SPAGS R' US IS OPEN

Never mind, chef, I'll just have the Spag-sigh-and-meat-balls. Oh, and a barrel of Guinness to dissolve the glue. Fish has frightened me away anyway, with all her talk about fairies, interference, wands and blind dates...

How wonderful to see you Andrea. May I take your clogs off for you? Spag-sigh-and-meat-balls coming right up. I am also told that we got a new dish for the menu. It is called Barry Wood's maple leaf cake. It is rather tasty.

Sounds luvverly - gimme a wedge or two.

Chef - A wedge of Barry's maple leaf cake please. Anything else Andrea? Chef: Canadian cakes? Tis place a changin' like

Chef - A wedge of Barry's maple leaf cake please. Anything else Andrea? Chef: Canadian cakes? Tis place a changin' like

Barry is happy as he eats his maple leaf cake named in his honor. He smiles at everyone as he licks the remaining crumbs off his plate. He slips the chef a hundred bucks as a tip. Thanks, si. :=]

ooh by gum me gets $100 tip like. " The fog on the tyne is all meen all meen". I'll place that money on Newastle winning the Premier next season like.

What - no Primate Pie?! I spent weeks slaving over that recipe. Weeks! I chained myself to that kitchen, sweated blood for you, missed the monkey programs on Discovery...all so you'd have the recipe in time for the grand opening! And what do you do? You dont even bother putting it on the menu! Typical! That's the last time I try and help you.... *storms out in a huff, dropping a lighted fag in the wastepaper bin as he goes*

After careful consideration we decided to drop the pie. It was not deemed worthy by our chef. He made a pie thought. It is called Prymate Pie and is now on the menu

You repeated yourself, Lord Alfred. Must've been the leaf cake. Hey! There seems to be some sort of misconception here. I ain't a Clog, I'm a bleedin' cockney!

Let us hear some of your ruffian language then. I am a master at all languages and especially cockney. Where in London are you from then?

I had two pieces of maple leaf cake, Andrea. :-]

I'm having no luck... Tried for a slice of the famous Maple Leaf cake, and I was virtually ejected, cyber-booted out. I'm back, aye. Would you have and haggis on the premises, or out the back? Since the tragic incident recently, I fear the haggi may have been injured, or even *takes deep breath* killed. No haggis? Then I'll have some of that bettenburg, if you could just scrape some off the ceiling. I'll pay...

Eh man, I could get you some fungus if you want like.

I could smell something in the air; so what's cooking? Any slabs of deer? Rabbit skins? What's a wolf to do with pasta?

keep that cake away from barry! ...

Oi, waiter! I'll 'ave some of them magic mushrooms, please.

I can rustle up a nice lamb stew if ya want it.

Mark Polish pasta shells? Thank you for not mentioning cabbage and other national stereotypes.

*Stubles in in a drunken stupor, orders some maple cake, murmours something Italian, then passes out on floor*

ooooooooooooh ... what a thrilling event!

[A 1920's Model T screeches around the corner in front of the restaurant. A disguised, though suspicously surly, head pops out with a Tommy gun and sprays the dining room a la Bugsy Malone. Spaghettit Si is caught frozen, mouth gaping and garlic bread in hand by several Battenburg cakes to the chest. The unknown assailant swaggers back to the car and drives away with a parting shot] Don Fishbona sends her regards!

[Runs from behind the same corner, sweating profusely] What happened? [Sees the Battenburg impaled Si and breaks down into tears, occasionally peeping knowingly from behind his hands] Papa! Papa! PAPA! [Nino Rota score appears out of nowhere]

I am afraid to say that a hit and run ahs just occured. Luckily I am alive to make more money. Sadly Spaghetti Si is about to go to the hospital. I think he may have severe battenburg bruising. We are not sure yet. Si in one of his last breaths of air had this to say " Stay open. Don't let Fishbon take our cust..." Before he passed out. So please stay and enjoy your meal

*gasp* Will they have to cut his teeshirt off???

