A weekly column reproduced from the Bristol Evening Post

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The smell of charcoal and petrol hangs over suburbia like a shroud. At Number 32, embers still glow amongst the smouldering remains of the garden shed. Next door, they’ve fitted a turnstile to the toilet door as the effects of botulism really kick in.

What on earth makes the English think that they can do barbecues?

Outdoor cooking is a warm-weather sport. They do it well in Australia and in Florida. That’s because they do it often.

We study the weather forecast for days ahead, peer anxiously at the sky all morning and then hurl ourselves into a mad bout of frantic activity in case the clouds pile up again. And it still rains.

Down at the supermarket, they wheel out those special packets of indeterminate animal flesh covered in a strange, brown goo and labelled “Ideal for Barbecues”. Still we strip the shelves bare. Fathers wrestle on garage forecourts for the last bag of charcoal before filling up a five-litre can of four star “just to get it going.”

Even worse, back at home the novelty apron comes out for its annual airing, still bearing remnants of last year’s barbecue relish on the left suspender. Is it some primeval, caveman urge that makes men suddenly decide that that can cook once the venue moves outdoors? They’ve not tackled anything more demanding than a cheese sandwich all year and suddenly they’re Marco Pierre White. “Ugg. Fire. Me cook.”

Consequently, cooking sausages that would take ten minutes under the grill suddenly turns into a three-hour marathon. By the time anything edible emerges from the huddle of husbands around the barbie, everyone’s drunk far too much sparkling Blue Nun and hand-to-hand fighting is about to break out between the in-laws.

And everyone will have forgotten the token veggie who, after doing a bit of self-righteous preaching, will end up eating a lettuce leaf in an empty hot dog bun. Ah well, at least life has some compensations.

There’s more…