Dee Dee, some delicious scents come
from your house, mate. (Authentic Aussie accent, my neighbour three doors away
is an actual.)
Yes while whiling away the one of
many Monday early nights, after of course some nice lamb curry with buttered fresh
bread, I ponder the fate of curry in Harry-land. No ill fate, I must hasten to
add, but the popularity curry has earned amongst the local populace in be now
considered ‘in’. Like men in the kitchen.
In fact here’s nothing sexier than
a man who can cook a good curry in the kitchen. If he is by some strange twist
of fate also bearing facial connections to any one of the SAARC countries, much
better. The Best.
Curry Houses are far easier to find
far and wide in England, than I may hasten to add than the great British
institution, The Pub. London, Manchester and Birmingham boast of curry houses
surpassing those in the SAARC countries.
As the young English say often in
praise, ‘sick’ or ‘wicked’ or either ‘sick-wicked’ followed by fucking shite,
you cunts. Curry is now sick-wicked! And fucking shite you cunts, in’it?
Harry finally met Curry. No really.
Yes.
Cobra Indian beer brewed in
England. Making friends was never easier.
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