A large group of blokes that have spent the last two and half hours hovering around the lamb spit aren’t certain, but they reckon that might be enough, surely.

“Come on. That’s gotta be done by now” says one salivating idiot.

“Yeah tell me about it. It’s not like he’s looking back at us” says another.

However, as is usually the case. There is one bloke, maybe two, who claim to have cooked up a few spit roasts before.

They think that while it might look like it’s done, it’s actually quite deceving.

The barbeque, which has been organised by the female social circle that these blokes mutually share through their girlfriend and wives, has an open ended timeline. This makes it all the more difficult for the introverted male guests who were just hoping to get a feed and bail with their missus.

With no real list of proceedings for the afternoon, the blokes are now circling like vultures until one of the alpha’s gives them permission to rip in.

“You can cut a bit of the snout off if you want to give it a try” one of the spit roast veterans disgustingly suggests.

“Nah. Don’t want to spoil it” says one of the more eager blokes.

With sunset looking like it could easily be arriving before the food, the blokes are now transfixed on the rotating steel and red meat.

The girlfriends are now talking about them without fear of being caught out.


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