Spent yesterday in a pub garden in an impromptu celebration of ANZAC day with a few antipedians. One of them had come into my office forlornly â he explained that it was ANZAC day, and he should be having a beer in honour of the old diggers. The problem, as he put it, was that he didnât have any fire support â what he meant was âIâm a dirty colonial and I need a British Officer to make a decision for me.â So I did; I logged off, grabbed me beret, wrote a spurious message on the whiteboard âMeeting in Inkerman Barracksâ (there is no Inkerman Bks near us, but the civvies and non-Army types in the office donât know that) and shot back to the mess. A quick change worthy of a BlueRedBlue guardroom, a tannoy announcement for anyone else having a workload crisis on their beds, a brief rundown in the foyer of the mess about what ANZAC day means to the Aussies and Kiwis for the ignorant and before you could say âYou flaminâ galaarâ we were on our way. The 6 of us (incl 2 aussies and a kiwi) debussed in the local town around eleven thirty, I commented on the number of civvies kicking around on a work day by loudly asking âHavenât any of these skiving feckers got jobs to go to?â A little school kid with a bag of crisps and a school uniform that seemed to have a lot more Burberry in it than I remember from my school days, shot through our group and bumped into my Kiwi mate in a way that made me concerned that in only 5 years he will be the legal owner and driver of a pimped-up, bespoilered Citroen Saxo thatâs capable of achieving 0-90mph within the confines of a Frankie and Bennies carpark. Unfortunately for him, he had collided with Kiwi Steve - and entire international back rows think twice about bumping into Steve â He practically picks the lad up by the scruff of his neck and says âGivesu Chupâ (trans: Can I have a cheese and onion crisp old bean?) then instructs him to âgut back to school und gut uh fcuking education.â Thus having adequately expressed our disgust at local society, we retire to the pub. The scene jumps to 1930hrs, a lovely country-style pub by the river. In the beer garden sit 5 very wet, very cold people drinking GAL (Generic Australian Lager) to warm themselves up. Also sat with them is a dry man in his 60âs. Around them sit a number of families having dinner. Theyâre looking somewhat outraged because on the opposite side of the river is Kiwi Steve, bollicky naked and singing a rather obscene song about a nun and a doberman at the passing river barges. Every so often he waves the bottle of Bundaberg Rum in his hand at us in a cheery gesture of solidarity that says âLook fellas! Iâve got me c0ck out!â The dry man in his sixties is the Landlord, Ian â he came out about 2 hours ago to tell us to drink up and feck off. Turns out heâs ex RAOC and his sister lives in the same town as one of the Aussies. The Bundie is from his own personal stock. Nice bloke, but itâs quite hard to understand him because heâs so drunk, I can tell you that he likes to say fcuk a great deal â he puts it to great effect when dealing with the Middle-England families around us if they tut too loudly. The only girl in the group is holding her own, although sheâs probably quite buoyed up by the fact that we keep leering at her because she is the only girl in the group. She goes and buys a double round of double Glenmorangies. She comes back with the tray and berates Ian because his pub wonât serve her quadruples. She invites Steve over for a dram and he shouts back âonly if I can do your dirt [Sic] later!â Two families get up and leave. It turns out that the whiskeys are the alcoholic equivalent of a runaway up Flagstaff. Within 30 mins the group is fragmenting â two guys are taking steve back before he hurts himself, and me, the lass and one of the aussies decide to go for a curry because, according to the aussie, the ANZACs loved curry. And Kingfisher beer apparently. This is when I discovered the erotic undertones to a good curry. Firstly, the poppadoms â the foreplay equivalent of Indian cuisine â itâs a strangely pleasant taste but it leaves your mouth dry after a while. Youâve ordered too many so you have to eat them for blo0dy ages and every so often bits get stuck at the back of your throat or between your teeth. Then comes the main course. As I dip my Keema Naan into each pot in turn, making it sticky and, sometimes, funny colours, I canât help but see similarities between a good Jalfrezi and the female body. I try to pace myself because I want to enjoy everything this dish has to offer, so I alternate how far I dip my Keema Naan in, I vary the pace and generally take care not to lose control of the naan and let the filling slip out into the dish. My female companion sat opposite is clearly enjoying herself and the spiciness is causing her chest to heave and her cheeks are flushed. As she takes a particularly hot portion her eyes widen, her body clenches and then relaxes as the taste explodes inside her. By this time Iâm no longer pacing myself and I just want to devour this scrumptious asian dish. I notice that the girl has some sauce dripping down her chin, I take my mind off the naan for only a second, but itâs enough, the filling drops out all over the chunks of meat. I canât have another bite, Iâm sated. I blow out in satisfaction, then down my beer. Then comes the desert menu. The desserts in a curry house are very much like a post-coital hug: dull, unnecessary and the last thing you need at the end of a long night when you just want to get your head down. I wipe myself on the towel, pay up and leave. Am I the only one who sees that curries are one great Indian metaphor for the sexual act?