This could be construed as an animal 'attack'.
As a solitary man living off the land I regularly dine hugely off of roadkill.

A few weeks ago, I partook of a vindaloo of ferret, I found my quarry on the A44 just outside Moreton-in-the-marsh. His head had just been pressed flatter than Keira Knightley's chest by a passing 25 tonner, but his body, where all officionadoes will tell you is where the best meat is (I'm not aversed to offal, but lets be honest, a ferret's brain being even smaller than Alistair Darling's wouldn't feed a pensioner on a starvation diet), was intact and still plump and juicy.

I took the little fella home (I'm normally against the idea of naming animals but I decided to call this one 'Prescott'), skinned him, and fried his liver and all the good meat up placing him into a pot with some gee, Garam Masala, onions, and peppers and left him to broil for a few hours.

My culinary expertise would've had Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall smiling and, dare I add, nursing a semi.

Served with a small portion of wild rice, he was a truly tasty treat, succulent and fulsome, yet gamey and challenging to the tastebuds.

So where, I hear you ask, is the attack?

Those of you who follow my exploits will know that a lot of my stories revolve around fecal matter, and I'm pleased to say, this one is no exception.

Around 3am, I was awoken by a smell unlike no other I have ever sensed, and bear in mind I've lived in a rundown shack with dry rot in the woods for 20 years.

On inspecting my environs it quickly became clear to me that during my slumbers I must've involuntarily evacuated my bowels, as a liberal coating of thick foul smelling tar-like faeces adhered to my mattress, bedclothes and, interestingly, to the wall next to my bed.

Be warned, ferret vindaloo, delicious, but deadly!
(Vic Flange, Sun 27 Apr 2008, 9:11, 3 replies)

that gets a click
not so much for the story, but for the mental image of hugh fearnley-whittingstall nursing a semi with a smile on his face.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Sun 27 Apr 2008, 12:55, closed)

I've got a soft spot for Mr Fearnley-Whittingstall.
And I'm not telling you where it is.
( girlinthehole, Sun 27 Apr 2008, 16:20, closed)

Much LOL-age
It's Sunday afternoon; I just presented a rather excellent HUGE roast chicken to the rest of the family, and we're all half squiffy on the rather nice fizzy rose plonk. The mrs has retired to the settee and has closed her eyes for a couple of minutes; Urchinus Maximus is busy cuting up stuff with his safety scissors...

... - and they both keep asking me what on earth I am laughing about!

It's kinda hard to reply "I clicked on Lunar Jim's profile and read his whole history of posts to B3TA, hence the tears of laughter and the barely muffled squits of mirth"

Sir - I thank you; you have the turn of phrase of a poet born, and I am struck with the desire to buy you copious amounts of whatever it is you like to drink in a feeble attempt to repay you for the incredible rush of endorphins from the laughing attack promoted by your most excellent posts.

Thank you.
(brumguvnor www.twitter.com/brumguvnor, Sun 27 Apr 2008, 16:55, closed)