Like something out of the Fosters ads, Jesse talks me through his cooking apparatus. Built by his father-in-law, the engine is an old windscreen wiper motor and powers the Heath Robinson like contraption. The chain looks as dated as the car the engine came from. The structure, a sparce, unforgiving looking device, looks like a warm up act for a Spanish Inquisition re-enactment society.

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Debate ensues as to the best way of firing it up. A combination of everyone’s ideas does the job. The coals whiten invitingly. Then comes the lamb.

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Jesse has been a busy boy. What looks like half of a Welshman’s conquest list appears on a giant skewer. The Caaaaald Ones come out. The route to midnight has started.
It’s just gone one.

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The Caaaaald Ones continue to come out. The jokes get filthier. A huge hunk of chook appears on another skewer. The lamb looks like the greatest thing in the world, the chicken isn’t far behind.A combination of impatience and hunger kicks in and diners try to pluck opportunistically from the meat.

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For the finishing touch, Symo symbolically squeezes lemons to add to the flavour. The flames lick higher.

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Then the carving begins. Blokes take it in turns to act the role of their favourite man in the world come closing time. Eschewing the obvious ‘cheeelllleeee zorss’ and ‘Hello Boss’ comments in favour of warm encouragement, the lamb, five hours after the operation started is ready to eat.

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My taste buds explode in orgasmic raptures. This is some New Year’s Party. This is some meat.

Thank you Symo and Carly, thank you Jesse. Happy New Year everyone.

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