Herbed spring pea & lemon risotto? Pah! You didn’t really think I’d gone all posh did you?
The Gabba, a warts n’ all bastion of Aussie sporting supremacy. Home, down the years, to the likes of Lindwall, Border, Hayden and latterly, err, Johnson. Gutsy blokes need gutsy grub. In addition to the soft-cock fine dining on offer in the Members Stand, there’s proper tucker for the blue-collar boys too.
Having cocked a snook at the array of pork-knuckles, bockwursts and rissoles on offer at the marvellously authentic German club across Vulture Street (as well as the Member’s Lunch in the ground), we sought out something for lunch as authentically Australian as, well, their recent cricket failures.
Having been here for four weeks now and not got round to trying one, it was to time to get involved. Four N’ Twenty Meat Pies, it was time to come to Papa.

In a bad week for bad meat, it was a job to focus on the task in hand. Was I about to, as implied by the name, chow down on two dozen pastry encased Turdus Merula? Or would it be the meat of the moment; horse?
Just as I was about to bite my way into my imagined meat roulette I was abruptly halted by the Leddy brothers. “Whoa there H mate, what are ya doing?” Aw, look ya can’t have an Aussie pie without tomato sauce…..”

Heavens above. What madness is this? Why would you take a perfectly presentable, lovingly crafted meat pie and slather lashings of rich, red ketchup all over it? What sort of evil mind comes up with that? Furthermore, why is it, like shortening and sticking ‘ie’ on the end of every other word, the accepted norm over here?
Wrestling with this awkward clash of cultures, I found myself drawn towards the squeezy bottle of Tommy-K and while I turned over these conundrums in my overworked mind, the bottle, as if on auto-pilot squirted out a thick jet of sugary, scarlet goo on my pie top.

There’s no picture for prosperity of this seminal moment in my pie eating life, but the Leddy boys seemed impressed that the dollop atop my lunch looked like a dead ringer for a tomato-ey silhouette of Australia (with the omission of Tasmania, sadly). This ceremonial nonsense rather took my mind off what lied within.

Beef, not horse or indeed blackbird. What a relief! But not as I was expecting. No chunks, no onion, no finery, just a glorious concoction of mince and gravy. It was as delicious as the Australian batting collapse unfolding in front of me and the perturbed twenty thousand Queenslanders present.
While the Gabba is something of a fortress at Test level, its record in shorter forms of the game is rather sketchy. Even the unusual combination of the omnipresent tomato sauce couldn’t distract me from the fact that the home team were getting absolutely buried in their own backyard. In fact, maybe that’s the way us Poms should approach the pie plus tomato sauce conundrum;

Best Served Watching The Aussies Getting Dicked

I finished my pie with a flourish, licking keenly every last fleck of pastry from my sated chops. So simple, yet so good. I’m sure the Australian selectors must wish Mitchell Johnson was this uncomplicated.
There’s a good chance Four N’ Twenty pies, like Lionel Richie and Sharpe novels will end up in the corner of my conscience labelled ‘guilty pleasures’. I enjoyed this taste sensation so much, I went back for another, this time, at Leddo’s insistence, topped with heaps of barbecue sauce.

Maybe, as long as Australian sporting misfortunes are happening in front of me, anything goes…. Now then, anyone know where I can get a witchety grub omelette?

Epilogue. Australia, having been bowled out for 74, went on to lose the third Commonwealth Bank One Day International to Sri Lanka by five wickets inside twenty overs. The Leddys and I went on to a nice meal at an Italian Restaurant on Brisbane’s Southside with the rest of the family.
Grazie mille Mr & Mrs Leddo, a lovely gesture and a lovely occasion.

Sorry Friday Pie-Day fans. As you’ll see from today’s menu below, there’s a distinct lack of pie action on the menu at The Gabba for the 3rd One Day International between Australia and Sri Lanka.

This means I’ll have to review two pies next week, I’m sure I’ll cope. Also, bearing in mind it’s Burn’s Night (Hello Kevin!) next Friday, hopefully there’ll be a lamb pie to pass comment on in addition to an Aussie staple.

In the mean time, damn that Rosemary baked loin of Victorian lamb…..

