Angry Belly: Flavour is Foreign

by Roxane Hudon

 

Three cold-hard truths confirmed about the UK, from living in the UK:

1)   It always rains and there is no summer.

2)   This injects this grey country’s inhabitants with a particularly ironic, dry and self-deprecating sense of humour, which often borders on cultural self-hatred.

3)   People here eat like fucking shit.

 Breakfast

Two square slices of questionable pink meat (“The Lorne Sausage,” a delicacy) canoodling two black meaty pucks (“The Black Pudding”), swimming in a sea of baked beans, accompanied by toasts drowned in gobs of warm, yellow butter.

Budget options: a Greggs sausage roll or a Greggs cheese and onion pasty that taste like someone just spewed in your mouth and then shoved some flakes down your throat to absorb the chunks and add some flavour.

Two-in-one special: “The Clyde Tunnel”: a puck of Black Pudding inserted into a square Lorne Sausage. A real treat! Especially if you hate yourself and like piling shit on shit and then tasting it to make sure it is in fact shit.

Lunch

A ham “salad” sandwich, “salad” being what most would refer to as “vegetables.” But, really, don’t put too much salad, just Iceberg lettuce, slabs of ham and some butter. “I’m on a diet, so I’ll try your watermelon and feta salad, but could you add slices of ham?” “Of course, that sounds delicious, you can never have enough ham.” Maybe some pea and ham soup? Eat like it’s still WWII, those were the Golden Years.

Budget options: A baked potato, full of tuna, mayonnaise and grated cheddar cheese, swimming in a sea of baked beans, obviously.

Bonus round: your first pint of the day!

Dinner

All the meats, a mound of meats, on a plate, stuff the plate in haggis and wrap it in bacon. Accompanying bread optional, only if the aforementioned mountainous meats can fit. Drizzle everything in Brown Sauce (Why call it anything else? What is it? It’s Sauce and it’s Brown and it’s Flavourless). If you’re worried for your nutrition, like a PANSY, just frivolously garnish your plate with some frozen peas or some beetroot, or add one or two potatoes, melt a hard rectangle of salted butter and slowly dump it on top, to add some flavour, of course.

Budget options: Skip the meal, head straight to the pub for as much alcohol as possible. If all the beers and whiskeys in the world don’t do the trick, order the “Balkan,” 80% vodka! Put more alcohol in your alcohol, a special treat, indeed! It sounds like something that should be used to disinfect or corrode, so why not put it inside your body where you keep all your valuable organs!

Bonus round: The 3 AM Fried Food Bonanza, because there’s nothing more regrettable, no matter who you wake up next to or what alley you’ve peed in, than that morning after-taste of last night’s fried sausage dinner. If you’re feeling especially hateful against humanity, or if you’ve stumbled into the bathroom, glanced at your reflection and perceived a monstrous, two-headed, fang-toothed creep who deserves nothing better than a feast revolving around the dirt scraped from underneath a bar’s toilet seat at the end of the night, à la mode, then treat yourself to the pinnacle of gourmet eating, the deep-fried pizza, and hate yourself forever. If you feel bloated, or like your stomach is trying to run away from your body, just imbibe more 80% vodka, cross your fingers and hope it works its magic on the right parts of your body and not the essential ones (what are those anyway). I take no responsibility for what happens next.

 In-between meals snack (because why would you ever stop eating!): A Bridie. What the fuck is it? Who cares, you’re going to die anyway.

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