Those who follow Rupert’s adventures will know that we very nearly collected the yurts last week. Now for the return! Once again we chose the awesome power of the Vito, confident this time that it would be big enough. Once again we arrowed towards London, ears bleeding, spine crumbling, maidens swooning. Rupert, as always drove perfectly unlike all the others who were either driving far too slowlyor far too quickly. In no time at all we arrived at the warehouse, in fact we were an hour early, plenty of time for Rupert to try the “Fat Boy, Double Gut-buster” Breakfast. Surely this would be no problem at all for the all Halwill, heavyweight eating champion. His finely honed body a testament to years of dedicated eating. Admittedly, the South East is a much larger place than Halwill Junction but a champion is a champion. We were soon to find out that standards of decadence are a little higher in London than in Devon.
We strode into the café, like a heavy weight boxer and his enthusiastic second. I Paulie, to his Rocky.
Eventually it was our turn at the head of the queue:
“One ordinary Breakfast and one Double Gut-Buster Please. Oh! And two mugs of tea.”
The waitress raised a contemptuous eyebrow: “Who’s the gut-buster for?” this seemed a little strange as I was standing next to the finely honed eating machine that is Rupert.
“Him”, I said, jerking a thumb in Rupert’s general direction.
“No, who’s going to eat the Gut-Buster?”
This was perplexing, could she not see the once and future champion?
“He’s standing here” I said.
“You’ve got no hope”.
How little she knew us, she hadn’t reckoned on our steely determination and downright greed.
Looking across to the neighbouring table we espied a plate piled high with breakfast fair; this must be the fabled gut-buster. Admittedly a challenge, but definitely do-able. Rupert looked confident. It was only when my ordinary breakfast came out looking remarkably like the plate opposite that alarm bells started to sound. If this was a standard breakfast what must the Double Gut-Buster be like?
“I don’t feel hungry” said Rupert. Loser words I never thought I’d hear.
A few stomach stretches later and Rupert was ready to eat!
‘Ding’ went a bell and out was heaved the mountain of food known as the Gut-Buster.
Blood drained from Rupert’s face. This wasn’t breakfast, this was suicide. This wasn’t a mismatch on a Tyson verses Bruno scale, this was Tyson verses Willie Carson.
“I can’t eat all that” More loser talk. This breakfast would feed the whole of Halwill Junction for a week: this was the EU food mountain on a plate (a very big plate at that): this was more food than most people eat in a lifetime!
Numb with shock Rupert prodded tentatively at the mountain that confronted him, hoping against hope that it was hollow, it wasn’t. “There’s a sausage missing” Moaned Rupert, His mind clearly unhinged by shock.
By now, a small crowd had gathered, camera phones flashed and good luck cries echoed around the café. The proprietor waited surreptitiously in the background, defibrillator in hand and telephone speed dial set to 999.
“Exactly how many chips are there in this?” I asked the waitress.
“A bag” was the somewhat enigmatic reply.
Twenty minutes later and Rupert was beginning to struggle. Sweat poured from his brow, strange noises emanated from his stomach and his face had gone a colour never before seen in a healthy human. Time to cheat. Surreptitiously I shovelled chips and bacon into my gob. Unfortunately I’m not the finely honed eating machine that Rupert is and soon I was full to bursting. Defeat was inevitable. Rupert had done his best but had learned a lesson in humility. All that remained was ignoble retreat and to pick up the yurt. Lesson learned. Better to be a big fish in a small pond than.
 Dangerous, causing perfect drivers to break or change lane.
 Dangerous, causing perfect drivers to move over from the comfort of the middle lane.
 Definitely accurate loser talk.