A massive, honking piece of meat boys.....

...is what the butcher at the farmer's market said to me yesterday. It was early and yes, I still had my trousers on.

Moments before I had been on the sofa in my friend Will's house, nursing my hangover and waiting patiently for breakfast.

We were all up late.

Cider late.

Sturggling for effective hangover cures, I suggested meat at the earliest available opportunity.

William said there was a farmer's market nearby and we could get breakfast there too.

Score. He thought.

A complete misunderstanding of what I needed.

I know what breakfast at a farmer's market means. Organic this and that crap and cooked like this and like that, in a fucking whatever bun and blah blah blah. In that condition on a Sunday morning I WANT A GREASY SPOON. Not the S&M cafe. I'm talking Withnail & I greasy spoon. The 'balsamic vinegar is for gays' kind of greasy spoon. People who don't look at you funny when you say you want four poached eggs and six sausages, in a fucking sandwich, with hash browns in it too please.

But it wasn't happening. In the end we had Jerk Chicken. For breakfast. I know. I hadn't even had a coffee. I sat, choking on tiny chicken bones, in a car park, in Bristol. For breakfast.

But oh...the massive, honking piece of meat.

From the winking butcher. Six week aged rib of beef on the bone. A walking bacterial hootenanny! My friend's housemate thought there was something off in the fridge. But like Annabel Chong, it wasn't the fridge that smelt, it was the massive honking bit of meat in it.

Oh it didn't smell that bad. Just very, ripely, deeply meaty. I would imagine, not disimilar to Henry VIII's tightest pants.

I seasoned the hell out of it and browned it all over in a pan. I then slammed on a bed of already roasting onions and carrots into the oven for 45mins. Roasties, savoy cabbage et al too. Homemade horseradish. Thank you.

Two of the eaters didn't like it. They said it was too gamey, too strong and my favourite: "A bit rough." I thought it was great. Truth be told, it was a little bit much. In the future, even if given the option, I might well not go for meat that had been hung for that long. That honking. The flavour was very rich, very base. Earthy. Perhaps it was just miles away from most of the meat that I have eaten. Like a first mutton over lamb experience I imagine. Maybe I didn't cook it right. Method-wise I mean. It was Medium-rare and cooked to perfection biatch! Maybe I was scared.

But who wouldn't be scared? I was confronted with a 'Massive honking piece of meat' and a winking butcher. I had to buy it. And all I really wanted was a sausage sandwich and a nice cup of tea.