Biting the hand that feeds us

This morning I saw a packet of popcorn that claimed to be hand popped.

(accidentally deleted an image here – click to read what happened!)

How exactly does one ‘hand pop’ corn?

You would need some seriously hot hands.

hot hands

This got me thinking about those shops advertising their sandwiches as ‘hand cut’. I assume this is to make them seem more appealing by conjuring the belief that love, attention and care has been taken over your particular sandwich by someone who really loves making sandwiches.

No-one loves making sandwiches.

To me this conjures images of someone manhandling and fondling my sandwich. I don’t want deep finger dents in my bread, thank you.

Also, doesn’t ‘hand cut’ imply the sandwiches are being cut using their hand and not a knife? That would just make a mess.

karate chop sub

This madness needs to stop.

It’s assumed that sandwiches aren’t cut by a machine, and we’ve come to terms with popcorn being popped in some big heated metal contraption of some kind; you don’t need to tell us otherwise.

Oh and it’s not ‘real home cooked food’ if you’re not at home.

Just saying.

He shoots he fails!

I have never referred back to another person’s blog before, but there’s a first time for everything I guess, like skydiving or licking a pensioner.

I subscribe to a great blog (which I highly recommend) and today she was talking about the stresses of packing a suitcase.  I must admit I’ve never had too much of an issue, but then again I spent a lot of my youth playing Tetris.

Plus, once you’ve been made aware of the ‘socks and pants stuffed into your shoes’ trick it’s safe to say the feeling of smugness overrides the feeling of despair at not being able to fit in yet another t-shirt which you’ll inevitably bring back unworn and full of creases.

The one part of her post that really resonated with me was that moment an item you’ve lost suddenly (and maliciously) turns up after you’ve asked someone to help you look for it.  And I don’t mean you find it quicker, I mean it is sitting there in plain sight where you’ve already looked a dozen times.

Bastard.

This got me thinking about the opposite of that when you’re unable to recreate an awesome moment because you have someone there to witness it.

Case in point…

A few weeks ago I was sat in the break room having a sandwich.  It was late in the afternoon which meant no-one else was in there.

Perfect.

As I finished my sandwich I looked over at the bin, which was about 8 feet to my left, and smiled as I picked up the foil my sandwich had been in and screwed it up into a ball.  Then, with my right arm, I threw it casually sideways over my head without looking and, not only did it go in, it didn’t even touch the sides!

Boom!

I performed an airgrab, accompanied it with something like “Yeah, get in there!” and then went for a high five only to realise no-one was there to witness it.

Cock.

It could have bounced off a cupboard, ricocheted off the fridge, rolled along a shelf and been scissor-kicked into the bin by a passing mouse and it still wouldn’t have made the blindest difference.

No witness means I could have just made it up.

Yet if there HAD been someone there I wouldn’t have been able to hit the bin if my life depended on it.  It may as well be 50 feet wide and house a black hole inside, sucking in the universe, and I still would have missed on an epic scale.

“I got it in last time!”

“Of course you did Dan, sure you did”

ball in bin

Subway club

Imagine a Subway sandwich shop at lunchtime.  It was busy; heaving with people cramming themselves in for 6 or 12 inches of satisfaction.

Ahem…

The queue was practically out of the door and it was going to take a while until anyone was served.  This allowed plenty of time to peruse the brightly back-lit displays of delicious sandwiches on offer.

And yet there was some penis who, after queuing quietly for a lifetime, got to the front and THEN begin deciding what he wanted.

That’s it, start the decision process now dipshit.

Right now.

Not when you came in. Not while you were queuing for an eternity.

Nope…now.

Now is the perfect time to start thinking about what you might possibly maybe want to have, you total and utter bell-end.

“Erm….I think I’ll have, er…hmm, I don’t really know.  What’s your sub of the day?”

“We don’t do the sub of the day anymore sir”.

“Oh right, er, ok.  Right….I’ll have…erm….hmm….what do I fancy?”

At this point I could take no more.  I stood up from my seat (I wasn’t even in the queue), turned him around, clubbed him across his stupid face with my sandwich shouting “too slow cockface!” while covering him in bits of masticated turkey ham and salad, before frogmarching him out of the shop to an enthusiastic, if not distinctly boney, round of applause from the emaciated starving masses in the queue.

If only.

subway penis bread

An acquired taste

This morning, as I do every morning, I prepared my lunch for the day.

And whilst making my relatively ordinary sandwich I discovered I was almost out of mustard.

Right,  onto the shopping list it goes.

I then discovered my brother had edited the last entry.

image

Brilliant.

What would the Earl say?

I’m sitting in a hotel bar right now waiting for some food I’ve ordered.

But in a place like this it’s never just food is it… no, it’s pompous wanky food with unnecessarily long and tedious descriptions.

It’s places like this that have words like compote, medley and terrine on the menu.  Even the scrambled egg on toast sounded so exquisite I wanted to have sex with it.

Is this to somehow justify the inflated prices?

Would I pay £10 for a prawn cocktail?

No.

Would I pay it for saltwater Alaskan shrimp on a bed of distressed iceberg shavings, drizzled with creamy homemade Marie Rose dressing and a tickle of paprika, complimented with hand cut toasted wheatbread laced with Devon churned butter?

Fuck yeah! Here are the deeds to my house, just feed me this extravagance!

Oh, wait, it’s just prawn cocktail.

And it doesn’t end with their choice of words.  Everything is delivered on a tray.  Even my diet coke was delivered on a tray, complete with a posh stirrer.

Why?   Is it so I can mix my diet coke with the rest of the diet coke in my glass?

I perused this minefield of Shakespearean verse called a menu and eventually decided to go for the ‘free range slivers of extra matured….’ Oh for fuck’s sake, I went for a ham sandwich.

Now, in my experience a ham sandwich is bread, butter, ham, possibly mustard and then bread. It is basically ham ‘sandwiched’ between two slices of bread.   So why am I still waiting for it an hour later?

If the pig has been hand reared as a result of my order, the cows milked and the butter churned,  the mustard seeds grown fresh, and the bread baked specially…then it makes sense I’d have to wait. But I suspect they’ve run out of trays in the kitchen and don’t know how to deliver my food to me any other way.

Frankly, I’m so hungry right now you could deliver it with a crossbow and I’d be happy.   In pain, but happy.

Interestingly, I’ve just had a second diet coke brought to my table (on a tray, naturally) and I find myself a little disappointed it has no stirrer.   If you set the bar too high, you’ll inevitably disappoint.

My sandwich finally arrives an hour and twenty minutes after I ordered it, but at least it’s a special sandwich with…. ….oh wait, no, it’s just a ham sandwich.

But it isn’t; not really. It’s three quarters of a ham sandwich.   They’ve clearly managed to figure out the bread-ham-bread thing and then understandably cut it into quarters, only to give me three of them.

Where’s my quarter of a sandwich?  Did you fucking eat 25% of my dinner you bastards?

It then occurred to me that maybe they give everyone 3 out of the 4 quarters of the sandwich to save money.  They could effectively create a fourth ‘three quarter sandwich’ for free, provided they have three customers who order them.   I bet that’s why I was left waiting for 100 fucking minutes for a fucking sandwich because these bastards were waiting for two more fucking guests to order ham fucking sandwiches.

It all makes sense now.

To add insult to injury, they’ve provided me with an unwanted handful of cress and a ramekin of crisps. A bloody ramekin  of crisps! Do you realise how few crisps you can fit in a ramekin??

I didn’t even want these 7 crisps; I wanted my whole sandwich!

For what it’s worth, the sandwich is delicious, dammit.

ham