Gabba Members Dining Room

Sportsman’s Lunch

Entrée
Roasted vine ripened tomato & goats cheese tart w caramelised onion

Main Course
Rosemary baked loin of Victorian lamb w sweet potato dauphinoise & minted runner beans
or
Roasted breast of chicken w herbed spring pea & lemon risotto

Dessert
Hazelnut meringue w milk chocolate mousse
or
A selection of fine Australian cheeses w fig paste & wafer biscuits

Premium blend coffee & a selection of traditional & herbal teas

Who is this chap Coff that they named this part of Australia after? He must have been one heck of a boy. The Shane Warne of his day, perhaps. Either way, he must have been a super, splendid chap as this is one heck of a place.

Understatedly wonderful, it is without doubt one of my favourite spots in this country. Which, even as a card-carrying, fully paid up member of the Whinging Poms Brigade, I don’t mind admitting getting I’m rather fond of.
One or two carping European voices from the hostel decried the place as boring. There is, clearly, no pleasing some folks.
Great swathes of idyllic beaches awash with playful surf from the warm azure sea that go on longer and more rewardingly than a Seventies Prog Rock instrumental solo, nature walks, either coastal or further inland among the Creeks that bring you face to face with the absorbing flora and fauna that dominate the area. All this is overlooked serenely by the mountains of the Great Dividing Range that, whether mysteriously shrouded by mist or resplendent in the sunshine dominate this special scene.

Boring? Clearly, I’ve lost something in translation.

N.B. as I’m sure you all knew; Coff’s Harbour, as well as being the banana growing capital of the country, originally was Korff. As in John Korff, who, rather egotistically, named the region after himself having been shipwrecked here on arrival in the antipodes back in the mid-nineteenth century.
As I said, the Shane Warne of his day….

They go in for a bit of the sweet stuff Down Under. The Cheesecake Shop, an Australian institution, leads the way on this front. There’s one in most towns all full to the gunnels with cheesecakes, gateaux and all types of different, delicious puds. Coff’s Harbour is no different, so with a bit of time to kill before my trip north to Brisbane, I thought I’d go and have a Butcher’s.
The attentive young lady behind the counter, Sheila, seemed most obliging. On entering the premises I couldn’t help notice a chap in the corner hammering out the classics on a didgeridoo. Thinking nothing of it, I approached the counter in huge anticipation of the tasty treat that awaiting me…..

Henry: Good Morning.
Sheila: Good morning, Sir. Welcome to the Cheesecake Shop!
Henry: Ah, thank you, Madam.
Sheila: What can I do for you, Sir?
Henry: Well, I was, uh, sitting in the Tourist Information Office on Elizabeth Street just now, skimming through My Spin On Cricket by Richie Benaud, and I suddenly came over all peckish.
Sheila: Peckish, sir?
Henry: Esurient.
Sheila: Eh?
Henry: (adopts silly Aussie accent) ‘Aw, ah wor heaps ‘ungry mate!
Sheila: Ah, hungry!
Henry: In a nutshell. And I thought to myself, “a little whipped up cream cheese & biscuit crumbs based dessert will do the trick,” so, I curtailed my Benauding activities, sallied forth, and infiltrated your place of purveyance to negotiate the vending of some sweet toothed comestibles!
Sheila: Come again?
Henry: I want to buy some cheese cake.
Customer: Oh, I thought you were complaining about the didgeridoo player!
Henry: Oh, heaven forbid: I am one who delights in all manifestations of the Aboriginal muse!
Sheila: Sorry?
Henry: (the accent again) ‘Aw mate, Ah lahk a nice tuune’, you’re forced too!
Sheila: So he can go on playing, can he?
Henry: Most certainly! Now then, some cheesecake please, good lady.
Sheila: (lustily) Certainly, sir. What would you like?
Henry: Well, eh, how about some lemon?
Sheila: I’m, a-fraid we’re fresh out of lemon, sir.
Henry: Oh, never mind, how are you on black currant?
Sheila: I’m afraid we never have that at the end of the week, sir, we get it fresh on Monday.
Henry: Tish tish. No matter. Well, dear lady, four slices of chocolate, if you please.
Sheila: Ah! It’s beeeen on order, sir, for two weeks. Was expecting it this morning.
Henry: ‘T’s Not my lucky day, is it? Aah, Tiramisu?
Sheila: Sorry, sir.
Henry: Orange?
Sheila: Normally, sir, yes. Today the van broke down.
Henry: Ah. Blueberry?
Sheila: Sorry.
Henry: Fruits of the Forest? Raspberry?
Sheila: No.
Henry: Any Norwegian Cloudberry, per chance.
Sheila: No.
Henry: Coffee?
Sheila: No.
Henry: Plum Duff?
Sheila: No.
Henry: White Chocolate?
Sheila: No.
Henry: Danish Apple?
Sheila: No.
Henry: Double Chocolate?

