It must be spring, the daffodils are out, there’s almost 20 minutes of daylight, the giant seagulls are dragging empty lager cans out the bin…and I’ve just had a pie – and by that I don’t mean the Carol Voderman mathematical challenge type thing, I mean your actual pie. Woopsie, there goes the diet, and I was doing so well, I was down to 40 fags, 72 coffees and an egg and cheese Mcmuffin a day. Yes, very Bridget Jones Dairy, if Bridget Jones lived in Falkirk. But when it comes to fast food don’t knock the golden arches. Who hasn’t stood at the drive through pissed, when the main doors are shut at 3 in the morning, squinting through the window like a little street urchin, resorting to drinking out of puddles on the way home to sober up.
Now don’t get me wrong I’m all for a fast food desperation feeding frenzy. But when it comes to fast food you just can’t beat good old fashioned traditional Scottish cuisine. I’m the first to say, “what’s a potato?” (“a waste of a good chip” is the answer.) I respect our traditions. If it moves deep fry it. I can almost hear my excited arteries hardening at the thought of it.
A lunchtime kebab is a one way ticket to an afternoon spent on the disabled toilet
And as for our scared church of the pie, Greggs, let me come and worship at your flaky pastry alter. Hallowed ground indeed. In fact, Greggs is like my own personal porn. It’s like the Peter Stringfellow’s type lap dancing of the world of food. There’s nothing like shuffling into a Greggs wearing a hoodie and anticipating getting dirtied up. But they’ve moved with the times. They’re in tune with the nation’s ever changing sophisticated taste buds. And what’s more, they’ve even relaxed the door policy. They’re even letting vegetarians in these days. Welcoming them with open arms and sandals one might say. No more of this “Do you have the vegetarian option?” “Yes, why don’t you fuck off…”
Although the mystery shopper in a Greggs shop is still always easy to spot, it’s usually the woman in a knitted orange poncho asking for a gluten free, wheat free, meat free, diary free, chocolate free, wood glue free, nut free bridie for their diabetic three year old on the atkins diet whose tied to a buggy with a piece of string.
Of course the vegan option still needs a bit of work, it’s basically tomato sauce on a napkin. But that’s their own fault slash lifestyle choice. Vegans, yeah come ahead if you think you’re hard enough or sorry if you’ve got the strength to stand up. You see, ultimately there’s rules to eating. Take pizza toppings, there’s rules, there’s things you should never to put on a pizza, like celery or salted peanuts. Never ever should they be put on a pizza, not even in an eating emergency and believe me I’ve tried. And as for pineapple. On a pizza? In cheese? …Martha hand me my gun.
That’s why there’s rules. Like never having a kebab sober during daylight hours. And why would you? Anytime is the right time for a pie. But kebabs are a completely different animal. Have you ever know anybody to eat a kebab at lunchtime? Sober? And as for your mum bringing one home for your tea on a Wednesday night a five o’clock. What was she thinking? A kebab sober? That’s an oxymoron. Verging on the ridiculous, in the words of pop skank legends Cypress Hill…insane to the membrane. Now I’m all for flaunting the rules, albeit quietly and in the dark, rather like wearing a red bra under your burka. But kebabs? Don’t trust them. Don’t be a fool. They have their own rules and break them at your peril. A lunchtime kebab is a one way ticket to an afternoon spent on the disabled toilet, running out of loo roll and having to text a friend to bring an emergency andrex puppy to the public toilet on the corner of St Andrew’s Square. Or would you opt for the sock option? And you can work out what to do with that yourself. Fax me.
