Food Legend

CHICKEN WRAP

David has walked 15 minutes out of his way towards remote takeaway on Stockport road.

DAVID

Hi can I have chicken wrap please

TAKEAWAY

Sorry we are closed at midnight

DAVID

...

TAKEAWAY

...

David walks 15 minutes back to flat and spends 10 years on just-eat trying to quantify £8/£10 minimum order for one person. He doesn't order.

***10 years later***

David has walked 15 minutes out of his way towards remote takeaway on Stockport road.

DAVID

Hi can I have chicken wrap please

TAKEAWAY

Sorry we are closed at midnight

DAVID

...

TAKEAWAY

...

David walks 15 minutes back to flat and spends 10 years on just-eat trying to quantify £8/£10 minimum order for one person. He doesn't order.

***10 years later***

David has walked 15 minutes out of his way towards remote takeaway on Stockport road.

DAVID

Hi can I have chicken wrap please

TAKEAWAY

Sorry we are closed at midnight

DAVID

...

TAKEAWAY

...

David walks 15 minutes back to flat and spends 10 years on just-eat trying to quantify £8/£10 minimum order for one person. He doesn't order.

***10 years later***

David has walked 15 minutes out of his way towards remote takeaway on Stockport road.

DAVID

Hi can I have chicken wrap please

TAKEAWAY

Sorry we are closed at midnight

DAVID

...

TAKEAWAY

...

David walks 15 minutes back to flat and spends 10 years on just-eat trying to quantify £8/£10 minimum order for one person. He doesn't order.

***10 years later***

David has walked 15 minutes out of his way towards remote takeaway on Stockport road.

DAVID

Hi do you have chicken wrap wifi I just need to charge my phone

TAKEAWAY

Sorry we are closed at midnight

DAVID

But I can see your crispy fried charging portal

TAKEAWAY

I am sorry you should just go to bed

DAVID

My chicken wrap is on 3% please

TAKEAWAY

I am sorry sir

DAVID

It's fair enough. I've been coming to this takeaway for 40 years and I've never had anything. Why should I expect to now ha ha

TAKEAWAY

Ha ha is it really that long?

DAVID

To the day

TAKEAWAY

In that case please have this chicken wrap on the house

DAVID

Oh my god I couldn't possibly accept

TAKEAWAY

Please I insist it has 48 hours battery life if you turn the brightness down and put it into aeroplane mode at night

DAVID

I will never do that but I accept

TAKEAWAY

You have been coming here for 40 years and have never once tasted our average £2.99 chicken wrap and for that you are our greatest customer that never spent a penny nor said a word you just looked in the window and walked away disappointed

DAVID

thank you

TAKEAWAY

you are like a god to me

DAVID

your chicken wrap tastes so sweet after all these years

TAKEAWAY

sweet? it shouldn't taste sweet it must be defective

DAVID

I was speaking figuratively it tasted sweet after all these years of waiting

TAKEAWAY

...

DAVID

...

TAKEAWAY

So...have you seen the new Harry Potter?

DAVID

Sometimes

TAKEAWAY

...

DAVID

You don’t know how long I’ve waited. You don’t know how long the orange chicken cloud has loomed. Have I lusted after it? For a time I did. I first saw it on the menu in KFC in New York six years ago. I *regrettably* passed up my first sighting opting for something “normal” and then chased the memory at every American KFC thereafter – no sign of it. Had I dreamt it? Was it a prototype? Manager’s special? Oh to have kissed your chicken lips. Darling, I’ll wait for you. Fast-forward six years and the Double Down finally pokes its arse out in the UK. KFC piped it onto the domestic stage for the first time last year. After all those years I didn’t so much lust after it as limp away. It Follows. How did it find me? How do I pass on the curse? The cloud cascades its orange glow. Pulsing. Our eventual face-to-face felt so inevitable that all joy was lacking. Vigour? A vial at best. I mostly couldn’t face it because there’s no KFC within walking distance of my commute and tbh I didn’t fancy “sitting in” and doing it in public. This is a curtains closed scenario and would involve getting a bus specifically to go to KFC, putting it in my backpack and returning home to unwrap. Effort much? Gains little. As such the debut appearance of the Double Down in the UK passed me by.

Recently the Double Down returned for a six week run. She’s baaaaack! “Oh, boy” I groaned. Thought I’d got away with it but no – there’s that cloud again, parked outside my window. Right, this time reluctantly it is obviously happening. Eat your fears. It would have to take something special mind. Like Deliveroo suddenly (after 2+ years) declaring itself operational in my suburb? Something exactly like that! And I couldn’t come into this transaction of sound mind nor body – oh no - I would have to be on the ropes, in the sneeping clutches of a hangover entrenched in sofa. And thus I made it so. The scene was set. I ordered it, like Jesus, on the last day of the promotional offer. The prices on my KFC Deliveroo menu seemed somewhat plumped. Talking £7+ for a regular Double Down meal. Is that cricket? Probably not. Might as well opt for an £8+ Double Down “box meal” with a piece of chicken then. Here lies the jip. KFC state that their fries don’t travel well (they don’t start well either, honey. Worst. Fries. Ever.) and so they do NOT include them as a given in your meal situation – you have to exchange one of your virtual “side” tokens to unlock them from the Crystal Maze. Da fuck. That means with my box meal I had to cash in one of my two side coins on fries (the other on gravy, natch) and reader, that felt like throwing coleslaw out of the pram. You think you’d pay less for that deduction but I paid more for the privilege…doiiii! I wanted fries, gravy AND coleslaw! Wah! But was I about to pay £1.19 more for the coleslaw that should have graced my palm as part of the traditional two-side promise? No, I was not. There wasn’t an option to large my meal either, hmm, curious. So that’s a regular box meal, £8 something. No fries, fair amount of bollocks. But needs musto and I have no gusto. When the meal arrives it isn’t with a trad KFC cup of coke…it’s with a can of Pepsi. A smeddly can of Pepsi. I think they even put a +18p surcharge on choosing Pepsi as an option (no Coke option before you ask and believe me…I know). Where the FCK do they get off? My house evidently. Oh well, so far so absolutely rinsing me at every possible juncture. Well, at least I can hang my hat on the nailed-on certainty that the Double Down will look nothing like it does on the bus adverts. This is going to be shit. This is going to be two shits in a bag that have slid apart and there will be cheese everywhere and it will be small and I’ll have to fish it out like a mug and I’ll hold it up and look at it and said “£8”.

My sights were set so low that the travel-ravaged presentation of the Double Down was actually a distance better than what I was expecting. I was able to de-bag it and perform constructive surgery, the cheese that was left in the bag however was generous and a mite jarring. “That’s a lot of cheese”, I said to myself on my own in my flat in my head. I just picked it up, groomed it, placed it down and looked at it. That’s it. That’s the cloud that’s been looming this past six years. And I’m about to eat it.

I should point out for those unfamiliar with what the Double Down actually is. It’s a chicken burger with chicken burgers in place of the bread. So two chicken fillets with cheese, bacon and barbecue sauce between them. Some say KFC are marketing less as more and wow, buy our new burger – there isn’t any bread. That’s kind of not true though because there are two burgers and you only usually get one. You do get less bread (aka none) but you do get more burger (100% more). I get it though – they’re doing something. These are the notes that I made on my phone after eating it. “I wanted to go at it with a knife and fork. The top to tail. Weird.” I’ll start off with it doesn’t make sense. It just feels like two burgers on top of each other – which it entirely is. Imagine eating two hot dogs on top of each other without any bun. Hmm, you’re right – that would be pretty cool. Ok, imagine a mattress on a mattress with a duvet in the middle. That’s just making me think of a ham sandwich. Ok, imagine a chicken fillet burger on top of a chicken fillet burger. That’s what it’s like! I felt like the pieces of chicken were facing the wrong way – they were top to tail. Like the note above said. The fat end smooshed against the thin end. Should have been fat end against fat end. Feel like…not explaining good. You know how you get a two slices of bread and you face them the right way up so you have a sandwich with mirrored bread ends? Fat ends? Bread ends? You know what I mean. It makes you feel like David Hasselhoff eating THAT cheeseburger. If you’re not on the floor then you should be. I felt somewhat like a wreck and it really enhanced that low. It’s like a bear walking into a restaurant kitchen, bopping the chef out of the way and pawing two burgers together into its stupid bear mouth. It felt stupid and unnatural eating it. Just putting hands on it. The sensation was like eating two chicken fillets upon each other. It felt messy and unrefined. It was heavy going too, it felt solid and a chore. The bacon “filling” was meagre and undetectable. The cheese was the grout that bound. It stayed together in the piece but after a while I just felt weird eating it with hands and took to it with cutlery. It wasn’t wholly unenjoyable. In fact, I’d said it was quite enjoyable taste-wise but the ritual was more strange and uncomfortable. I really like KFC chicken for my sins so the gift of two generous fillets – despite their formation – was something that I almost didn’t want to end. When it was over I was essentially glad it was and having eaten that orange cloud, it is something that I would not order again. However… Said box meal was advertised as coming with a single piece of original KFC chicken. In reality the box held two unwarranted hot wings and NO piece of original KFC chicken. After I eated it I got back on my couch (am I painting too true a scene?) and messaged Deliveroo. The advertised meal I ordered with the intended one-piece sidecar had a higher cost value than the IRL delivery with two wings of lesser value (menu price 99p). In truth, I wasn’t arsed. I didn’t need that piece but thought I’d give it a punt as other factions of the experience had fallen short with the great fries side swindle and can of Pepsi shocker. I’m not a complainer. I’ve eaten a skip of disappointing takeaway fodder and I’ve never been tempted to write a snide user review. But today I thought I’d give it a bash.

WHAT! I’m not even hungry and it’s coming again. The orange cloud is back! Risen like a phoenix! I thought I’d deflated it. It lives inside of me now, no? No! It’s coming again! Well, this is unexpected. Take two. 

“Yes”

The same Deliveroo driver delivers me my second meal. This is roughly an hour later at this point. I knew it was the same guy because I was following him on the app. The cloud catcher. Would he say anything to me? Don’t know what like. Fat bastard? Cheeky bastard? Just “bastard”? What would I say? Just laugh? Shout up to the kids “don’t worry it’s here”? Go down to answer the door in a disguise? If only there was someone here who wasn’t me…to answer the door, to share the wealth. All that crossed my mind but to be honest I was on orange cloud 9. I wasn’t that bothered at all. I didn’t say anything, just hello and thanks. No letting on, no explanation, just DING DING ROUND TWO FIGHT. It was funny second time around because the single piece of original KFC chicken was so small that it might as well have been a wing. I reckon they picked that one out especially for me. I slowly went at it. I was relishing the second can of Pepsi because I was parched. I should note that I had no plans of leaving the house this day and the cupboard was bare so this second meal was something of a long-term blessing. Just pick at it I thought and leave the Double Down in the bag until later on and we’ll see how it weathers. You knew it would fade fast. I’ll just have a bit of it now and save the rest until later. Tasted not unlike the first time. I wouldn’t say either was a standout. The presentation was much the same – not irreparable Tokyo Drift, colossal cheese slick. At one point, after eating the one piece and the fries and having nibbled at the Double Down pt.2 I thought that’s me for now. I’ll just set myself down on the sofa and come back to it in a few hours…which I did for a few minutes and then thought, nah I’ll just eat it all now and be full all day and then go to bed. Which I did.

I will say that the Double Down has cool graphics. Look at that logo. Black and red reaaaaal nice. Would wear on t-shirt inside house. The next day, after the original Double Down was retracted from the UK menus KFC introduced the Zinger Double Down. THE NEXT DAY. Orange spicy cloud. Rare Pokemon.

Despite my doubling down on the Double Down the day previous, it half danced across my mind to just order the Zinger Double Down but that was the cloud inside me talking. I’ve since passed the cloud and have no desire to Double Down. The Zinger Double Down limited appearance ended – without my intervention - on 12th August 2018.

I feel like the thought of Philadelphia is better than the eventuality. Don’t get me wrong, slathered (what a gross word) on a bagel? Woof. Pair that with some smoked salmon? Pret a Manger! It’s a classic combo and I’m not denying it. But living with an open tub of Philadelphia at home and feeling the weight of having to have it every day before the worm turns? It’s a pressure. The ticking clock before the Philadelphia water turns to mouldy wine. How many sittings does it take to cream a tub before it’s bone dry? Depends on your palette knife. There’s no decorum when it comes to cream cheese. You know how with Marmite (it’s a bit like Marmite) there’s an understanding that it’s a scant spread situation, like a delicate varnish? If you were to go in fearless with Marmite bystanders would presume you had never applied anything to toast before. It’s like that bit in Big Brother where someone murked Sree into putting raw bacon into a housemate’s sandwich because he’d never worked with rashers before. The recipient of the sandwich responded WTF as you’d imagine and Sree was unfairly placed under the nation’s microscope as the one adult who had never seen, let alone MADE, a sandwich before. Poor Sree. Anyways, what I’m saying is you can go crazy THICC with Philadelphia and onlookers wouldn’t bat an eyelid - even an alien could come to town and decanter a whole Philly oval relief, un-spread, on a piece of bread and you’d be all “…and?” 

I wanna say Philadelphia is like Polyfilla but I’ve never worked with that medium. It’s less a taste and more a feeling. A cooling agent. Touching the cold wall on a hot day. Facemask feels. Imagine upending it out of the tub and pressing your hand into it really slowly with the negative of your fingers rising in pleasing full-bodied form between the gaps of your digits. Mmm…tangible, calming...relief from the rat race. A reason to be put on earth. It’s the photoshopped cottage cheese, all cellulite eradicated. It’s not a loose mass, there’s a backbone there. You could probably pick it out like a briquette and attack it like a crisp, for a brief time period before the wet weight drifted in your grasp. The feeling to spoodge out a tub with a wooden spoon and plop it into a pan…to make some tragic recipe as instructed by Philadelphia propaganda. Not that I have, nor will I ever, but I can picture it leaving a slug trail on the side of a sauce pan on descent and standing there motionless watching it bubble at the base. I could imagine getting splinters in my tongue gumming the residue off the wooden spoon. Pleasure ist pain. Choke me, Daddy. 

I guess I’m just bored. Bored of having Philadelphia on boring brown Co-Op own brand bread. Toasting gives some integrity to the performance but on having two slices in the morning, I’ve already upped and left my body before finishing the emotionless transaction. If there was a way to absorb it contactlessly I probably would. Could just not have it, couldn’t I. After all this is day four after I rescued it from the reduced section of Co-Op but baby’s on a budget.

I hate Co-Op. Yet I find myself there most days, wandering around in my mental dressing gown, confused as to how I got there. As lifeless and uninspiring as I find the environment, it has to be said that Co-Op radio is almost unwavering in its high grade - and often resonant - tune selection. Pretty Woman by the big O, Take Me Out by Franz F, I Believe In You by Kylie. These are just some of the recent hits. Songs that shake you out of the monotony of trudging the aisles and make you want to swing your basket. Low key on some perfect pairings that lift one’s eyebrow at least and spirit at best, a soundtrack that makes you appreciate that you’re there…in the moment, by the Muller Rice. That feels like a legit feat to feel something, anything, in Co-Op. Occasionally they wield the axe a little close to the bone. For instance, I almost lost it recently when, on a somewhat low ebb, I saddled into Co-Op on a Friday evening solo mission on a reduced hunt to be greeted by the DJ dropping “Dry Your Eyes” by The Streets. What the fuck. What selector thinks it a reasonable decision to spin kitchen sink sombre bombs in one of the stalest surrounds you could wish to find yourself in at 6.30pm on a Friday night? Keep it light, for the love of God. Filthy Gorgeous by The Scissor Sisters. That kind of thing.

I picked up a reduced “Philadelphia with herbs” in Co-Op for 70p (RRP £1.99). A day later I’m wearily peeling back the foil and waging it onto some toast. All I can see is the Philadelphia is thick with chives. “Pfft” I think to myself, “Philadelphia with herbs? More like Philadelphia with CHIVES”. Oh well, carry on with my day and think nothing of it. Next morning I’m back in the standing up position smearing it on with aplomb. I’m reminded for the first time since the day prior of how chive heavy the spread is…like ten flecks a penny, I’ve not seen this many chives since I don’t know when. Since never? Since I looked at a chive plant next to a cress plant and thought…meh. I’m laughing in my head at this point, early morning delirium. “PHILADELPHIA WITH HERBS!? MORE LIKE PHILADELPHIA WITH CHIVES!!”. Haha. I’m still chuckling in my head as I reach for the tub. It seems entirely feasible at this point that this is a dud batch, a freak chive breakout edition that slipped the net. Wait, are chives even a herb? Aren’t they part of the onion family? This makes it even more obtuse. Maybe I can write to Philadelphia and get some free Philadelphia. Maybe the Metro will do a piece about my hardship. I’m reaching for the tub to inspect it for further signs of error. Is this a meme? The reduced sticker on top of the tub obscures most of the lid so I swivel my head to inspect the side of the vessel and my eyes fall on one crucial detail. The name on the side of the tub that was masked by the reduced sticker on the top. The title read…



“Philadelphia with chives”

 Oh. 

 Lol. Why did I think it was herbs? I’m writing this here to save myself the horror of accidentally relaying this story to anybody in real life. It feels like a weight off. Thank God. I just swerved that ever happening. Imagine if I was halfway through telling my neighbour that chive/herb tale, every moment regretting it like treading out onto ever thinning ice, and then others starting tuning in and asking me to tell it from the top. Imagine if the audience doubled at every utterance of the word “chive”. Imagine being in a job interview and being asked three words to describe yourself and the only words you can think of are “Philadelphia”, “herbs” and “chives”. Then you just say them because you can’t pluck anything else. Then you’re forced into recounting this story before a panel of four stone faced interviewees. And they’re dragons. On Dragons’ Den. And it’s on Britain’s Got Talent and everybody in the audience, both on TV and at home, are doing THAT Amanda Holden reaction face. Frozen. Forever. 



Phew.

 Swerved it. 

CHICKEN AND COLESLAW SANDWICH RECIPE

In olden days the bread part of a sandwich was merely used for transporting what was inside. Cavemen would receive their subs (via dinosaur) and scoop out the filling (not with a scoop but with their hands) and discard said bread. Thus being the origin of the paleo religion AKA caveman diet. “No bread, I’ll just have the filling please” #nocarbs. Discarded bread jackets (or brackets) were swept from the cave floor at 7am every morning and lobbied towards “firewood” to keep everybody in the cave nice and toasty. Which, coincidentally, is where the phrase “toasty” actually comes from. Toasty as in toast. As in they’d burn the bread jackets on the fire, inadvertently creating toast, which led to toast becoming the first kind of bread that was ever eaten by human. Partly because it smelled so nice and toasty when it was on the fire! And partly because a bit fell out and people were like dogs back then. Haha!

If you’re still not getting it. Bread, for a time, was used in the same way that pork pie pastry, for a time, was merely the suitcase for the meat compact inside. Shell discarded, much like that of the nut. The much maligned jelly of today worked functionally back then as a grout, or wadding, to stop the compact rattling in transit. On horseback, presumably. Pre-jelly it was horrific. That dull meat rattle of un-stabalised meat weight inside cold pastry walls. It was the Victorian equivalent of fingernails on a blackboard. Though at the other end of the spectrum, sonically.

Nowadays we eat the whole sandwich, bread included. And that’s what this recipe is a celebration of. Bread, for a long time now, has come in so many different forms. White, brown, mixed seed. I could go on. Seeded batch, mixed grain, 50/50. I could go on.

I picked up a Sainsbury’s Taste The Difference “Stonebaked White Baton” for 70p. It’s what you might call a demi-baguette. Or what an idiot might call a semi-baguette. I just called it a semi-baguette in my head before I wrote that. Demi-lol. The thing that stuck in my head was there was two in the chamber at Sainsbury’s and I’m looking at it and I’m thinking, hang on, that one there, on the right, is at least a couple of inches longer than the one on the left and I’m looking at it and I’m thinking, hang on, they’re both 70p. Kinda wanted to wait for another customer to saddle up to the “bakery section” so I could say, heh, have you seen this. And then they’d look at me blankly and take the longer baguette. Or they’d say, well that one on the left is a bit wider so it’s works out the same really bread-for-bread. People, even imaginary ones, are really annoying when they just don’t get “it".

But what I’m saying is, you can use ANY bread for the recipe. But please do eat it and don’t throw it away. Or do! Let’s get into it.

RECIPE

1 x Bread, at least two sheets or one sliceable form. Could be seeded batch, white, brown etc. Make sure it’s enough to make a sandwich. 1 x Leftover roast chicken, fork from tub 1 x Leftover half full coleslaw, fork from tub 1 x Butter, too hard from fridge 1 x Red’s Kansas City BBQ Sauce

I semi’d my demi. One half for now, one for later. Go all in with the full Subway-esque stretch if you’re looking to up your white bread cells. Part the baguette horizontally down the full length. I went all the way through, but you could leave a bit intact at the edge if you prefer a “paperback” style filling method i.e. a sandwich with a spine.

The butter, once taken from the fridge, was too hard and I knew it would be so I just put it back in the fridge. If your fridge is anything like mine then you may wish to do the same. Subway don’t use butter and not that this sandwich is supposed to be like Subway, nor am I holding them up as a sandwich beacon but when it comes to sandwiches it kind of is their bread and butt…er, bread.

Apply a liberal smear campaign of coleslaw to your base bread jacket. This will be your foundation on which to build. Dip your finger in it at this point and give it a little taste. Too spicy? Throw a little yoghurt in there.

You want to open your tupperware tub of leftover roast chicken scrags at this point. Fish around in it with a fork looking to avoid any weird looking bits. Airlift the pure forms onto your coleslaw bed. I went for a bit of a mound as my tub was plentiful. I don’t know what your tub looks like but I’m going to say you want at least 120g on there. I also moved the tub closer to the bread to avoid dropping chicken on the work surface. Didn’t fucking work though did it.

Grab your nearest condiment at this point. I reached for a disappointing bottle of Red’s Kansas City BBQ Sauce. Disappointing because, a) it’s bland b) it’s affiliated to a restaurant I’ve never been to, nor have I any interest of ever going to c) it’s from Co-Op and I can vividly remember half-heartedly purchasing it when they didn’t have anything better

I attempted to put down some lattice work with the sauce. A sashayed one-take lazy flair kinda move. I recommend it.

Blitz it at this stage with salt and pepper. Chicken literally does not taste of anything unless it has salt on.

Last thing you have to do is put the lid on. Boosh. Squash it down a bit. Go on. Some of the filling will fall out onto the plate but I don’t mind. You can pick that up later. Though you might want to take a tea towel over to the sofa with you so you can mop your mitts a little halfway as it’s a lil slippery.