(While all this is going on, the didgeridoo man is still hard at it….)

Sheila: (pause) No.
Henry: Cherry?
Sheila: No.
Henry: Pecan?
Sheila: No.
Henry: Apricot, Creme de Cassis, Crepe Suzette, Pear Tarte Tatin, Brioche Perdu, Croquembouche, Creme Caramel, Nougat, Champagne Roulade?
Sheila: No.
Henry: Creme Brûlée, perhaps?
Sheila: Ah! We have Creme Brûlée, yessir.
Henry: (suprised) You do! Excellent.
Sheila: Yessir. It’s..ah,…..it’s a bit runny…
Henry: Oh, I like it runny.
Sheila: Well,.. It’s very runny, actually, sir.
Henry: No matter. Fetch hither the dessert de la Belle France! Mmmwah!
Sheila: I…think it’s a bit runnier than you’ll like it, sir.
Henry: I don’t care how excrementally runny it is. Hand it over with all speed.
Sheila: Oooooooooohhh……..! (pause)
Henry: What now?
Sheila: The cat’s eaten it.
Henry: (pause) Has he.
Sheila: She, sir.
Henry: (pause) Maple?
Sheila: No.
Henry: Lychee?
Sheila: No.
Henry: Banana?
Sheila: No.
Henry: Shwarzwalde Kirsche Torte?
Sheila: No.
Henry: Gulab Jamun?
Sheila: No, sir.
Henry: You…do have some cheesecake, don’t you?
Sheila: (brightly) Of course, sir. It’s a cheesecake shop, sir. We’ve got–
Henry: No no… don’t tell me. I’m keen to guess.
Sheila: Fair enough.
Henry: Uuuuuh, Pavlova.
Sheila: Yes?
Henry: Ah, well, I’ll have some of that!
Sheila: Oh! I thought you were talking to me, sir. Miss Sheila Pavlova, that’s my name.

(Taking it up a notch or two, the didgeridoo player plays on…)

Henry: (pause) Citrus Fruits?
Sheila: Not as such.
Henry: Uuh, Granola?
Sheila: No.
Henry: Zabaglione,
Sheila: No.
Henry: Biscotti,
Sheila: No.
Henry: Cookies & Cream,
Sheila: No.
Henry: Pomegranate,
Sheila: No.
Henry: Toffee,
Sheila: No.
Henry: Mississippi Mud Pie?
Sheila: Not today, sir, no.
Henry: (pause) Aah, how about Strawberry?
Sheila: Well, we don’t get much call for it around here, sir.
Henry: Not much ca– it’s the single most popular cheesecake in the world!
Sheila: Not ’round here, sir.
Henry: (slight pause) and what IS the most popular cheese ’round here?
Sheila: Pistachio, sir.
Henry: IS it.
Sheila: Oh, yes, it’s staggeringly popular in this manor, squire.
Henry: Is it.
Sheila: It’s our number one best seller, sir!
Henry: I see. Uuh… Pistachio, eh?
Sheila: Right, sir.
Henry: All right. Okay. ‘Have you got any?’ he asked, expecting the answer ‘no’.
Sheila: I’ll have a look, sir……..nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnno.
Henry: It’s not much of a cheesecake shop, is it?
Sheila: Finest in the district!
Henry: (annoyed) Explain the logic underlying that conclusion, please.
Sheila: Well, it’s so clean, sir!
Henry: It’s certainly uncontaminated by cheesecake….
Sheila: (brightly) You haven’t asked me about Amaretto, sir.
Henry: Would it be worth it?
Sheila: Could be….
Henry: Have you–

SHUT THAT BLOODY DIDGERIDOO UP!

Sheila: Told you sir….
Henry: (slowly) Have you got any Amaretto?
Sheila: No.
Henry: Figures. Predictable, really I suppose. It was an act of purest optimism to have posed the question in the first place. Tell me:
Sheila: Yessir?
Henry: (deliberately) Have you in fact got any cheesecake here at all.
Sheila: Yes, sir.
Henry: Really?

(pause)

Sheila: No. Not really, sir.
Henry: You haven’t.

Sheila: No sir. Not a scrap. I was deliberately wasting your time, sir.
Henry: Well I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to shoot you.
Sheila: Right-Oh, sir.

