A likely story...

I was still in bed, enjoying my morning glass of Asda's pale medium sherry, when Dogtooth burst through the door, paler even than usual and characteristically short of breath. It seems that on one of his not infrequent sojourns amongst the higher planes he had run across none other than Herman Melville, customs officer and erstwhile pasteboard mask. Melville had, according to Dogtooth, been much exercised on the topic of certain passages which a ruthless editor had expunged from his original manuscript of Moby Dick. He entrusted to my fellow Newtist this short chapter, in which Ishmael describes a night out in Leeds with certain of his shipmates:

The Sandwich

Some time had we spent in our revels, jostling round the long wooden bar, when we were called to attention by the ringing of a bell. I looked to the source of the sound, and saw the bell-man was no other than our own host, the old landlord, who tugged on the bell-rope with a cheerful vigour, crying out ‘time gentlemen, time!’
This peculiar cry was known to all the merry fellows of the tavern, and catching me by the sleeve one of my companions communicated to me by certain gestures that we would now have to leave our drinking. It is a curious fact that will churches of all denominations call their followers to worship, this church sends its followers away by the same signal: the knelling of a bell.

Out then, out into the cold night. Me and my friends gathered together and set off, pushing our hands deep into our pockets against the biting wind, to find the only welcome we might hope to receive on such a night: the warm welcome of a Këbab shop. Presently we came upon a brightly lit doorway from which proceeded those vapours and odours peculiar to the frying of meat. In we surged. A dusky fellow was standing behind the counter, and as I approached he looked up to await my order.
‘What shall I have?’ cried I. ‘A doner? No! For a doner is merely the scrapings of a sheep, and I am no man to eat scrapings. A doner they call it? It is a poor gift to receive another’s leavings. A large shish sir.’ The old gentleman mutely nodded his assent and taking out a couple of skewers on which there lay ready pieces of mutton cunningly attached, he threw them on the grill.
Very soon the meat was cooked, and shortly after that it came to the counter, pressed into a certain type of flat loaf, commonly used for this purpose.
‘Chilli? Garlic sauce?’ asked the server.
‘Yes, both, and a little salad if you please’ I answered. For just as the mildest man is apt, when he drinks, to become a little spicy, so while we may like mild food in the daytime, after our revels we inevitably prefer it a little hotter.

I had eaten some part of this kebab, when I felt myself becoming a little listless, a little sluggish, unwilling to raise each new morsel to my lips.
‘What’s this’ I thought, ‘am I to be defated by this so called ‘Këbab’. Why! I declare that despite its fearsome name this fellow is no more than a sandwich. And who am I to be unable to finish a sandwich. For shame, a harmless little sandwich!’
Cheered by this thought, I plied the fork with a renewed vigour, and soon the whole was so much reduced that I could easily take it up in me two hands, and there consume it in three or for large bites.

Oh! A fine meal we had. And a fine and jolly meal is this life for us, until we are laid in our coffins, spiced with the tears of our loved ones, and garnished with a salad of funeral leaves, clapped between slices of wood and pressed into the great loaf of the ground.