—

Verdict: Bland. Tasted of nothing despite the seasoning and sauce. That stupid sauce is so voiceless I kind of want to squirt the full contents out of the window. I could offer that the thick application of coleslaw muted the accent of those additions. Could have got up to add more salt and pepper after a couple of bites but I wasn’t arsed for moving tbh. So sue me. The roast chicken was in fact an 8-hour slow cooked (in a slow cooker) chicken that I was told in recipes would amplify the taste of the chicken and make for one almightily tasty bird. I finished it in the oven too to crisp up the skin. Still didn’t taste of shit. I put a lemon up its arse from the off too, and three garlic cloves. I saltbae’d some seasoning and paprika on it. Nothing.

CYCLING PERFORMANCE SNACKS I don’t own a bike. I’ve never cycled on the road. I never passed my cycling proficiency. I never took it.  I have owned a bike. It was a Raleigh Lizard, I think. Used to ride it on the pavement and off-road (AKA the park). I’m your archetypal foot soldier these days, that and public transport. You might see me on the train; you might see me on the bus.

Am I an artificial energy guy? By all means! I used to frequent energy drinks in times of need i.e. staying up late doing work / getting up early and doing work. I knocked that on the head a few years back when I worked a Christmas temp data entry job for Royal Mail. I had to enter postcodes from written envelopes on a screen. You’d press enter and another one would come up instantly. There was an hourly target. If you fell below a desired amount of hourly postcode entries you’d get laid off. I rocked this job for four weeks. I started early, like 6am. You’d have your lunch at about 9.30am - home sourced leftover curry or coq au vin from the canteen. The saving grace/nail in coffin were the hourly “eye breaks” – a ten-minute break from looking at your postcode screen. A portion of the 200-some temp workforce would bundle downstairs (via the lift) and gather within the smoking shelter confines. As I’d always be exhausted, I tended to nail a coffee or energy drink most hourly breaks and then return pepped up to pep in some postcodes. I’m a fast typer. I wanted to smash the shit out of whatever the record was. Not that there was a reward, asides keeping the shit job. I just wanted to melt faces. Anyway, one or maybe two days I chased the artificial energy dragon too hard and ended up a jittery garden-gnome-in-swivel-chair mess. Like legit freaking out; shakes, brightness of the screen lasering into my forehead, fevered brow, just general panic. It was horrible. I kicked NRG supplements after that and haven’t really had any since. UNTIL NOW…

My pal Steve kindly gave me some cycling proficiencies to have a go on. Like I said, I don’t cycle but I do snack. First up was a MANGO TANGO Mango & Cashew bar brought to you by the good people at Mule Bar. Did it taste like mango? Yes. Did it taste like Tango? Not so much. It was dense. You’ve seen its sort before. Compressed, mildly sweating, indiscriminate brown smoothed dense matter. Shaping like a “healthy raw” bar. I’d opened it a week prior to have a nibble in a time of no edible home-based solids. I feared exposure to the air would have moulded it. To its credit, it hadn’t. It was a borderline chore eating it because it took so many chews. There was a tangible frustration from not being able to choke it down faster. Not that it tasted bad, not at all. I didn’t get any buzz but I kind of wasn’t doing anything at the time, if that even matters? It didn’t make me get up.

My preconception with these cycling snacks is that the rider is supposed to consume while hurtling along at vast speeds. Like squeeze whatever if it is into their mouth and discard the packet over their shoulder. As in, there’s no time to stop and consume normal foods so you opt for convenience. Steve says he just has a banana and doesn’t partake in the cycle-specific snack market. There’s a bit of an astronaut powdered ice cream vibe to the genre. I was juiced because Steve gave me a Torq Energy Performance Energy Drink and it took the form of a powdered sachet. I assumed you’d empty the powder into your mouth and it’d turn into a drink. Wow, I thought. I’m most looking forward to this one. Turns out I was wrong. That isn’t what you do. You add the water to a 500ml bottle of water and shake it. Fork in the road. I don’t own a 500ml bottle for shaking purposes and I wasn’t too inclined to get one. Mostly because the flavour of this energy drink is pink grapefruit and I don’t like pink grapefruit. Imma eat some of the powder now just to see what happens.  Whoa, it kinda tasted like grapefruit sherbet at first. Gritty. But then the granules seemed to mesh in mouth as a link and started taking on a multi-string form. I was happy to see the back of it once I swallowed. Seemed strong. I’ll keep the rest of the powder and maybe return to it.

There was a Torq brand sundried banana bar. I feel like I only know the word “torq” from films such as Fast and the Furious. I thought that was spelled torque. I guess it is because spellcheck didn’t alert the latter. Torq is a cool play on that word though and it does make one feel juiced to look at. The packaging reads “moist and chewy”. I can attest to that. There was a distinct ungodly sheen on peeling back the wrapper. Like it’d been glazed in sucrose with a pastry brush. Again, the bar is brown and lifeless but true to raw energy bar form. Me like banana. I consumed this on the same day with the next item and chose to commit possible artificial gains towards a tangible exercise. Namely, I don’t own a moving bike but I do own an exercise bike.

I’m kind of feeling a buzz from a quart of that energy drink powder I just chonged. Either that or an unprecedented energy boost from the half of Quattro Fromaggi  Co-Op frozen pizza I’m eating simultaneously. This would be some cocktail for forensics if I was to die in my hotel (bedroom) tonight. Three empty cans of Kronenbourg 1664, a cold remaining half of £1.74 Co-Op pizza and an open sachet of Torq Energy Drink Powder.

I took the last Torq branded cycle snack to my exercise bike. It was a Rhubarb and Custard flavoured gel sachet. I had to wash the sachet because I’d had it in my kitchen cupboard for a while and it bore a sticky dust. Is that too real? I was cycling in front of my TV to an episode of The Jinx, HBO’s real life murder doc series about New York weirdo Robert Durst. It’s very good, you should watch it. You should get some of this rhubarb and custard gel too because ooooooohhhh momma like!!! Honestly, it’s like a pure sickly strain concentrate of sugary suck suck and it’s oh so good. I’d like it going in at all times, on a drip but a drip going into my mouth so I could taste it. I’d like a cupboard full of it to wake up to every morning. It tastes like the best kind of gel-based food I’ve ever experienced. Made me feel like one of those high performance Evian babies (rollerblading, disco dancing or what have you). It’s so satisfying and calming. I’m sure it amped my exercise bike performance. I went over the odds. Usually I clock out on the hour.  On this ride I checked out after 67 minutes having done 20km, mostly on a high resistance setting. I could have done more, I wasn’t bothered. I don’t know if that’s good stats because mostly I don’t know what kilometres are, let alone what are good timings to gobble them. I feel like I was somewhat on fire as a, broadly speaking, low-energy person.

SMASHED SOMETHING ON TOAST  2016 was peak avocado. We smashed the shit out of it. 2017 is all about smashed something, we’re not sure yet. It’s not going to be called “smashed” though, it’ll be bruised. That reminds me, I have a bruised banana in my bag! LITTERING Trust me. It’s been unfashionable in modern times but littering is coming back with a bang in 2k17. Lob a can over a fence, throw your chips out the car window. It’s back, bitch.  PREMIUM TINNED FISH Legit mark my words. 2017 is the year of the high end tinned fish. Anchovies, sardines, rollmops, you name it. The best you’ve ever had of everything. I thought that the trend of 2016 was going to be premium tinned soup (£2.50+ Lobster Bisque, Beef Consommé etc) but that was sadly a misjudgement. BLACK PUDDING AS SUPERFOOD RETRACTION “They” (the government or aliens) take back the superfood status aligned to black pudding in 2016. Not strictly a trend but defo a prediction. “We were joking”. COUGHING Coughing is cool again. TOILET PAPER BOUTIQUE First hipster toilet paper shop opens in London (obviously ahahahahhahaha). Art-is-anal vegan shit tickets. SMARTIES Did they ever go away? Technically no but now they’re back, baby. A tube of Smarties (or “sweetie rattles”) will be the must have accessory of 2017. Nonchalantly nuzzle a few back as you stride down __________ street in your pyjamas and watch heads turn. Swag.  HAMSTER CAFÉ Lapdances by hamsters for adults in a safe environment.  SAVOURY SMOOTHIES Bitter is better! The 50/50 fruit/veg blend is out. 100% savoury is in. Roast potato! Gammon! Get a head start with Christmas leftovers on Boxing Day. It’s all about that gravy cleanse.

