It’s Bonfire Night Weekend, and fireworks are exploding left right and centre outside as I type. J today posted on Facebook: ’11 years in the UK and I’ve never been invited to a bonfire party. 😦 What am I doing wrong? Who does one have to sleep with for an invite? What happens at these secret, exclusive rituals?’ I have never been invited to one either, and I’ve lived here 10 years. What is the story with these parties? J gets invited to things like the Oscars and celebrity weddings (really) but Bonfire Night remains beyond his social grasp.
In the absence of any Bonfire Night invitations I had people over for dinner. It ended up being 5 girls, none of whom knew each other particularly well, but who all got on like a house on fire. At the end of the evening people were swapping numbers and arranging to meet up and everything. It was lovely. I made sausages with honey and mustard (slightly overcharred), roast parsnips, carrots and potatoes, and I was shameless enough to serve Vienetta for dessert. F, who is Italian, said, ‘You have this in England as well?’
So G and I had to tell her about the Kerrygold ads – a seminal series of ads that somehow associated butter with a saga of Franco-Irish sexual tension set against the backdrop of an old-moneyed rural household. That’s harder than it looks. It also gave rise to countless catchphrases from the risque ‘Zere is somesing I can elp?’ to the cliff-hanging ‘Who’s taking the horse to France?’ There’s a whole series to enjoy but you might as well start here: