It is expected that sooner or later the forties man will wish to purchase a barbecue. By succumbing to his ‘inner sausage-pricker’, he is answering a call that lies deep in the male psyche to have a burning pyre in his own back garden and to wear a plastic-bra-and-panties apron. After all, if he can no longer hunt, kill and maim, he can do the next best thing and perform violent acts upon a piece of marinated meat surrounded by his neighbours. This is, of course, provided he can actually light the barbecue and (a) it doesn’t rain; (b) the Force 11 gale subsides; (c) none of the vegetarians present will mind a nice bit of Angus steak.
Everyone compliments him on his ability to successfully burn food, while his partner, who has done the family cooking for twenty years and never received any praise, is a little put out and suggests he might like to try bringing his ‘transferable skills’ into the kitchen. Everyone breathes a sigh of relief when he watches Ray Mears, and the barbecue becomes the new rockery as he moves on to roasting hedgehogs on a bonfire.
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