BAKED POTATOES They used to be basic but in 2017 baked potatoes will be crowning. Expect an initial wave of miniature baked new potatoes/baked new potatoes on sticks to catch the eye of the small plates crew. Then there’ll be baked potato street food pop-ups peddling kitchen sink standards (with a twist) like “tuna mayo” and “cheesy”. Strap yourself in, Brian Harvey 2017, it’s gonna be a bumpy ride. FREEZER AGED Frozen produce will hereby be known as freezer aged.  SALAD CREAM Salad Cream is the new old Sriracha. Trend.  SPIT BUBBLES Nonchalantly blowing spit bubbles will be seen as the height of chic. The bigger the bubble, the badder the blower. Non-gender specific babe magnet. NETFLIX UNORIGINALS Frame by frame reboots of your favourite Netflix Originals with similar looking casts. Have you seen Stranger Things again? FAMOUS AS AN EXCLAMATION I’ve personally been rallying this one for 10+ years but 2017 is genuinely the time for famous! You got a pay rise? Famous! You're off tomorrow? Famous! You won the lottery? Famous! You found a fiver on the floor? Famous! You’re opening up a baked potato street food stand? Famous!  PIP NATION In 2017 a dance anthem will FINALLY be recorded with Apple “volume up pips” leading into the drop of a song. Pip pip pip pip pip PIP *drop*!!!!!!!!!  TRENDSCENDER Those that transcend trends will be referred to as trendscenders. Shibby.  DOUBLE TAP DAT Double tapping any life-form (or object) will be affirmation that you like them (or it). On the butt. JOKING! 

I bruised underneath my fingernail Trying to hook the stone out of an avocado Usually it’s supple enough to get purchase And the stone doesn’t take much dislodging The nail just digs in and scoops it Not today That stone was lodged Notice how I’m not calling it a pip Notice that if you do that you’re wrong It might technically be a pip I absolutely don’t care to find out But you don’t call a loaf of bread a crumb Or a boulder a pebble Anyway, it just didn’t move My nail hooked in as usual But the stone was cemented in I turned my whole body trying to goose it My fingernail took the brunt of the pressure And now it’s bruised It hurts to hold a pencil or a pen It’s that first finger I wanna say index On the right hand Anyway, I can’t tell anyone It’d take too much describing And besides That might not be how normal people take the stone out of an avocado.

I remember seeing a Jamie Oliver Where he demystified the magic of extracting pomegranate seeds Coming up after the break I’ll show you how to deseed a pomegranate EASILY Gripped Sat on my hands during the advert break Tapping my right foot frantically Three long minutes later He’s back He’s got a wooden spoon He’s split the pomegranate into halves And he’s spanking it He’s hitting it from the back with a paddle The seeds are cascading out into a bowl Magic I’ll use that I thought I don’t buy pomegranates I just don’t I like the seeds I like them in a warm salad Maybe a duck salad I think I’ve had that But I’ll use that I thought Not today Next time I was home I noticed my mum had a pomegranate in the fridge Showtime Mum, how do you get the seeds out of a pomegranate? “I painstakingly dislodge seed by seed with a teaspoon… ...it makes me late for work” Mum, shut up and watch this I open the kitchen drawer and pick up a wooden spoon I split the pomegranate right down the middle just like Oliver I prep the exit bowl  This is going to be fabulous I start spanking it from the back just like Oliver Seeds are somewhat flying Staggered Red juice is vigorously flying Frantic On the white cupboards On the white walls "David, stop" I can’t stop I’ve got to get those seeds out All nice in the bowl I’m thrashing it and the pomegranate is smushing into a melt in my hand Juice is flying every which way out of the broken skin On my clothes, on my Mum’s kitchen walls, on the cupboards I give up and just drop it Not the bowl The smush Still plenty full of seeds in the blurred pulp Bollocks.

It reminds me of that time I’d finished university And I was sat in the park with my friend Lucy I’d just bought a footlong from Subway And a mars drink I liked them back then We were at peace It was all over We were having a laugh Just sat there on the grass I was wearing faded stonewash jeans And a light t-shirt The weather was clement We were sat on the grass Did I mention we were having a laugh? Well, the laugh was about to heighten Because you know how you shake a bottle of drink? Not a fizzy one But a bottle of orange juice or a yazoo OR A MARS DRINK You just shake it don’t you You shake it once before you open it Then you have a little drink Then you put the cap back on And maybe you shake it again And maybe you didn’t put the cap on And then suddenly maybe you’re shaking it in your face And all over your clothes I was sat cross legged I think What didn’t hit my face landed on my lap Some of it dripped down on to my lap from my face Don’t worry I caught plenty on my bib I had to throw those jeans away They were beyond repair I looked like I’d shat myself everywhere On my t-shirt, my jeans, maybe my shoes I didn’t even finish the second half of that footlong 

WARNING: NOT FOOD, DON’T EAT

Earlier this year "Baby of the North" was unveiled (early, by accident) in Bradford, West Yorkshire, UK, The World, on May 26th 2016. It's a giant terminator baby. It's genuinely called Baby of the North. You know, like Angel of the North but a baby. Bradford’s baby to Newcastle’s angel. Naww, bless. 
Telegraph & Argus, Bradford’s flagship regional, stated that,

 “Today, the sheeting covering the sculpture was removed with no fanfare but a spokesman for Bradford Council declined to explain what had happened.”
 This suggests that rather than holding a scheduled public unveil with press and free drinks (and maybe an afterparty), that the council foresaw an unsavoury response so attempted to sweep the sculpture under the rug.

NOBODY PUTS BABY IN THE CORNER

 “Surprised by Joyce” writes in the Telegraph & Argus comments section,
 “It's certainly going to give me nightmares. It looks as if it wants to eat people.”

 I wanna know the process. I wanna be a fly on the wall of the meetings, I wanna see the alteration and approval of a dozen sketches. I wanna see the group emails, I wanna see the final sign off. I wanna see the digital mock-ups. I wanna know if ANYONE on the council could envisage the actuality of what was to unfurl. On paper, I’m loving it. A giant baby, sure why not. It’s a bit different but SURE WHY NOT, HOW WEIRD COULD IT LOOK?    I'm into it. Of course I'm into it. I like babies. I like stupid things. I like big stupid babies. Public art in the UK, no disrespect, is usually shit, especially modern figurative stuff. Sculptures look cheap and lightweight in unconvincing poses, or they just look like fake. Like they're thumbed together out of babybel wax. So, you may as well tick ALL of those boxes and also be a giant robot baby. Sure, why not.

This baby is made out of cogs and stuff, wires and shit. I presume the components, namely the cogs, are real bits of machinery but they look fake somehow. Maybe they’ve been dipped in something to give a uniformed finish. There’s thin wire lattice work over the mechanised “skeleton” that gives the illusion of form and *hesitates*...curves (ew). Babies have massive heads, we’ll all drink to that, and as such I found it difficult to gauge whether the whopping head on this sculpt was in proportion or not. The head, like Mike Myers in the film So I Married an Axe Murderer states, 

 “It’s like an orange on a toothpick”

IS IT GROSS? Sure. There's a definite steampunk vibe...AKA the worst vibe. It's a pair of goggles and a twirly moustache away from being the worst thing that's ever happened. So why is it to be applauded? Because it's a giant baby, because it's in a "come at me bro" pose, because it's a robot. because it's so weird. It's right there on a non-descript grass bank before a dull crap building by a busy main road. It's a beached alien frozen in grey surrounds. If I was driving past it without prior knowledge and just clocked it I'd definitely crash. It is not an eyesore. It is emphatically an eyefuck. It's jarring. It's a glitch in the matrix. A tangible double take. An iBlot on the landscape.

