OPINION

Kevin Page is a teller of tall tales with a firm belief that laughter helps avoid frown lines. Page has been a journalist for many years and has been writing a column since 2017.

A hundred years ago a bunch of us were out having an early-morning feed when a waitress dropped a fully laden tray of breakfast delicacies.

To say the aftermath was calamitous would be an understatement.

There were sausages, tomatoes, hash browns, bacon and varying quantities of hollandaise sauce-covered eggs strewn across a wide area. And in the middle of it all stood a young girl absolutely crestfallen.

That’s when one of our party roared with laughter, rose to his feet in the middle of the packed cafe and clapped.

We were mortified. I mean you would be, wouldn’t you? The poor girl was close to tears over an obvious accident and this prat decided to add insult to her injury, so to speak.

Anyway, and I’m not particularly proud of this, but in my haste to get him back down into his seat to quieten down, my clenched fist may have collided with his midriff, but it worked and he sat down literally with no breath left for laughter or any further jeering.

As he sat there, his then wife — they are no longer together and we are no longer friends, surprise, surprise — and others at our table glared at him.

I mention this tale from a bygone era because of some similarities to a similar scene at a hotel restaurant I visited this week.

I’m sure by the time you get to the end of this you’ll be thinking exactly the same as me: there’s always one.

So. Let’s go.

I’m out for a business brekkie with a group I’m getting some guidance from in relation to my little side project.

As part of it we’ve broken in the middle of the two-hour meeting and filed into the hotel’s dining room where a sumptuous smorgasbord-style breakfast is on offer.

It’s one of those where you can start with cold meats and cheese at one end, porridge and cereals with fruit in the middle, and cooked bacon and eggs etc at the other. As is customary we have all taken a plate and lined up to await our turn with the tongs and/or serving spoons.

The room is full with a variety of good-natured folk including some obvious tourists and a group of guys in one corner wearing the same shirts. Presumably, they are some sort of sports club or something.

There’s half a dozen of them sitting at the table enjoying breakfast while we are lining up. And then they are joined by another.

That’s when the fun starts.

Judging by the ribbing he’s getting from his mates, this fellow has enjoyed the previous evening’s activities a little too much and now he’s feeling a little worse for wear and is running late for that day’s exertions.

He needs a good feed, obviously.

Having been involved in a similar group myself for the better part of 25 years until recently, I can say been there, done that. So, when this bloke grabbed a plate and lined up behind me in a somewhat agitated state, I thought I might be able to help.

A quick word with some others from our party a couple of spots ahead resulted in a break in the line and the grateful latecomer jumped in to the cheers of his compadres still seated in the corner.

What folowed was rather unexpected.

Trying to get some baked beans on to his plate, our hero managed to drop the ladle, which hit the side of the table before somersaulting into open space, its direction halted only when it collided with his shirt. Baked beans slopped everywhere.

Hoots of derision poured from the corner and Our Hero, obviously trying to win the prestigious Dick of the Day award, then decided to play to the watching gallery.

Putting his plate down, he picked up the entire cauldron of baked beans and attempted to pour some on to his plate.

Unfortunately, the idiot hadn’t reckoned on it being hot enough to keep his baked beans in a presentable state, and mid-pour it became evident he wouldn’t be able to complete the manoeuvre.

And he couldn’t.

Within seconds he dropped it and a gazillion baked beans in sauce cascaded to the floor followed by their previous “home”, which clattered to the tiled floor a fraction of a second later.

Dumbfounded, Our Hero stood amid the chaos, mouth agape, baked beans and sauce all up the front of his trousers and shirt.

Some of it had even made its way across to other diners and on to the clothing of several of my business meeting attendees. Annoyed faces were in the ascendance. Apart from one or two of his gang — not all of them to be fair — who stood and clapped, laughing raucously.

At this point the authorities arrived in the shape of management and the mess was attended to and the rest of us carried on shuffling forward.

By now, Our Hero had regained his composure and was wisecracking his way along the line collecting food as he went, minus baked beans of course, seemingly without a care in the world.

His return to the table, plate piled high, was greeted with laughter by a couple of his mates who were still there.

Now, to be honest, it was all a little bit funny. But when he tried to pick up the full hot container of beans and dropped it he just became a stupid, irritating twat.

That he was still laughing and joking as the poor restaurant staff were cleaning up his mess was just plain rude. You could sense the other diners wanted some repercussions.

So that’s probably why three or four tables of us rose to our feet in unison and applauded when an obviously senior manager arrived in the dining room and told Our Hero and his mates to leave.

As I say. There’s always one isn’t there.

And breakfast never tasted so good.