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What A Fella Will Do For A Good Irish Stew! . . . A house burglar in South London ignored a video recorder, mobile phones and other valuables – but stole a pan of Irish stew.  Clare Wilson, from Mitcham, made the dish for the next day's dinner, then left it on her oven and went to bed.  The next morning it had vanished, but nothing else had been taken.  Ms. Wilson, a mum of four, told The Sun: "I know my cooking is good but this is ridiculous.  It's unbelievable someone would just take a stew when all that stuff was lying about the place.  I'm considering putting out reward posters asking people if they've seen my stew pot.  I've been making stew for over 20 years in that pot, and I'm a bit annoyed.  I've got several others, but it was my favourite.  It's just the right size for all the family.  The thief must have tasted the food first because I found dollops of it around the top of the stove."  Ms. Wilson's sons, Brian, 20, and Scott, 19, swear they did not eat the stew after getting in from the pub – they had a kebab on the way home.  The back door had been forced open, so Ms. Wilson reported the crime to Mitcham police.  She said: "The thief should have just knocked on the door.  I'd have invited them along for dinner.  There would have been enough for everyone."


The Stewpot From Hell by mousethief
(Tune: Sweet Betsy From Pike (more or less))

mousethief's Comments:  Here's what really happened.

Now gather 'round bounders wherever you be
And you'll hear a story by listenin' to me
Me mum never learned how to cook very well
And the worst thing she makes is the Stewpot from Hell

Me brother is Brian and my name is Scott
And one night when mum started fillin' that pot
We looked at each other and Bri' grabbed his hat
And were out of the back door in ten seconds flat.

You must understand that we love our dear mum
And the last man who badmouthed her, we kicked his bum
Her biscuits are first-rate, her cakes never fall
But that glop she calls "stew" could be used to patch walls

So me and me brother went down to the pub
And had a good supper of broiled shish-ke-bub
And we knocked back a pint, maybe two of good stout
We were both walking sideways when we finally walked out

We made our way home, but for how I can't tell
We opened the door, and were hit by that smell
I started to choke, Brian broke down and cried
It was like someone's dog none-too-recently died

Now if you are caught by the arm of the law,
After cocking your elbow, out driving your car,
I think that one whiff of me dear mother's stew
And you'd be twice as sober as when you were two

We found the offending pot still on the stove
And, struggling to lift it, quite manfully strove
To wrestle the reeking thing into the yard
And buried it near the front tyre of the car

Next morning my head it did ring like a bell
"Who pilfered me stewpot?" I heard mother yell
"I'm sure I don't know" and right then it was true
For me head was too noisy to mind on her stew

So mum simmered down and the cops she did ring
And they took down her statement, and that sort of thing
But out in the yard there's a barren brown spot
For nothing will grow over mother's stewpot.

Copyright 2001 Alex Riggle. All Rights Reserved.

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