The Saddest BBQ in the World

Date: 12/9/2025

I’m hosting a BBQ. Apparently. Though if you looked around my garden — my meadow, technically — you’d assume the event had been cancelled, exorcised, or declared a biohazard crime scene. No music. No drinks. No decorations. And the only suggestion of food: a six-pack of burgers sizzling on the stove like they’re auditioning for cremation. The vibe isn’t just dead — it’s decomposed past identification. And that’s exactly when my guests begin flooding through the gate. They come armed with camping chairs, because I — an alleged functioning adult — do not own a single chair. The grass is knee-high and moving so theatrically I’m half expecting David Attenborough to crawl out and start narrating my shame. And of course, I’ve forgotten the buns. The one non-negotiable item. I might as well have forgotten oxygen. I call my mum, whispering like a fugitive hiding from responsibility. “Hi Mum… any chance you’ve got buns?” “I do,” she sighs. ”but I’m stuck in traffic. You’ll have to go to the shop.” The shop. Leaving my guests alone with nothing but meadow and existential disappointment. Unthinkable. Liz bursts through the gate next — radiant, clever Liz. My last hope for booze. She has one bottle tucked under her arm like it’s an afterthought. One. Bottle. Seriously? Sophie unfolds her camping chair beside me and looks at the charcoal patties with the weary sympathy of someone observing a tragic art piece. “So… where’s the food?” she asks gently. “Burgers, anyone?” I offer, gesturing to the charred offerings. They decline unanimously. “That’s the lot,” I say. “It’s burnt burger or starve.” Then Jenni and Stove arrive — with bags. Relief washes over me like a baptism from the angels above. Stove — real name Steve — earned his nickname years ago when someone drunkenly slurred it at a party. Before anyone could correct them, Liz had spun around dramatically and declared, “I am a man, not a household appliance!” And the name Stove stuck forever. But their bags contain no food. Jenni pulls out crochet. Villages worth of baby hats, baby booties, baby rompers. Adorable? Heck yes. Editable? Not unless things get truly dire. At this point, lying down in the meadow and letting the earth reclaim me feels like the most reasonable option.The BBQ is rapidly becoming the worst in the history of gatherings. And I've had some catastrophic ones: The BBQ no one attended. The BBQ featuring the raw chicken fiasco. The BBQ which turned into a mild arson incident… involving my husband's silk boxers. But this one… this one is special. And yet — somehow — my guests are enjoying themselves. They’re talking, laughing lightly, nibbling on the charred remains like it’s part of some rustic, ironic dining experience. I slip inside to scavenge the cupboards and find Zayn Malik slumped against the fridge like he’s trying to cool his soul. “Where are the drugs?” he asks. No hello. No apology. Just frosty vibes and accusation. I blink. “Oh. I’m not sure—” “The drugs, Amanda. Where are they?” And for reasons known only to my dream-brain, I reply: “They’re in a suitcase in my bedroom.” He follows me upstairs, breathing down my neck like an anxious horse. I unzip the suitcase, reach into an inner pocket, and hand him a tiny baggy. His face lights up like a Christmas market. We step into the hallway and find Katie Price — yes, that Katie Price — slumped on the floor outside the bathroom like a misplaced wax figure. “You gonna give me any of that?” she slurs. “Fuck off, Katie. Get your own drugs.” Zayn, ever the gentleman. I try to help her up, but she has the structural integrity of wet sand. Eventually I let her slide into a snoring heap. Downstairs, something miraculous has happened. Stove is playing reggae from his phone —tinny, wobbly, but undeniably music. People are dancing. Liz is guarding her sacred bottle like it’s holding all her secrets. The meadow has become a sort of feral dancefloor. And suddenly, despite everything, I feel it: A profound, unexpected swell of gratitude. They came. They stayed. They’re laughing on my lawn like it’s the height of summer luxury instead of a shambolic, under-catered tragedy. Cremated burgers and all, they’re here with me. Maybe this isn’t the worst BBQ after all. And then— The sky bruises black. Thunder rolls its shoulders. And the heavens unleash a torrential downpour, soaking everything instantly. Chairs collapse. Guests scatter. Liz shields her wine like it’s the crown jewels. Zayn sprints for cover. Katie Price snores through the ordeal. It is catastrophic. And yet I stand there — drenched, muddy, defeated — and I start laughing. A wild, grateful laugh. Because yes, everything went wrong. But everyone still showed up. Everyone still chose to be here, with me, in this mess. Maybe the universe wasn’t ruining the party. Maybe it was reminding me that joy isn’t in the plan — it’s in the people who stay anyway. I look up into the cold rain and feel it fully: Gratitude. Raw, soaking, ridiculous gratitude. For the chaos. For the company. For the fact that nothing went right… and somehow, that made everything right.