(Henry takes out a gun and shoots the owner)

Henry: What a senseless waste of human life.

N.B. I didn’t really shoot anyone. And actually, the Cheesecake Shop produce is rather wonderful.
Similarly, the whole thing has been loving ripped off, as they would probably put it from Messrs Cleese and Palin. If you’re reading gents, and let’s face it you’re probably not, but thank you for producing one of the most inspirationally hilarious skits ever made. Classic, classic stuff.

Cheer yourself up, make your week. Get on YouTube and enter ‘Monty Python Cheese Shop Sketch’ today.

And Roachy, a very, very Happy 30th Birthday to you sir. Have a good one.

There’s no hope. There’s Bob Hope. Then there’s this.

A one horse town on the New South Wales mid-coast in between Port MacQuarie and Byron Bay.

Pronounced ‘war-hope’.

Not Wanchope as I first thought. Football’s getting bigger out here, unquestionably, but not to the extent they’re naming places after iconic, nation-carrying centre forwards of the nineties.

Not yet, anyway. Right then, next stop on my tour of Australia’s East Coast: Stoichkov’s Harbour

Forgive me. Coff’s Harbour. Sorry.

It’s called Port MacQuarie, not Milton Keynes on Sea. I wake up and the rain’s still coming down, in mardy drizzle rather than the stair-rods of last night. For the first time in 60 odd days of travelling, it looks like Rain Stops Play.

Reminiscent of that part of the Summer Holidays of teenage years where due to the rubbish weather you’re housebound. Draped sloth like over sofas and chairs watching Rory Bremner’s Creased Up (Hello China! Hello Rob!) or playing Subbuteo or World Cup Cricket (Hello Will! Hello Tom!) rather than out and about.
Good has come of it already, I swap my recently completed 70 Rupees worth of Le Carre brilliance for Faulks’ Birdsong in the hostel’s book exchange. A day of reading, blogging and looking for work awaits.
Something in the third bit of the last sentence stirs me into life. If this place really is Milton Keynes, it’s best I examine the evidence on foot. The rain holds up for the briefest of moments and I’m so keen to get out and about, I forget, loyally stowed in my backpack is a waterproof and some appropriate footwear.

The view across the bay is miles better than Willen Lake. Down the hill, I make for the water. New Conniburrow stands defiantly in the way. Feinting to the left, I escape the unlovely, domineering housing estates and reach the sanctuary of the boardwalk. The bay opens up in front of me and I ignore the concrete jungle to my right, taking in the underemployed pleasure boats and the encroaching melancholy skies while carefully avoiding the ruddy big swan that stands Schmeichel like on the jetty.
Following the path round the bay, I reach Town Beach and Port MacQuarie’s answer to the Concrete Cows; the expansive rows of painted rocks that aline the harbour. Tourists and locals have done their bit to give the place some individuality by liberally slapping slogans, cartoons, tributes and other such brush strokes on stone. It’s kitsch, it’s hip, it’s different. It reminds me of a Downs Barn community project.
The rain’s back. It doesn’t help. I make for the shelter of the trees and Flagstaff Hill.

Staring back towards town from this pleasant vantage point, it strikes me that a town planner came out here on holiday once and thought, “that’s a nice coastline, lets ruin it a bit” and, Hey Presto!, Port MacQuarie as we know it was born. In the foreground is a scene from a Swift or Stevenson novel, in the background, Campbell Heights.

The sun makes a brief cameo appearance before another deluge ensures Flynn’s Beach is as far as my Port MacQuarie adventure is ever going to go. I turn back towards the hostel and figuring my reserve set of espadrilles have suffered enough I tread nervously inland.
Further comparison with Buckinghamshire’s favourite New City is found through The Point, a shimmering edifice of steel, concrete and glass that overlooks the cliff. No red fluorescent lights on this one though.
If the apartments are an eyesore, the motels are even more vacuous. New towns will never be my thing, even ones as brazen than this. Apparently, there are more places like this lying in wait for me up the coast.

I shrug then smile. What a horrible, vain, snob of a man I am.

Besides, I’m sure it’s lovely when the sun’s out.

