This brave beauty isn’t being cooked — he’s self-basting.

A stubborn sausage who sunbathes where angels fear to fry, mastering the flames with a beer in one paw and a bad attitude in the other.

They call him the Perfect Pit Master — slow-roasted by choice, fuelled by German sour grog and other wild brews whispered about by badgers.

He’s the patron saint of reckless relaxation.