Dan Morris: The thrill of the grill

As a reasonably red-blooded bloke, I gleefully dance around with anticipation in the lead up to barbecue season like a kid does while pile-driving through their advent calendar, eyes ever-skyward for ol' Saint Nick's sleigh.

As I sit and write, the rain is lashing and the cold is biting, yet this is doing nothing to dishearten this old and starry-eyed meat lover, who is keeping the faith that soon those sun-soaked days of gluttonous, smoky indulgence will be on us once again.

Come the fairer weather, us Brits love nothing more than to gear up in the garden and begin that triumphant burning of brisket, bangers and beef steaks, maximising on the joy that our annual 3.5 days of earnest sunshine bring us. And this year, I'll be leading the charge.

The reason for this is quite simple. Like of one of those said kids at Christmas, I've been a reasonably good boy this year, and 'Man Santa' (who comes along after Dry January to gorge on kebabs and enjoy 'Febrewery' with us, don't you know) has recently seen fit to bestow upon me a rather special gift.

Ok, this is stretching the truth somewhat. You see, what Man Santa in fact did was remind me of a very special gift I had, many moons ago, bestowed upon myself, yet had forgotten all about until I recently moved house.

Some time back, a rather handsome cast iron fire pit had come into my possession – though, admittedly, I can't quite recall if this was a gift or an early purchase the last time I moved abode. Still, it was some months later that, while trawling a local garden centre for goodies, I spotted the ultimate accessory for my brazen bowl – one that was sure to turn it up from 'tepid' to 'blaze of glory'.

The fire pit grill tripod before me was a truly magnificent thing to behold. Comprised of a three-pronged frame suspending a circular grill plate via a trio of chains, this was as Viking and butch as a cooking accessory got, and spoke seductively to the primitive beast buried not so deeply within me. "Must, have, you," I monosyllabically whispered, already reverting to the proud and unevolved being that years as a journalist have only ever been able to roll in glitter. Before my feet had truly caught up with my slack jaw, I was at the counter paying not such an exuberant sum for the majestic bit of kit that would turn my fire pit into a barbie the likes of which Genghis Khan probably made use of on his many stag nights.

As soon as I got the tripod home I was itching to get cracking with a feast worthy of warriors. But then, the rain came. And, indeed, it poured. Washing away the enchantment of red-blooded-hunter-gathererness that had fallen upon me, the torrents had me running indoors in dogged pursuit of a hot water bottle and my Gryffindor pyjamas. And it didn't stop. For days, upon days, upon weeks, upon months. Or so, at least, it seemed.

Suffice to say, that when it was time to emerge from hibernation, I had quite forgotten about that fateful Saturday's impulse purchase, which was left to gather cobwebs in a store cupboard, and spend its existence denied the sweet sunshine for which it had been made. Until now.

As the Ark of the Covenant had done until Indiana Jones turned up to rock its world, my beautiful tripod barbie has rested long enough, and now it's time to make the magic happen. Towering triumphantly in my back garden, there is now no forgetting its existence, and it is only for the clouds to part for a meagre moment, and we will have dirty, fatty, meaty splendour the likes of which has never been seen before (unless you happen to have a similar barbecue and didn't forget you owned it, of course).

We're nearly there. We really have to be nearly there. Time to pray to the barbecue gods, people – the thrill of the grill awaits...