I know what you’re thinking; that this is a Coops piece about itinerant uphill mutton. And indeed it could have been. But personally I find the fella in this story more delightfully deceitful.
By way of a minor digression, I lay out my own infidelities as centring on Tottenham Hotspur and biscuits.
I’ve been conducting an extra-marital affair with Tottenham for over 50 years and it’s been largely unrequited, I can tell you. As for biscuits, I always buy these with cash, else Our Gert will spot the evidence on the bank statement and demand inquisitionally, “What were you buying for £1.25 two days ago?”
But I take my hat off to some unknown bloke in our local charity shop cafe.
As I reached the front of the queue there about to order a calorie-laden mocha, I noticed one of the girls bringing out a full english complete with boudin noire (or black pudding as we say in these sleazier parts)
“Oh” I said, “I’ll also have a bacon and black pudding bap please” (all to be paid with cash, you understand).
“We don’t do black pudding “ the lovely Mary said.
“But I just saw some on a breakfast”
“Ah,” she says, “that’s not ours”.
I looked puzzled.
“See, his wife has got him on a strict diet and he’s not allowed black pudding. So unbeknownst to her he brings his own in for us to cook for him”.
Marvellous stuff. And not an infidelity any judge would agree was grounds for divorce, I shouldn’t wonder.
He sneaks black pudding in the cafe
Behind his sweetheart’s back
They cook it there complicitly
To hie his heart attack.
