Some soft sap television producer would be after putting Pipinfart, Fleshy, naggy Maggie, and myself round a dinner table. Hoping there'd be disagreements, and fireworks, before the horse doofers had even been served. In order to rival last night's feast of freakishness.
They'd be disappointed.
We'd get on like a house on fire.
The other three would come to a civilised decision that my black pudding ice-cream had been a triumph, and make me the winner, and we'd all go home happy.
Unlike the programme makers. Who'd been hoping for some more Lancastrian culinary carnage.
