there was a mountain of grease and fat to eat. So I literally just too two steps forward, opened my mouth, and flopped down onto the pile of food. I used my arms to horde the food into my mouth, not really bothering to chew. It tasted oh so delicious, so many different flavours of chips, fish, salt and vinegar, and the odd battered sausage too. Their oily coating meant they were easy enough to swallow too, just gliding down my gullet with complete ease. So there I am, flopped forward, straddling my gigantic gut as the fast food just piles in, my arms, face and chest are dripping with grease, my mane is sticky and ruined, crumbs of fish batter, flakes of cod and small bits of chips are clinging to my body. I slowly waddle my way through my idea of ultimate heaven, gorging myself on all this wondrous yummyness.
About 10-15 minutes later, there’s no sign left of any food save for a few crumbs here and there, with the only thing left being a particularly contented looking and extremely full dragon, lying on his back with the apex of his belly reaching a good 4 to 5 feet in the air, and spilling out a good six feet or so. I was just feeling my gut with my paws, and in doing so was spreading a fair amount of that greasy oil about on it as I was watching, listening and feeling it gurgle and churn away at it’s meal. It’s a fascination of mine, hearing a belly work. And especially when that belly is lovely and full, and pinning me to the ground under it’s immense bulk.
And that set the tone for quite a lazy evening. I didn’t do much, just sort of flopped about. Played some games, talked to some peeps, listened to music. The usual evening routine I guess. Although I did get a nice surprise. As I was feeling my belly…which I often do after a large meal, I reached up and was groping over my moobs…and happened to pass my paws underneath the heavy fat folds of flesh, the sagging huge blobs that are my moobs and found that some of the fish and chips had managed to get lost under there. Pulling them out, they’re not just covered in the oily grease they came in, but also some of my own sweat and grease. It really does make a lovely addition, although those of you without a liking for the slobs probably don’t think so. Sucks to be you in my opinion. There was quite a bit wedged under there, and thanks to my dragon-ness and the ludicrously high temperatures here, they were still piping hot. It’s almost as if my own body is beginning to reward me for my endless quest for more and more girth.
And now, I shall think about yet more food. Or penis. Probably both, knowing me.