The artist, Craig Dyson, responded to "the mixed reception" (a unanimous "uhhhhhhh...") by saying that the sculpture would make sense once a plaque was added. As if a tiny one sentence description to anything has ever sold anyone. Especially when we're talking a giant off-road robotic baby. First impressions count. This isn't in a museum. Most people aren't going to be taking a step forward to check if it's mixed media on canvas. It's a fly by route. It's not somewhere you'd sit and eat a sandwich (unless you were on a pilgrimage) and engage by proxy. You're either on a drive-by tip or commuting/questing on bradford's inner (but outer) reaches.

The pose. It's dynamic. It's fucked. What is it even doing? Any pose it could have been in would have been glaring. Arms by side? Strong. Arms folded? Wow. Coiled up napping? Outrageous. So yeah, given the subject matter, go all out. Nothing to be lost. 



COME AT ME BRO The Baby of the North is bubbling over meme matter. I simply cannot believe that this seems to have been only reported from Bradford regional press. How has the internet not taken this as one of its own? It's a gift. It’s all wrapped up on your doorstep, mate. It's not just ripe for the picking. It's a fluorescent glowing pulsing alien egg. And I don't think I'm overplaying this. It is genuinely bizarre.



BABIES FEET ARE SO AMAZING

I also can’t believe that the baby hasn’t been meddled with yet. It’s not high up on a plinth, you could easily scale it – it’s right there by at grassroots by a busy roadside. Not one sign of any vandalism. How? I don’t get it. It’s a big baby. How have a group of drunkards not walked past it and gone WHEEYYYYY lets jam this can up its arse. Speaking of which…

DAT ASS I feel I am the first person on the Internet to capture the back end of the baby. It's unnecessarily buoyant back there. Buttocks, I thought. Surely. Nothing would surprise me about this specimen. I'd be disappointed if I went back there and wasn't presented with robo-peach pert glutes. Momma didn't go home unquenched. Dang. Rounded and fleshed out almost to a fault. This sculpt is emphatic and unerring. I didn't even dwell on the front for any signs of robo peen, I believe it's non-gender specific. Nailing any colours to the mast on that front would I fear, even for this baby, be a bridge too far.

Shout out to Emma Clayton of Telegraph and Argus who opened her account of Baby of the North with,



“Public art in Bradford is generally welcomed with folded, rather than open, arms.”

 I thought that was amazing. If people are poised to not understand and dismiss it, it might as well be a big bastard robot baby. In your fucking face, public. Blokes standing off it like, “my 3 year old could sculpt that”. Ohhh, could they with their little clamping shears and hammer and vat of molten bronze? I don’t want to know a reason behind it. I don’t want a plaque to ever happen. People grumbled about the price tag on this piece. £15,000. So what. I reckon that’s cheap as far as public art goes. You can’t just go and pick up a giant baby sculpture from IKEA for £80. £15,000 for a landmark that could potentially stay in a city for years, decades, longer? If I was the artist going to drop a bomb like this, the thing that I might potentially be defined by for the rest of my life, I’d add a couple of zeros on my bill…amirite. Cheap at half the price, mate. These are backstreet baby prices. We’re talking about a premium baby here!

Do I hate it? No. Not one bit of me hates it. Do I love it? Maybe. Many parts of me love it. I love that it exists more than anything. I grew up in Bradford, my parents have since moved away, it gives me a reason to go back. It gives me a reason to be. Lol, just playin. It was though probably, if I’m honest, the main reason for going back to Bradford. I gotta see that fuggin baby. I worried I’d feel underwhelmed or complete. Yes, complete. Complete that upon seeing it I’d seen everything I’d wanted to see in life. When I read about this baby I was like YES, I have to see this baby. It dropped at the end of May and I just saw it at five months old (still no plaque). 

Imagine if it grew. Imagine if it became a big hairy arsed forty year old. That’d teach the haters a lesson. You might have sniffed at me when I was baby but look at me now, fucker. I’m a hundred feet tall. Please, Craig Dyson, tell us this is your plan. Enter phase 2: Baby of the North The College Years.  

 @josieisamess says on twitter,  “WHAT IS UP WITH BRADFORD'S BABY OF THE NORTH IT LOOKS SO FUCKED UP”

If there was a giftshop I would have bought a t-shirt and a keyring. Definitely. Make merch, Craig Dyson, make merch.
 I will certainly buy one of most things.  


Baby of the North. Big, stupid, great, crap, like, love, baby, confused face, happy face. If you’re Bradford go sit on it. No one will stop you.  

MAC ‘N’ CHEESE FLAVOUR POT NOODLE This could have been big. Massive even. Kettle ready mac ‘n’ cheese? Uh yes pls I think so. Even though it prolly exists already a thousand times over, I feel like I’ve not seen it. But I must have! Instant mac ‘n’ cheese, that’s a thing! I know we get it in the tins and yay is it glutinous. One likes to thwock it back and forth like a spray can to hear that sadness weight shift. Squelch, thunk. Please depart tin as a perfect un-food cylindrical relief. Oh good. Pretty sure we get a “Pasta and Sauce” type dried powder sachet rendition, where you add milk and bring to a simmer or what have ye. Still, purely kettle activated. This could have been big.

Can you already tell that it’s not big? There’s a storm coming and it starts with “shit”.

Did you know that Mac ‘n’ Cheese is short for Macaroni and Cheese? Don’t think Pot Noodle did because macaroni this Mac ‘n’ Cheese is not. It’s noodles. You know, like how Pot Noodles usually are. The brand name, to be fair, suggests as much (Pot NOODLE, doy) but I didn’t even think about it, I just presumed it would be macaroni. Has to be macaroni. Why wouldn’t it? You wouldn’t serve a Bolognese with udon noodles. You wouldn’t serve Fish ‘n’ Chips with…dunno…ice cream. This noodles shout put the fear into me when I got home and realised. First thought...thin. This is going to be watery and thin and ain’t nothing clinging to those noody boys. Where’s my claggy claggy clump clump?

I left it alone for weeks. I couldn’t face it. This is going to be watery and thin. Not big at all. Not massive. I removed absolutely every kitchen store cupboard staple before I had nowhere left to turn. I was on a housebound tip. I’ll eat this Pot Noodle, I thought. I’ll be thrifty. I was sure I’d be disappointed five minutes after activation and I was.

Mac ‘n’ Cheese is famously thick. It sticks to your ribs. It clogs your lungs. Fill to water level it says. Stir for 30 seconds and leave the EU. It looks watery as soon as water is applied, funny that. There must have been a level of thickening from water activating the flavour dust cremains in the urn but it wasn’t noticeable. The sachet it comes with is *drum roll* ketchup. Underwhelming, much? I can’t recall if there was sweet corn, there probably was…this is Pot Noodle after all. There was red pepper(?), chives, and cheesy. The “cheese sauce” was sickly sweet. And thin. Did I mention it was thin? Luckily that’s just how I like my cheese sauces. Sweet and thin.

I didn’t finish it, friend. It was vom. It was baby vom. It tasted bad. Gross you might say. Absolutely a missed opportunity. It could have been big. Foot Noodle has shot itself in the pot. It could have been massive. I still can’t get past why they didn’t just use macaroni. Coulda dodged a bullet, bro. Yeah, Pot NOODLE, I get it. But you’re a seasoned name in the slob aisle biz. No one would have kicked any toys out of the pram if you’d gone with macaroni over your trademark short and curlies. Bend tradition. 

