I predict a diet, again

Here it is, the Christmas gut rupturing T-Report in glorious JPEG-O-VISION.

Above you can see the first of this years lucky lucky turkeys. "the first?!" I hear you say in your oh so uperty and condemning tone. Yes guys, Mom thought it best to cook an entire turk just for left overs. You've got to admire such forward thinking.

First up on the feasting table is the posh starter of some cheese in the pastry with spicy jam. Direct from the freezer.

Here's Al setting to work turning that turk02 into slices of purest food. You can see his pals all gathered around around to celebrate his being sliced into thing discs of meat, The Spuds of Roast, Mr and Mrs Balls of Stuffing, and The Chipolatas wearing there new Bacon wraps.

Old Skool meets Nu Skool. I'm warming the brandy there with my completely sweet hand held butane torch. That son of a gun burns at 1300° Celsius. The brandy is old and had to be dug up from a grave. it's Nuld Skool... that doesn't work, damn.

After the copious amounts of The Pudding and The Custard followed by brick after brick of The Cake... came the inevitable sarnies marathon.

After a spot of civilised drinking care of one of our more elegant Christmas gifts, we took time to survey the days work. We had indeed given a lot of food a new home. Tomorrow was of course a new day, but we had already planned to get up and head to sunny sunny Southend for a big fry up and a bracing walk along the seafront. But there was one thing that still gripped our souls with a fear not felt since that confused look I always get when I order livers at Nandos... that *gift* from Mom and Pop...

The Raclette of Devastation