Best mates, beverages and a battered sausage
“I don’t think I’m very well”, was the daily chorus that signalled the beginning of the morning after at 21 Heathcoat Street (fondly known as 'The Heathcoat Hovel' by its four inhabitants). Exclamations of how hungover each of us was and how unwell we felt were usually followed by a hilarious, though often regret-filled, recounting of the various misadventures of the night before.
All three years at university are full of tales of tragedy, ranging from the sublime to the ridiculous. From break ups to break-ins, hospital trips to visits from the fire brigade; I could fill a whole novel with them. Probably a whole novel per each of my friends. We are a particularly tragic bunch (think 'The Inbetweeners' with boobs). But amidst our numerous alcohol-fuelled escapades, a particular event in final year stands out...
The tale of the battered sausage
The story begins, as many of this kind do, with the consumption of a significant amount of alcohol. It also, in this particular instance, begins with the addition of a group of male friends. A new group of male friends. One of those exciting moments where the promise of new flirtations, friendships and (inevitably with us) fuck ups hung in the air. So there we were, me with my long-suffering boyfriend, my other three (at the time) single housemates, and this new group of male friends, all vigorously shaking our bottoms at our weekly mecca – ‘DBE Fridays’ (a summer terrace party at our uni, filled with very good tunes and cheap drinks. I’m talking £2 pints). The reasons we loved this event quite so much were twofold: 1. It was a place for us to drink 2. It was a place where we could drink from three in the afternoon. (Yes, indeed, it was a recipe for disaster).
After several hours of dancing (if you can call it that) and drinking on the terrace, we decided it was time to head to our next watering hole – The Griffin Inn. Now, some girls (I have been told) manage to resist the lure of food after nights out. This, I’m afraid, was not the case for the the ladies of 21 Heathcoat Street. Without fail, after each night out, pizzas, pastas, cheesy chips, noodles, or battered items of questionable meat content would be consumed. And, on this particular evening, battered goods were firmly on the agenda.
As we stormed towards the local chippy, our new male friends in tow; a sense of excitement was in the air. Where would the evening take us? Would anyone get too drunk and embarrass themselves? (obviously) Would the single housemates find new male friends to dance the night away with? (the odds were in our favour)
Unfortunately, for one of my housemates, the evening's excitement was about to be cut short.
Inside the chip shop, I was dutifully placing our (rather large) order, “I’ll take 3 cod and chips, 1 portion of nuggets and chips and, wait what did you want again?”, I shouted through the shopfront window to my housemate who was still dedicatedly flirting with her favoured male companion outside – “A BATTERED SAUSAGE”, she mouthed back excitedly. “Ah yes,” I said, turning back to the lady behind the till, “and a large battered sausage please”.
Little did we know; this was the beginning of the end…
Around 15 minutes later (there was a wait on the cod), the dreaded moment arrived. As I replay it in my head, the events unfold in slow motion. I hand the battered sausage over to my housemate. It’s piping hot, steaming in fact, freshly fried. Excitedly, she grabs the sausage and rapidly lunges towards it with her mouth... A little too rapidly. Something doesn’t look right. Good lord. The trajectory is all wrong. She’s overshot it. Gone in too hard. And then it happened...
As quickly as it went in the sausage (well, most of it) is launched out again. My housemate doubles over in pain. Eyes watering, embarrassment growing. She coughs and splutters, choking on the sausage in front of our new male companions who are beginning to wonder what on earth is going on. We wait for the retching to die down, but it doesn’t. She’s in serious trouble. Christ. She must’ve caused some real damage. Her captivated audience don’t know whether to laugh or call for help. It’s certainly amusing, but it doesn’t look like she’s having fun. (And I can tell you that’s rare when there’s a sausage in her hand).
Eventually, after what feels like an eternity, words that have rarely been uttered from her mouth are heard with a rasp; “I think I’m going to have to call it a night”. With that, she turns tail and heads for the Heathcoat Hovel. A sorry sight indeed. A girl in her prime, thwarted by a battered sausage. A night turned sour. An evening over too soon. A throat left scratched and burnt by crispy, freshly fried batter, needing medicated Strepsils to soothe it for at least a week.
So, let this be a warning to all of you out there. Take care when shoving battered goods in your gob, because the things we love the most can hurt us after all.
