‘Butterfiles’ she used to call them, when she were little. Last time I seen her.
“Butterfile cake Daddy!”
She hadn’t much started school.
“How many large white’m I making?”
“I dunno, 20? How many we sell yesterday?”
“Fuck all.”
“Do another 20.”
The shit they put out for Dundee cake these days is a disgrace. Any old bit of fruitcake flogged as Dundee cake, these days. They want fucking necking.
I don’t blame the cunts selling,
everyone has to live, I blame the cunts buying,
who knew the difference once,
and have fuck all to gain from forgetting.
For one, Dundee cake ain’t got fucking cherries in it. Or raisins, for another. Queen Mary didn’t like fucking cherries, they reckon. I seen that on a tea-towel.
Sultanas and orange rind is your fruit, that’s all, not just what you bloody want. You wouldn’t put coffee in a chocolate eclair.
who knew the difference once,
and have fuck all to gain from forgetting.
For one, Dundee cake ain’t got fucking cherries in it. Or raisins, for another. Queen Mary didn’t like fucking cherries, they reckon. I seen that on a tea-towel.
Sultanas and orange rind is your fruit, that’s all, not just what you bloody want. You wouldn’t put coffee in a chocolate eclair.
Dundee cake should be a bit bittersweet not a gobful of sugar. Shot of whisky in it an’ all, the gaffer done, lift it right up, and so did we, but we’ve no whisky about.
“Have we any whisky about?”
“Have we?”
“For the Dundee cake.”
“I’ll have a glass.”
Brandy’ll do. Got to have almonds on top. They’re in for cherries in the old story. See one without almonds and it’s a fruitcake. They’re both fruitcake. But only one’s fucking Dundee cake.
Crunchy almonds on top. Always my favourite. Slice of Dundee cake in my little butty box all the way through school, buttered if it was knocking on. Always one in the tin. A decent keeper.
Mum made a good Dundee cake. It was the gaffer's Dundee cake. She done a little stint here when she first left school, until I come along.
Her gaffer wasn’t our gaffer, her gaffer was my gaffer's dad, right near the end, when he was getting slow.
Same Dundee cake though. It was older than them two an’ all. My gaffer's dad’s dad’s. Marmalade’s the difference. Two tablespoon of darkest coarse cut you can get. Take a bit of sugar out for it.
Mum made a good Dundee cake. It was the gaffer's Dundee cake. She done a little stint here when she first left school, until I come along.
Her gaffer wasn’t our gaffer, her gaffer was my gaffer's dad, right near the end, when he was getting slow.
Same Dundee cake though. It was older than them two an’ all. My gaffer's dad’s dad’s. Marmalade’s the difference. Two tablespoon of darkest coarse cut you can get. Take a bit of sugar out for it.
My gaffer ran the back back then, back when Mum was here, and that’s how I got the Saturday job.
She stuck her head in one Friday and they went through the back. I heard ‘em laughing and talking and when they come out front I was the new tin lad. ‘Be here at 5 tomorrow’...
“Is this fucking salt?”
Cunt waving the fucking caster sugar shaker at me, big letters on it.
“Caster sugar.”
“Where’s the bottle? We’ve no salt.”
“Look in that cupboard.”
“What you put the brandy in there for?”
“Salt. The brandy’s in your fucking hand.”
“This brandy is giving me fucking heartburn.”
He’s purple the cunt.
“Have a can, I am.”
“I’m having a can.”
“What have we?”
“I’ll finish off the brandy...”
Butterfiles…
I wonder what she calls them now?
Butterflies.
She’s 36.
No, seven. It'’s 2016.
“There’s no fuckin’ salt in here.”
“That’s salt. There.”
“Oh aye. Kestrel or Tennents?”
Fucking supers.
“Are they cold?”
“They’re not hot.”
Fucking hate warm supers.
Illustrations by Lee Healey.
Illustrations by Lee Healey.
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