During the bus journey from the station the weather spelt out the portents for my destination. Unabatedly gloomy.
Arriving late, sweating from the two mile hike in humid conditions, and with a thirst on, I dump my stuff at the hostel, bid a cheery guten abend to my fellow guests and make a bolt for the local Oirish tavern.
The gloom has been replaced by heavy spots of rain at intermittent intervals. The thunder begins to sound in the distant. Lightning follows shortly after, illuminating the coastal town in Luciferian shades. Then bats. Loads of fruit bats scrambled to the air like a squadron of the damned adding to the chaotic scene.

Finishing my Caaaaald One before South Africa’s cricketers finish off their New Zealand counterparts on the telly, I set off for a pizza. It’s gone from the gathering apocalypse to Hades in the matter of a schooner.

I leap over the torrents coming down the hill, ducking in and out of diminishing dry spots until I reach Domino’s. I order extra locusts and frogs with mine to go with the Biblical downpour outside. Sprinting back, being careful to avoid the horsemen, to the hostel. I crack straight on with my soggy pizza to the consternation of my fellow diners. My espadrilles are shot, my clothes are sopping but my hunger is pleasantly sated. I reflect on the visions of pure evil I saw out there.

No, not the imminent end of the world. Something much more sinister than that. The prevalence of roundabouts and grid systems. The rows and rows of featureless, characterless, multi-storied but monotonous apartments and houses.

This can only mean one thing. It strikes me like a hammer horror blow.

I’ve unwittingly chosen to spend a night in Milton Keynes On Sea.

Nooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sunday, as always used to be the case, was a family day. Reviving tradition for the sake of a quick blog post and a self-indulgent family gag, I had breakfast here this morning.

Nobby is one of many nicknames for my youngest brother (Hello Ed!). His nephew, Alfie (Hello Alfie!), knows him as Uncle Nobby. It was an opportunity I couldn’t miss out on.

Three quarters of a mile away up the beach is a lighthouse.

It sits proudly on the part of the bay called Nobby’s Point.

There are a number of obscene jokes to be had here. To go any further would be completely inappropriate.
It is, after all, Sunday.

Enjoy the rest of your weekend.

Coldplay’s Paradise greets our entrance to the ground. They’ve either got very low expectations round these parts or they had a big helping of irony thrown in with the deal that, last year, brought one of English football’s cult heroes to this part of New South Wales.

It’s Saturday afternoon in Newcastle. What else can a man do but head to the football?

The Hunter Stadium, principally the home of the Newcastle Knights rugby league team, during the Australian Premier League season hosts the Newcastle United Jets. Presumably wearing the Knights red and blue is a caveat of the tenancy agreement. This is Newcastle United, but not as any regulars of the Gallowgate End would recognise them.

The Jets players saunter on to the field for the warm up. He’s not there. The raison d’être of my weekend, no where to be seen. Not just my weekend, two Plymouth Argyle fans have also come to Newcastle for the weekend just to see him.

He’s definitely not there. A deflating moment.

Lets be honest, as England fans we shouldn’t be surprised. This is yet another moment where Emile Heskey has failed to turn up.

I’m here with Alex and Ellis, themselves touring this great country, and similarly sports tragics. We take our places on the grass bank behind the goal and soak up the atmosphere of a matchday in Newcastle, Australia style.
The Carousel, a local band, kick off the music side of things. Spouting snarly American covers and home made grunge they are as far removed from Rodgers & Hammerstein as you can get. Dire Straits blaring Local Hero, a happy feature of watching the Magpies home games on Match Of The Day is replaced by a local Aussie legend; the best part of ten thousand people join in with the chorus of INXS’s Never Tear Us Apart. As unexpected as it is surreally beautiful.

Then the Ultras take over, not for them The Blaydon Races. A tall chap with a megaphone, turned away from the action, stoically faces his orchestra in the Front Novacastria and Nova Youth whipping them into a frenzy that will last all game.
Twelve minutes before anything happens and it’s the visitors, Brisbane Roar who work the home keeper with a routine far post save. Jets miss their talisman. Balls are played down the channel or into his deputy’s feet but nothing sticks. Roar look comfortable, at the back their captain Matt Smith looks a class above and fittingly for a team in orange, they get the ball down and try and look to work their openings rather than opting for Newcastle’s more direct approach.

However, Brisbane’s commitment to the passing game becomes their undoing, as dallying in possession, the Jets midfield starts to snap into action. Down the right, James Virgili begins to get more space and starts making things happen for his team. On the half hour, he creates a good chance that the erratic Ryan Griffiths spurns, dragging his shot wide from just outside the area. Then James Goodwin flashes one inches past Roar’s Michael Theo’s right hand post. Having laboured at the start, Jets end the half well. Griffiths misses another presentable opportunity before, in stoppage time, Smith expertly muscles the generously monikered Josh Brilliante off the ball as home fans scream in vain for a penalty.

