It’s hell trying to be king of the barbecue

It was back in 1968 that The Crazy World of Arthur Brown first proclaimed: “I am the God of Hellfire and I bring you Fire!”

Ever since then, it has become the unofficial anthem for men and barbecues, which is why I was humming it the other day.

Thanks to the vagaries of British weather we had a couple of wonderfully warm days at the start of April (the ones just before the snow) so I wheeled out the barbie from the dusty recesses of the garage and into the eyeblinking sunlight of the garden.

Unlike many men, I do not claim to be a master of the outside grill.

I know we are supposed to be the guardians of all things pyrotechnic, having discovered how to harness the power of flames back in the Stone Age. But I am, boringly, more happy slotting rashers of bacon into a proper oven than attempting to set fire to lowhanging buddlia.

However, as the smell of other people’s burgers began wafting over the turrets of

Cobweb Castle, Mrs

Nurden decided it would be fitting for me to join in this quaint culinary custom.

She does not “do” barbecues. It is not because she can’t but that she regards it as annual entertainment to see me grappling with the charcoal.

Normally we have family or friends round to watch me fluster and then serve up blackened sausages and fatally raw chicken.

But this time, with no witnesses thanks to the Covid lockdown, it went surprisingly well.

The charcoal caught light as anticipated and was allowed a full hour to turn into white heat. The sausages sizzled obediently and the chicken kebabs were cooked right through. The only downside to this spectacular success was that no one other than Mrs Nurden witnessed it.

As she remains determined to keep this knowledge to herself I guess I am going to have to sing another chorus of Fire on my own – but this time very loudly.

‘Normally we have family or friends round to watch me fluster and then serve up blackened sausages and fatally raw chicken’