Thank God it's Monday!

It was with some relief that my derriere hit my office chair this morning as I have just endured a weekend of my dear Lady Wife's 'socialising'. Please do not get me wrong, the present Mrs Guru is a sainted woman who is universally adored by all - THAT is the problem.

She tends to 'adopt' waifs and strays and was an avid Social Networker long before Bookface or whatever it is called came along. Usually this is of little consequence to yours truly. I get regaled with stories of how 'this person said such-and-such', or that someone else's husband may (or may not) be about to be entertained at her Majesty's pleasure (British slang for put in Prison), but in the main, it is fairly painless for me (after this long in my current firm I have perfected the art of LOOKING like I'm listening when actually I am doing no such thing).

This weekend was different though, because this weekend was the occasion of THE BARBECUE. I use the upper case characters advisedly. THE BARBECUE is a ghastly occasion where yours truly barely warms the insides of sausages whilst simultaneously cremating their skins, and all from a position hunched under the partially open garage door (protection from the (inevitable) rain storm you see).

In other parts of the world, Australia for example, Barbecues are a natural part of life, no big deal, a minor occasion, a chance to socialise and relax with friends. In Britain a Barbecue is part Tribal Ritual, Part Salmonella Infestation and part Rain Dance (it has been scientifically proven that the British could, at one fell swoop end all famine. Merely take, say two dozen British men out to the Sahara and either scatter them across the terrain with Mobile Barbecue units, or else dress them in White and make them play Cricket. In either event, torrential rain is guaranteed within minutes - this is foolproof, it has NEVER failed yet). It is also, and this is a very strange thing, some kind of male right of passage.

British men, I suspect ALL men although I am not qualified to say so, get very strange around a barbecue. I think there is something about a barbecue that taks directly to the caveman part of our brains (something that the current Mrs Guru believes to the majority part of our brains and which is situated somewhere beneath our navels but above our knees). Men cannot resist the lure of the Barbecue. At first I was standing station, under the garage roof, trying to keep sleet off the burgers, when I realised that I needed to go inside and get the sausages. I must have abandoned station for almost 45 seconds - in any event, I deserted for far too long because when i got back there were FOUR men stood where I had been, all hunched under the garage's open door, all vying with each other to prod the burgers with a fork.

I, of course, was miffed, it was MY house, MY barbecue and MY burgers and I had been shamelessly usurped. What is it with these people? They must have been watching my every move, waiting for me to desert station before pouncing like, as Scott Adams would say "Frat boys on a Drunken Cheerleader". In such situations it is very important that one exhibits a little dignity, shows a little class, unfortunately, my subtle attempts at calm, controlled reassurance "Thanks Gentlemen, I'm back now" were met with stern stares, I swear, one of them actually GRUNTED (if he had only said "Me like Fire, Me play with Fire" the effect would have been complete).

After some unseemly jostling, a couple of the guys were persuaded to step aside (never ceases to amaze what you can do with a carefully placed elbow), the runts now out of the picture, the rutting contest was now being played by yours truly and two others. I am sorry to say that things got a little unseemly, there were bouts of British Middle Class rage (e.g. "I say old boy, steady on, you nearly put that fork in my eye", "oh sorry, dear Chap, didn't see you there" (whilst repeating the same gesture)). It got a little unseemly after that! The rest of the event passed off fairly peacefully if with not a little tension. There were plenty of female mutterings, nothing I could exactly pinpoint, just muttered comments like "worse than the kids", "how old are they?" and my favourite "his son's just the same".

On the plus side, this event MAY have persuaded the Sainted Mrs Guru to think twice before organising a similar event in future. Unfortunately, the two beaten finalists have had the last laugh, one has invited us to a DINNER PARTY and the other, clearly a very mean man, a DINNER DANCE. Does anyone know if they sell knuckle-dusters on eBay?

Tom