Gumbo Makes Homebrew

It wor ‘ot. The sun wor ‘igh and Gumbo wor sarrin ‘is vest onnis deckchair castin’ an eye overris grass plot. He took a sip ovis homebrewed ginger beer and let out a small belch. It wor almost perfect. Just a bit more sugar and it’d be tickety boo. He’d be the toast of the village fete on Saturday and wor sure to impress that posh Pauline who sold the Bakewell tarts and what not.


He raised his glass, eyein’ up the fence t’see if number 6 were abaht, burrit wor just ‘im annis buckets and plants. “Wirra birra luck I’ll get the shed fixed t’day,” he said out loud wirra smile. The Screwfix delivery he’d tret himsen to wor onnis way, and all wor good in Gumbo’s dominion. He began to doze, still clutching his tankard, and a rhythmical snore emanated peacfully from under his ‘at.


Suddenly there worra loud bang from inside the ahs. Then a clatter, then an ‘iss. “What the blummin ‘ecks going on in there!” he boomed as he awoke, risin’ steadily frommis chair and shufflin’ inter the ahs. The walls were shiny with liquid and the air wor sweet and zesty. “Not me bleedin’ ginger beer!” he exclaimed, examinin’ the mess. He wor sure he’d put the stopper on tightly, but then he ‘ad been testin’ his batches by the hour, just to be sure it wor tastin’ right.


His eyes then fixed on another unfortunate sight. The plate of egg custards ont side wor now drenched, an he panicked slightly at what he wor gunna ‘ave forris supper as he watched his Taggart video later. He steadied his nerves wirra quick bourbon and took a lick of the wet wall. It wor sweet and had quite a kick to it. He decided it won’t half bad. “Av gor enough t’get the whole village sloshed anyway.” His thoughts wandered to Pauline again, and he wondered if she would be wearin’ her apron this time. It worra lovely apron, and it got Gumbo quite excitable last year.


There wor just abaht a pint left in the busted barrel and Gumbo decided he might as well finish it off. “That’s quite enough slavin’ away fer one day,” he said loudly, marchin’ off to gerrin his comfy trousers. “I’ll put them egg custards to warm in the oven and and get that Taggart marathon started early.”

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