“I feel hungry, oh so hungry, I feel hungry and angry and bright, and I pity anyone who doesn’t eat tonight,” as West Side Story never sang.
Whether you’re sitting on the back of the bus trying to eat a Tupperware full of pasta salad between stops, or at home on the sofa surrounded by the detritus of a meal deal, why not take a moment to have a scroll through some of the greatest food photography snapped and shared on Instagram this week. It nothing else, it’s good digital exercise.
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Have you ever pulled the central stem from a honeysuckle blossom? To sip the sweet, clear liquid held on the stamen? As a child, I would lean out of my bedroom window and pick flowers one by oen for hours, watching the neighbourhood cats shit in our garden and next door’s swing flap to and fro in the breeze. But scattering daisies in blue goo, surrounded by grit-encrusted ping pong balls is a step too far.
Dickhead One: Hey, Bashers mate, what are you going to do on your gap year?
Dickhead Two: Oh hullo mate. Well, Digger, mate, me and some of the lads were gonna head to Machu Picchu to take some promo shots for our new yogurt protein shot business, what about you?
Dickhead One: Oh wicked mate, that sounds increds. I’m probably just going to spend February to August trying to make replicas of 15th century monuments out of sliced pig stomach.
Dickhead Two: Bashers, that is a sick scheme. Dickhead one: Haha. Allow it, mate.
Remember in the 90s when everyone suddenly got over-excited by their new white goods and began trying to double down on time-saving domestic frippery? Several people I know cooked entire salmons, wrapped in tin foil, in their new dishwasher. The results were fine (fishy, pink) but they never got even close to this supersonic rainbow of glistening joy.
Remember Blinky? The three-eyed fish from The Simpsons? The fish that lives in the rivers and lakes near the Springfield Nuclear Plant? The one that Bart catches down at the Old Fishin’ Hole? The one that Mr. Burns defends as a next step on the evolutionary ladder and not a terrifying mutant? The one that Marge serves up to Mr. Burns for dinner at their house? The one that loses him the election to Mary Bailey? You know—the triple-eyed fish that goes blind after Homer pours moonshine into the river by mistake? Well, turns out, he’s alive and well and living in a bowl on Instagram.
Though we are justices and doctors and churchmen, Master Steak, we have some salt of our youth in us; we are the sons of women, Master Steak.
I have spent the last week punching enormous weighted sacks, throwing left hooks at my cousin, and doing sit ups in a boxing gym, behind a barber shop in Romford, surrounded by men who build fences and put up plasterboard. Which is all a roundabout way of telling you that, when it comes to muscles, I’m the winner.
Is there any greater treat on this green earth than a hot bowl of wet tripe, chunks of shoe leather, some old sponges, and a wrinkled up tea towel? No siree.
I don’t know why, but to me, fried chicken always looks like something you’d pull out of your hoover to increase suction capacity.
A raw, vegan, protein doughnut glazed with black goji juice and orange slices? A vegan doughnut? Made of oats and coconut and buckwheat? The colour of the Cookie Monster? I know I should be snide, sniggering, mean-spirited, and scathing about this sort of thing but, actually, I’m just sort of dumbfounded. Just backing out of the room, holding the bridge of my nose and shaking my head, silently.
Da’s a bottl’a pish, pal. An’ we all knows it.
