Thought of the Dave
The Devil's Beetroot
Now, I like Beetroot. I’m not ashamed to admit it. It’s a tasty little treat and a worthy addition to any sandwich (except for Jam). So when I visited a well-known supermarket late last year (which shall remain nameless, as I don’t want to be seen to be endorsing Morrisons) and noticed a special offer on extra large jars of the glorious red stuff, I thought I’d hit the vegetable jackpot. Little did I know the beast that lay within…
I walked home, carrying the vat of Beetroot proudly under my arm, as if it were my own child (Not that if I had a child, I would carry them under my arm, or keep them in a jar or airtight container of any kind. There are very strict laws in place to prevent that type of behaviour and I wish to present myself as an honest and law-abiding citizen ).
I set about making an egg sandwich, remembering to adhere to the optimum bread / egg ratio that must be observed in this process (for more information on this see my fact-sheet titled “Egg Sandwiches Made Easy”. Send a SAE, remembering to mark the envelope clearly with the word EGG). I turned to my jar of Beetroot with a flashy Michael Jackson style spin I had been practising for such occasions, rubbed my hands together (the friction causing a small contained fire, which was soon doused) and set about opening the jar.
But could I? Could I buttocks.
It seemed as if the jar had been sealed by Beelzebub himself (which is not entirely unlikely, as he may very well have taken up jar-sealing as a part time job to help fund his plans for early retirement, coupled with opening a small B+B in Pembrokeshire).
Now, at least three months have gone by and there is still no hope of any Beetroot passing my lips. Visitors to my flat are greeted with a swift “Hi, how are you? Here, try opening this”. Every valiant attempt is met with failure. I’ve had all manner of jar opening suggestions, from running it under the cold and hot tap (which proved difficult, as I couldn’t convince it to wear a tracksuit), to trying to open it wearing marigolds. Nothing works.
I am now considering writing to the local council. I probably won’t mention the Beetroot situation, but I might ask them where my Council Tax money goes…bastards.