*Carting Spag Si off in an ambulance. Spag's mum had this to say* " He doesn't wear that tee shirt. I am gonna get you IFB for doing this to my son"

*saunters casually past on way to cake shop* oooooooh ... looks like something horrid has happened here ... was that si i just saw them loading into the ambulance??? ... well ... i guess that's what you get in the poodle eat poodle world of catering ... (and for wearing that t shirt) ... anyway taj ... guess he won't be needing you after all ... there's still an opening at the Elf if you're interested ...

Barry slides the second slice of cake to IFB with a smile. Enjoy, mate.

*wakes up and watches drama unfold as cake murder is realised* "By Gum!" say I in a slight Italian accent. *beer belly falls out of pants, into which it was tucked* *goes over and eats the batenburg out of spag's chest*

The door swings open, in walk two gentlemen in canary yellow T-shirts, that fit rather too snugly, cheap supermarket sunglasses covering their eyes. Each has spiked hair and toothbrush mustaches. "We, " says the taller of the two men, "Have heard about the dreadful incident. " "Dreadful, " says the other. "We are the Juckle Brothers. We provide protection. For a price. " "A reasonable price. "

Sorry to interrupt, guys. 'Ammersmiff, Spag's translator. Not that it's got anyfink to do wiv yoo, loike. Mate. Lotta bottle, wicked, pukka, plates o' meat, trouble an' strife... Carry on regardless, chaps...

No food then? (Looks round blankly at the motley crew assembled inside).

A large plate 'o' trotters please, my good man...

That damn wench is back. I'll give 'er someting to eat tat she'll never, ever forget!

I am back and better than ever. Seems that the battenburg was foiled by my spaghetti vest.

Could you boil me up a deer then? I am as hungry as...well, another wolf.

I am sorry dear :-) Deers are our friends. I can rustle up a rabbit pie for yas like

Rabbit pie sounds grand. Only leave off the poncy Loyd Grossman pastry and toss us the rest. Actually, don't bother with the cooking either. Don't suppose you serve drinks in here do you? Something to wash down those bones.

Is cattles blood ok for ya matey, like?

(Tongue lolls appreciatively and eyes glow, then sudden realisation dawns). Well, actually I really shouldn't...what with relations between farmers and wolves being in a...delicate...situation. It's tempting, it really is...but...have you got any Perrier?

Pah! Like me noooh like that kinda stuff. You can 'av an evian if ya like. Ye look rather fetching in that get up like. Ye think ye could hunt me some wild pheasant. I love me birds, eh I do like.

Are you a pleasant pheasant plucker? Because I generally eat the feathers as well. In fact, I'm not very good at sharing. It's a race for the brace then. See you soon.

Ha. I am going to get there first like. Ye young whipper snapper better get of me way. First one to the feathers eats vegie! Marks ...get set...go I won!

Have you ever seen a wolf who's been robbed of dinner. (Bares teeth menacingly before realising that she's actually a big girl's blouse). I'm off home anyway. I WILL BE BACK! (Maybe tomorrow after much-needed beauty sleep).

Bye little miss wolf. I am afraid that we are now closed for the night. Please lock up after yourselves. Thank you

In the dead of night the mice come out to play. As Spaghetti Si sleeps soundly upstairs a solitary snout appears from a hole in the dining-area skirting board. All is quiet. After a few seconds of sniffing the scout-mouse ventures into the room. He looks around. Satisfied, he gestures with his paw, and the rest of the party emerges from the wall, dragging a ghetto blaster behind them. Simaltaneously another platoon appears from the direction of the kitchen, bringing with them breadcrumbs, a bottle of wine and leftover portions of Lasagne-Liana. The scout-mouse heaves a sigh of contentment. Music, food, booze...what more could a rodent ask for? He blissfully takes a well earned dump on one of the tables, and the party begins.

"Squeak Sqeak" echos the verminometer. The Spabhunter is up. Wide-eyed and ready. Approaching the darkened windows of Spag's he finds his pasta shaped keyed which slides into the lock. Oiling the hinges with the sweat from his own armpits, the door opens without a whisper. Blowpipe at mouth Spab watches ready to kiss the pestilence into their poisoned graves.

*Yawns and steps on many a mouse trap* OUUUCHHH

I'm so hungry, I could eat a scabby horse with it's mouth full of chips. I'd rather not but if that's all there is, I'll take a bite.

Erm...I think I'll give this joint a miss 'til the menu goes a bit more up-market.