I used to
work in a bar on Oxford Street, and we had a rather unpleasant australian chef, to whom I shall refer to as Oz.

He had worked for my boss at a number of different places for a number of years. My boss, a cockney chap referred to as The Whelk, for some reason maintained his employment despite his mediocre ability and unpleasent personal habits, which included shagging, I quote, 'literally dozens of whores'.

This tale was related to me years after the event, which took place at a previous workplace. The Whelk ambled through the kitchen one morning, greeting a hungover Oz. Oz grunted back. As the Whelk was leaving the kitchen, Oz piped up with,

"I brought a whore back last night and used one of the big snags on her. I put it back so it won't effect the stock."

The Whelk looked puzzled. He was easily bamboozled by exotic slang. 'Snag'? Still, it didn't affect the stock, he thought, so didn't matter.

"Yeah, whatever Oz."
The Whelk ambled off in the direction of his flat, liberally slopping his coffee, as was his wont.

Later that afternoon, the Whelk entered the kitchen, for several meals needed to be delivered to a table. They were a Lasagne, Toad in the Hole, and an all-day breakfast, consisting of eggs, bacon, a jumbo sausage, beans, fried bread and a tomato. As the Whelk took the food for delivery, Oz pointed out that

"that is the last of the big snags for the breakfasts, so from now on they'll have to get two small ones"

The Whelk nodded and left. He deposited the food with the diners and walked away. Then a penny dropped. 'Snag'.

"Oz, what did you say this morning? About Snags."
"That I used one of the big boys on a hooker last night. Put it back though."
"Used?"
Oz explained how he had used a seven inch frozen sausage to masturbate a middle aged prostitute.
The Whelk's jaw dropped.
"You put it back?"
"Don't worry. I used it."
Oz pulled the empty cardboard box from the freezer.
"Sold the last half dozen today. We need to order some more."

The Whelk's jaw dropped so far Oz could see his breakfast. His brain, meanwhile, stored a grotesque story for after work drinks.

At some point, on that day many years ago, a diner in a tatty pub somewhere to the west of London recieved a breakfast which included a sausage garnished with the juices of a lady of the night's vag. And they ate it.

I would make a poor joke about 'batter' here. But I won't.
(cs1ca, Sun 20 May 2007, 16:46, Reply)