LET THEM EAT BREAD AND COLESLAW

The first murmurings of what was to become known as The Summer of Discontent were evident at a school barbecue early in my tenure as Social Organiser. As I was busily stoking up the fires and unpacking the meat products, I noticed a group of mainly German-speaking students had gathered in a huddle on the far side of the school gardens, like torch-bearing villagers on a secretive witch-hunt. The whiff of discord was stronger than the stink of white-hot charcoal. Seconds later, my pulse started racing as I noticed a messenger from the group approaching.

“We will not eat beefburgers,” he informed me curtly, “because of the mad cows.” I smiled on the inside, having already foreseen just such a reaction to concerns that had recently been raised over links between eating British beef and the human form of BSE. Concerns that I myself shared, in fact.

“Don’t worry,” I said calmly, “I have plenty of chicken and sausages.” The messenger nodded, turned on his heel and left to report back his findings to the select committee. As I began to slap the first deliciously marinated chicken legs onto the grill, I became aware of the special envoy again hovering beside me.

“We will eat sausages, then,” he barked, “not chicken.” I started. I had only bought a few pork products, definitely not enough to feed everybody. Trying to subdue my desperation, I asked him why. After many seconds of confusing anglo-German relations, I eventually understood that the self-styled food hygiene inspectorate had decided that eating chicken cooked on a barbecue was, at best, unhygienic, and at worst, carcinogenic. This was very bad news. The nearest supermarket was probably closed by now, and anyway I’d already spent all the money I’d charged the students. I resolved to cook the chicken as quickly as was legally possible, and try to distribute it as swiftly as I could, before the rumours of inevitable future infirmity spread. In the end there were enough sausages for everyone to eat roughly a third of one each, and after supplies ran out, the chicken and beef dodgers were forced to fill up with a bland, if not entirely unhealthy, diet of bread and coleslaw.

Though none of the witch-hunters actually confronted me during the evening, or proposed I be subjected to the ducking stool, their none-too-delicate descriptions of events could be heard floating on the gentle breeze as they mooched off home - “Scheiße Grill!”

Part Three to follow shortly...