18 February 2013

When Harry met Curry

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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