A dastardly laugh

ONE of my new colleagues is called Cat. Ironic really, because her laugh closely resembles that of the cartoon dog Muttley of Whacky Races fame. And we do have a laugh on the 'hub', even though most of the time we are up to our necks in doo doo.
Take yesterday when one of our main stories was about the rather alarming detection of human poo in ice cubes served with your Vodka and Coke in the pub (Prince of Darkness be afraid, be very afraid). Some of the ideas for headlines and bills were pretty unrepeatable.
Meanwhile, Paps came up with an extraordinary demand this morning. He insisted that everyone goes out for a beer on Friday week (what a break with tradition THAT will be) because he has a pal visiting from the home country and he wants to prove that he actually has mates in Cardiff!

Last night all the talk was of stag do's. It is left to the boy Withers to make the arrangements (a bit worrying really, because a night out in Crewe really doesn't appeal). I quite fancy Brighton but Smashy has more ambitious ideas. At 11pm last night, a good two hours after I said goodbye to the boozing crew outside the yard, he sent me a text message. "We've decided we are going to have your stag night in Boston. Go Sox!" Cheap at the price I have to say.

As for food, on Wednesday night I managed to smoke out the kitchen with a little Spanish tapas dish called chorizo and potatoes. You are supposed to cook it in oil and butter and leave it for a good hour, but being a bit impatient I thought I would give the heat a bit of a boost. Then I retired to watch a bit of the Aussie-West Indies test series.
Ten minutes later, checking on my tea, I found the kitchen enveloped in a thick fog (like London in the days of Jack the Ripper) and my chorizo cremated. Still, waste not want not, I shovelled it down. I could still taste charcoal the next morning.