I raised £100 on Crowdfunder recently for the purpose of spending a 9-5 “working day” in Manchester Piccadilly Train Station. The aim being to spend at least £100 within this timeframe - give or take - on food and drink within Manchester Piccadilly. No leaving the station to pursue neighbouring better options, no. £100 on the in-station chain experience. All to be consumed onsite, so no sneaking home with some premium price point ready meals from M&S. £100 was the target and it actually exceeded, finally landing on £124 total after a month of bidding. Some pledges bouncing along with a Crowdfunder admin fee deduction made for an endgame deposit in my bank account of around £103. I was actually pleased I wasn’t landed with the full compliment, I think I’d still be there now trying to burn it off. Burn being the operative word.

I’ve wanted to do this for years. I pass through most days. I’ve seen the restaurants, I’ve seen the bars. They’re encouraging you to spend a while but who actually does? Why, even on the end of a sizeable train delay, would you settle to nestle amidst the premium priced chain restaurant offerings? Why would you just not leave the station and go elsewhere…go anywhere. You could, you know. I couldn’t, not today.

Before this started I was so up for it. So up for having the unprecedented privilege, personally, of 100 guilt-free unearned pounds to spend on consumables. When does that ever happen? That’s some Supermarket Sweep type shit. I’m up for the confines of the station, the solitude of being a stopper within the commuters’ hive. I’ve scarcely ever drawn out a hundo from a cash machine before. Would I feel free? Limitless? Would I feel nothing? Emptiness?

9.12am

I’m late. I’m late for a thing that I made up. I’m already disappointed in myself. I was supposed to start this at 9am. Do I say I started at 9am? No, I have to be honest. I’m not hungry, this is alarming me. Shit. Bad start. I sleep ate a cold sausage at 5.30am. And then a Kinder Happy Hippo at 8am. I didn’t mean to do it, it just happened.

People are late to work all the time. It’s fine. I’ll just stay later. I’ll say sorry to the boss when I arrive and explain. Only thing is there is no boss and I’m not going to work. I’m not going anywhere.

What am I doing?

It’s a Monday. I feel like I’m going on holiday. I feel excited and nervous. It’s a sunny day with wet on the ground. I’m on a short two carriage train to Piccadilly. A snub nose. It feels like going to war. Men stood like cattle in the holding area. Some reading. Others stood gazing into the middle distance with military carpet bomb precision. Am I hungry yet? No. Come on, soldier.

“Final stop Manchester Piccadilly”. Apt that.

9.38am

I withdraw one hundo from the cash pipe.

First stop wee wee town. 30p. That’s on me. I’ll cover my potty stops today like a true nobleman. There’s a queue for the cubes. Waiting for a cubicle to take photograph of cash. Too risky to do it in public. Toilets are more disgusting than usual. 30p, that’s on me. Stinks.

9.49am. Pret A Manger. Flat white £2.25.

Dubious authenticity. Comes in a takeaway cup for drink in. Looks like a cappuccino, looks like a latte. What even is a flat white? Rather here than Starbucks. Starbucks coffee tastes like shit. Chilling out in the back. Never been back here before. It really opens up. Quite bustling. Lots of business bods. iPads, laptops. Someone on the phone. A meeting. I can see a pen moving. It’s a hive. The great minds of this city. Lol.

The coffee is alright you know. I’m thanking my stars that it’s not insanely hot. That temperature that only chain cafes can reach…specifically McDonald’s. Tastes pretty good. I don’t usually get flair milk-based coffees. I’d usually get a black filter. But I’m on me holidays and besides, a 99p filter coffee isn’t going to make a big enough dent in the bough of this ship.

Why would you have your business meeting in a cafe inside the train station? Surely that’s a low rent novice move. Suggests you’re a fake business person who doesn’t actually have an office. You’d take clients somewhere outside of the train station, right? Unless they’re all waiting to go to London. They’re probably going to London.

It’s chill as fuck in here. This is where the professionals come. Walked past Starbucks and it was swimming with civilians. The back of “Pret” (ew) is a secret circle.

Reading the Pret propaganda on the walls. One canvas of a coffee bean (styled to look like a butterfly AKA with whimsical illustrated wings) reads, "Pret’s coffee is organic and it has been for yonks…”. Gross. Organic and yonks, never the twain shall meet in the same sentence…until now. Gronks.

10.12am.

Finished my coffee. Am I bored yet? No.

Wonder what WH Smith is up to. They have a surprisingly big on trend premium priced notebook selection. £20 moleskine vibes. Definitely an inflated RRP on these. Train station WH Smiths are notorious price pumper uppers. Avoid at all costs unless you’re going long haul and need reading material. Angry Birds the Movie book? Was there a movie? I’m confused for a minute (later I find out that there is a forthcoming Angry Birds movie, though disappointingly not live action). I feel tired and like I might shit my pants. Not a good start.

10.29am.

Enter Carluccio’s. It was a toss up between here and TGI Friday for breakfast. Carluccio’s edged it because they had a menu outside and TGIs didn’t. Table for one. I’m feeling weird about this already. Other people are doing it. At least seven other tables of singletons. Some elderly couples. You can sit out on the station balcony but I opted for the confines of the inner sanctum. Free toilets duly noted. I order “Breakfast Magnifica”. Sausage, pancetta, mushrooms, toast, eggs, tomato. Coffee and juice included. I go for black and orange. £9.95. Eyes on a £5.95 Bellini brunch cocktail. 73% phone battery. What if I flood my brain with liquids today.

I’m hoping I see someone famous. I thought I saw Karen Brady in Pret earlier, it wasn’t. Viable spot tho.

One thing that is vexing me at this early stage is the advertised waiting times of dishes, what with a train station being a traditionally transitional hub and all. I don’t want speed. I want this to take as long as possible. Bollocks, it’s here. I was expecting this to be bigger. Relief. I can do this. I can eat three meals like a big boy, haha. This is going to be easy. I feel underwhelmed but overwhelmed with joy. It looks a mess. Like seriously wtf I’d built this up in my mind. Sautéed mushrooms are the tastiest thing on the plate. Plentiful and of pleasing variation. Different styles, stems, slivers. The pancetta isn’t crispy for shame. Oh well. The poached eggs are buoyant and flowing tho feel artificial somehow. The solitary sausage of authentic Italian pork percentage. Oh shit. I’ve finished it.

10.56am

Now what? Uhhhh. Don’t make me leave. I don’t want to leave.

For a moment there I felt like a fraud. Then, as I tucked into my breakfast with perfect posture and something classically Italian (probably) playing over the speakers, I felt like Hannibal Lector. Cultured and insane. Thus begins my killing spree. My calculated rampage. Wish I’d worn a suit. I’ll probably sit out on the veranda after this. Single out my next target from afar.

Attention, Please will Inspector Sands please go to the main office. Looping over and over. There’s a fire. Oh god, I’m going to die. Don’t make me leave, don’t make me leave. If there’s a fire, I can’t leave. I have to spend £100.

I keep looking at in the departures board dead ahead of me. Like I’m going somewhere. Imagine going somewhere. No thanks. Gotta look at something though amirite.

What if someone asks where I’m off to? Oh no. Shall I think of a lie? I’m going to London. That’s the obvious. Waiting for a friend to go to London. What are you up to in London? Um, just business. A business trip that’s right. A meeting.

There’s someone over there who looks like Birds of a Feather. It’s not but it could be.

There’s a man. Beige suit, rotund. Perfectly bald head. Light spots exploding lens flare bouncing everywhere. He looks like what I think I look like. A cultured businessman/head of crime organisation. Should I send him a drink over?

11.27am

I just ordered a Bellini. Waiter couldn’t tell what I was saying. Bill? No. Bellini.