Jets fans don’t have to wait too long. Two minutes after the break, James Brown makes ’em feel good. From another midfield tussle, Brown’s smart back heel finds Brilliante, whose cumbersome finish, reminiscent of you know who, finds the back of the net. Jets think they’ve doubled their lead again through Brilliante only for the linesman to correctly rule it out for offside.

Brisbane finally fashion a chance. Jets’ Mark Bhirighitti smothers a one on one situation. The offending Roar striker, Mitch Nichols, is regaled by the Newcastle Ultras with a version of the (much beloved by England cricket fans) Mitchell Johnson song on account of his profligacy. Bhirighitti then shows a deftness that Matt Giteau would be proud of to thwart another Roar attack. At the other end Griffiths misses again. Brown fails to get on up to head home a deserved second.

At the back for Newcastle, captain Ruben Zadkovich and Taylor Regan are called into action as Brisbane apply some late pressure. The locals love Regan and his combative style of play is your actual Aussie street fighting larrikin personified. Door duty in town somewhere undoubtedly beckons for these two granite featured individuals afterwards. Brisbane’s last roar is more of a terminal croak and they fail to make the best of three stoppage time corners. Zadkovich, for the umpteenth time holds firm. Newcastle cling on and the final whistle signals three welcome points, fifth position and with it a play off berth.
There’s not long of this season’s A-League left. They’ll need more Regan resilience, more Brown brilliance and the return of a certain centre forward if they are to challenge for honours.

Welcome to a parallel universe. The surprising end result of an engaging three hour train ride from Sydney up through New South Wales taking in the edge of the Blue Mountain range and scenic lakeside towns like, insert your own tired England manager joke here, Woy Woy (Hello Eats!).
On leaving the station, I catch glimpse of a bus destined for Wallsend. The second thing to notice is the massive dockyards that have made this town’s name. Across the bay is Stockton.The chaps here, to a man, are shirtless. Even the hostel receptionist looks like Olivia Colman….
The comparisons are as far fetched as they are spookily redolent.

Welcome to Newcastle. Infamous as the place where they took the really troublesome convicts.

It’s that time of the week already and, assuming the locals love for a pie is on the scale of this place’s English namesake I head for the nearest bait cabin (Hello Stevie lad!) for a spot of lunch. I head to the Queen’s Wharf and the home of the only licensed franchise of where I spent yesterday around this time, Harry’s Cafe De Wheels.

A legendary venue for the pie connoisseur, its original base in Woolloomoo Dockyard has been in service since 1945, when local entrepreneur Harry ‘Tiger’ Edwards, bemused by the lack of quality after-pub eaterie in his home town, decided to set up a caravan specialising, more or less, in pies for the esurient and inebriated.
The great, the good and the far too many self-serving types from reality TV shows have eaten there. Russell Crowe, Kevin Costner, Allan Border and P.C. George Garfield from The Bill are some of the many celebrities whose cheerful Troth-Cam images adorn the shiny aluminium walls of the iconic pie shack. As its legend has grown, so has its menu. Pasties, sausage rolls and hotdogs, not to mention other flavours of pie are all available these days.
Tradition dictated I left the pie till Friday, so yesterday I had the pastie. It was good. The pie today was better.
In keeping with the hulking pie tower of a fortnight ago, clearly the standard way to serve the dish here, I signed up for the original flavour in all its Aussie surroundings. No kidney, no cheese, no onions.
Just beef.

The cutlery was as ineffective as the ones issued a fortnight ago as the crust stood firm, as tough as Steve Waugh. The potato, meanwhile, was more synthetic than Shane Warne in his current state. The peas were in the same vein, though gloriously and voluminously mushy.
The beef itself was good enough, but, frankly, Harry, there wasn’t enough of it. The gravy was saltier than Bernard Manning’s joke book although a delightful touch of pepper did just enough to rescue the flavour.

Yeah, it was good alright, but legendary? I wondered if it would have tasted better in Sydney rather than my current location.
Overlooking the bay, reflecting on the latest instalment of my pie odyssey, a drunken, broke man rambled idiotically on in a strange accent, rudely interrupting my pie-based musings.

Newcastle. The comparisons really are as far fetched as they are spookily redolent.