Oh balls!

It sounded kind of tasty. "Roasted Irish Beef Meatballs with Chilli, served with Steamed Rice", although the random capitalisation is all my own work.

The rice was good and the chilli sauce was very tasty. The problem entirely centred on the meatballs. Precisely what part of Irish cattle these things came from, I shudder to think. No please, don't say it. You'll make me gag again.

Things had started swimmingly. I was enjoying lunch and everyone around me who had gone for the same option seemed to be enjoying them too. I went to cut into another meatball and found something that resisted my knife. Strongly. Magnificently, I chose that exact moment to find that the meatball I was currently chewing had something of the same consistency about it.

So I'm sat in the middle of a crowded canteen and what I really want to do is spit the damned thing out. Clearly this wasn't going to happen. Making no further attempt at all to chew, I swallowed and then gulped down most of a bottle of Lucozade. I enjoyed the rest of the rice and even managed to smile at those around me and make a few ghastly attempts to join in the conversation. Whatever was in the half-meatball left on my plate, and in the one I'd bravely swallowed has been haunting me all afternoon though. I wouldn't go so far as to use the expression "waves of nausea" but there were certainly gentle ripples of it.

See now I'm typing it, it's happening again! I really, really need to stop thinking about the day the canteen served bollocks for lunch!