Liam stuffs bird

After a very short honeymoon period the-worst-pub is back to being the worst pub. Captain Pugwash seems painfully shy; he wants to come and say hello to the regulars but he never actually makes it over to us. The heating is still on high but the bar has gone back to the same old sloppy standards. Since The-Worst-Cook has been sent to another pub, I haven't heard one complaint about the food.
Liam, Wilson, Albert Camus and a whole crowd of other divorced boozers always go to My Friends house for Christmas day. It is organised with military precision and each diner has his own specific role. They all felt a little under pressure tonight. Wilson kept showing me his very long shopping list and moaning that it would take him three hours in Morrisons to find it all. Liam is on turkey cooking duty! He pulled his chair close to where I stood at the-smoking-table and confided in me that he was overcome with the responsibilty of cooking the bird. "But I swear to you," he said, "I fucking swear to you, I will put it in the oven at seven and I won't move from in front of the oven until it is done."