Wilf Trotter was the butcher of Little Hope, his chopper was legendary the length and breadth of Yorkshire.
A dab hand with a sausage and just the chap to give a girl a decent stuffing,
Wilf was beginning to suspect that there was no such thing as a cucumber and banana casserole...
Christmas was coming and Goebbels the pig was hedging his bets...
"Spam ?" Wilf looked doubtful, he'd far rather get the old fresh meat out for his ladies.
Wilf did enjoy a quick fiddle in the blackout...
Wilf Trotter, the slightly melodramatic butcher of Little Hope (no, he's not a serial killer) prepares a special under-the-counter sausage for the object of his affections, Doris Moon:
"...A pile of minced pork and a sweaty Wilf later, there was a pause for a quick cup of tea - or as Wilf liked to call it - an intermission - before he set off again this time to complete his mission to bring Doris Moon’s special sausage to fruition.
A quick dash out of the nerve centre of operations the kitchen to pick up the glorious breadcrumbs he’d toasted especially after breakfast that morning, and back to the butcher’s block with them. Into a large bowl with that glorious minced pork they went! Crisp and delicate, crumbly to the touch, golden as though touched by Midas himself, ripe flakes of pure gold for his Doris! Mwah! Wilf kissed a handful of breadcrumbs and gave the mixture a knowing look as the residue fell from his lips and moustache into the bowl. A little bit of extra magic, just for her! Flour! Throw in some flour! Over to the barrel in the corner of the room and back with bound and a scoop and some best, unadulterated white flour. Innnnn it went, sifted through the finest (if slightly bent) mesh sieve in Wilf’s arsenal, drifting down through the air and into the bowl like virgin snow and now herbs - yes the pre-prepared herb mixture - which Wilf scattered gaily on top of everything like seeds in Springtime, gesticulating wildly as he went. Oh yes! Yes! Yes! With an ecstasy still only half-achieved (he wouldn’t be satisfied until everything was in and he was sat on the back doorstep having a post stuffing fag), Wilf now plunged his hands into the bowl and began to mix and knead everything together. He inhaled deeply as the familiar aroma of rosemary, thyme and dead pig assailed his nostrils and yes - there it was - a little nutmeg coming in, mystical and warm, and the piquant tang of black pepper. Sage? Wilf sniffed the air, yes, it was there, faint but assured, a staple of the butcher’s trade since mediaeval times “Why?” cried a voice inside his head, “Would a man die while sage grows in his garden?”
A final knead, and a squidge through his fingers (did he just lose a fragment of nail there? No matter, just a little more grist to the mill) and out with the contents of the bowl onto the table top. A pleasing pink pile of porky perfection! And now - for the final act, the piece de la resistance - to solidify his offering for Doris, time to stuff that casing. Nimbly, with the confident fingers of one who’d done this ever so many times before, Wilf took a cold, wet casing from his drip rail and applied the open end to his filling nozzle, securing it with a bit of string as the damn thing had been known to go a little berserk and over-stuff from time to time, causing havoc and bits. Grabbing a succulent handful of magic meat Wilf began to crank his stuffing handle wildly, the sweat beginning to shine on his brow. On and on, crank-crank-crank-crank, crank-crank-crank-crank as Doris’ special sausage began to take shape, ohhhh how fine it looked! Crank-crank-crank-crank! Crank-crank-crank-crank! Faster and faster until the last handful of sausage meat had been gobbled up by the stuffer and the handle slammed down with a final resounding clank, almost severing Wilf’s wrist in the process. He was done. It was achieved. And what a magnificent sight it was! Long, pink and glistening, it lay snaked out on the table like a sunburned cobra, just waiting for Wilf to give it a final twist or two to complete the task in hand.
“You did good, kiddo” Mae West whispered from somewhere over near the flour sacks, “I wish I had a man to give me a sausage like that one. It’s epic. Doris Moon’s one lucky gal”. Clarke Gable, stepping out from behind a dangling meat carcass in the corner, looked a little uneasy, “Why Mae,” he began, “No.” She silenced him, holding up a perfectly manicured black and white hand, “No Clark. Wilf’s the man. He is…” she paused and gave Wilf a heavily mascara’d wink, “He is the man with the killer sausage.” And then to Wilf, “Go get her, kiddo…”
Wilf’s pride in his sausage was evident, and he backed away from the table a bit. Doris would like that alright, it was his finest yet. Fine? Christ, it was magnificent! And with that he did a final soft shoe shuffle, bowed to his imaginary audience, gave his hands a quick rinse and then tootled off for a much needed fag in the back passage..."
(©J Warrington 2017)
Wilf suspected that Doris was after a bit of stuffing...