Bit of fizz. First sip just loosened something in my ears. Oh, it’s on. No way back from here. Where do I go next? Peach juice, liqueur and Prosecco. Hope I don’t prosecctile vomit. It’s going down easy. Never had one before. It’s a famous breakfast cocktail. Someone just smashed some glasses. That could have been me. £5.95.

Could have boshed an Espresso Martini. Can’t bosh one next, can I?

It’s not a great vibe in here. 6/10 at best. At best. Feels like I’m in a train station restaurant.

First two hours has flown. 11.48am Leaving Carluccio’s. Starting to realise that one hundo is a lot to spend. My head is slightly hot from first cocktail. Where to next? Need toilet. It’s going to be Yo Sushi but am I hungry? Shit. Wary of looking visibly wasted early doors. Need to pound some cocktails tho to lessen the inverted financial burden. I’m feeling the weight. I’m sat in an open seating area thinking about my future. 12.24pm Second trip to sponsored toilets. 30p. A quantum of solace. I’ll be back here again. Stinks. This would be a great place to sit if it didn’t stink. What price solitude? 30p. Stinks. Going to have to smash a pint in and wait to be hungry. Can’t drink more coffee yet. Bloater. I’ve gotta hit Yo Sushi about 1ish if I’m going to stay on track. 12.38pm The Mayfield. The large pub on the upper rung that everyone mistakes for a Wetherspoons. I wish it was a Wetherspoons. £4.60 pint of Guinness boosh. Robbie Williams “She’s The One” blares. Electric thin atmosphere. Texas “Here Comes The Summer Sun” comes on next. The quintessential shit sprawling British pub. TV screens are in gold frames and the picture keeps glitching. A discarded packet of butter on the floor under my table. Texas “Inner Smile” on next. Double Texas drop. Rare. This is dregs. The last time I was in here I saw Shaun Ryder. 

Guinness is class though. Blank black cream. Something of a palette cleanser. Chalk water. Will it bloat? I’m after that pint hunger. I just want to be ravenous. I think I’d be mortified if I see anyone I know today. I’m kinda hiding on the upper echelons on purpose. Sleuthing it. Not the real Piccadilly though is it. Should I be slumming it on the shop floor? Look at the rats down there! Ew. 13.08pm I am burning time. There’s wasting time and then there’s burning time. Still in The Mayfield. Looking at some guy’s exposed droopy arse. I can’t come back here. This is shank. Strongbow Heineken Stella Fosters etc. £12 4 pint pitchers tho. That’s a train station bargain at £3 a pint. £4 supplement for Stella. The Mayfield is a train station institution. I feel like there’s definitely people here who aren’t going anywhere. I am regretting my life choices at this stage. Feel like I’m going to be here til 8pm. Must power up somehow. Maybe I need a premium energy bar. Gonna check out Boots. Feel like my isotopes are low.  1.23pm I’m getting out of The Mayfield. Wee wee time lol. Free boglets at The Mayfield. Score? 1.30pm Things are heating up. TGI is booming. Yo Sushi is crushing it. I find myself sitting down in the open area again. Thought I was going straight in, turns out not.

1.40pm

Yo Sushi. Don’t know what’s going on.

Think I just had prawn katsu with avocado nori rolls with dried pirple shiso yukari. At a guess, lol. Could have been anything. Salmon topped octopus roll legit doesn’t taste like anything. First drops have suffered from over chill. Oh shit…Tuna sashimi and caviar (!) fucking lol. Tuna is dope. Top scrunty. I get bored trying to pick up the last eggs of caviar with chopsticks and bin off the rest. A little wary of going fish rich. In case it comes back to haunt. Fooled by condensation on passing squid lid into thinking it’s hot when it’s not. Cold squid kimchi combo. Spice. I am definitely feeling like a generous portion of cold squid is a statement right now. Plate no5 is some kind of crispy duck skin rolls. Dreading to think how much stuff is stuck in my teeth at this point. I’m a bit magnet.   I find that every plate is less good than you think it might be at Yo Sushi. Like, it looks good but a lot of the rolls etc just taste like blank fridge. Wamp that wasabi on, girl. Stupid Blue Monday £2.80 a plate offer. How I am supposed to get an astronomical luncheon bill when nigh on all the plates are reduced? Wonder if I’m turning green yet. I feel somewhat like a mess. Cba ordering off the hot menu even though that’s where the hot stuff and more enticing options lie. I assumed mute status long ago. One more plate, one more plate. Prefs something small and expensive. Sixth plate. Some kind of raw peppered beef situation. Wtf am I doing. I’ll be dead in the toilets at this rate. So much raw pile upon pint pile and coffee and sausage pool. I wonder if I look like I’m having fun. Lol. Raw stuff standalone best so far. The beef was v real but the tuna was the king.  

2.26pm

Still eating. Sort of. Becoming fat Piccadilly station drug lord.

2.30pm

Stopped eating. Nodding out looking at conveyor belt. It’s icy up at this altitude. Up in the clouds. Yo Sushi wins stuff to look at awards so far. The belt never stops even if it glitches and repeats a thousand times. There’s a panoramic vista from my seat of the land slugs below. I’ve not dipped my toe in the common room for quite some time. I’m on some Bruce Wayne hermit tip on the top wing. Bill comes to £29.85. I’ll be honest, I was hoping for more. I should saviour this sensation, I know I’ll never feel it again. 

2.40pm

Third wee in the station. 30p. Loving it, I guess. Good to be back in the office. What are you doing shitting in my office you dirty bastard! Get out!

2.48pm

Still in cubicle. Getting money’s worth. Removed bits from teeth via front facing phone camera and train ticket. Rejuvenated.

2.56pm

Went in Boots for about ten seconds. Same as I left it.

Low vibe in station. Quietest it’s been yet. Raining lots outside. I buy £1 Popcorn Tic Tacs from WH Smith.

3.04pm

Just been served up a Flat White in Starbucks. Unbalanced and burnt tasting. Too big. Lounge jazz infectious like you wouldn’t want to be bitten by it. I would rather go anywhere else for coffee than Starbucks. Except maybe Morrisons self service. Got £43.25 left to spend. Shit.

Coffee is restoring balance to my core. I feel like a liquid person at this stage tho. This is my 8th drink since 9.38am. Need to get back on the upper deck. It’s too vibrant down here. I wish there were a nap room.

Popcorn Tic Tacs are drying my mouth out. Popped a couple. Imagine glass popcorn that turns to dust. They’re somehow dryer than popcorn.

All walks of life in here. Suits. Non suits. Prams. Emos.

Looking outward. Hey Bagel Factory! No one is bringing back Friday’s receipt on a Tuesday for 50% off their bill, surely. Can’t get a bagel even tho I’ve never been. Too hi density at this stage. I presume that they’re disappointing.

3.27pm

Leaving Starbucks. Gonna go in Cards Galore and see what’s happening. Hilarious genuine abstract thinking card selection.

3.38pm

Sit down in Hourglass Cafe Bar. Need wee instantly. No toilets on site. Another 30p.

3.42pm

Back in the office. Think it’s my favourite place in the station. Looking forward to going home, I think. Maybe I’ll miss the buzz. Saw a Cheshire-type facelift glamour puss whose cheekbones looked like they were going to burst out of her face. Sent me somewhat under. Piccadilly station toilets are the highest earning train station toilets outside of London. £2 million in 3 years or some such. This is shit.

I feel nothing. Money = nothing. This was supposed to be the greatest day of my life. I feel free but trapped. I want the most secluded nook of the station. Everywhere is so open. I wish there were a level above the level that I was on. Oh to gain access to the Virgin first class lounge. I don’t even try.

3.54pm

Bottle of Anchor Steam in the Hourglass Cafe Bar. Weak glass game. A straight half glass. Come on, guys. £4.75 for a bottle. I don’t even know what money means anymore. Just got to get rid of it.

Really want to be hungry.

4.01pm

Under two hours to go ‘til I’ve been here for the full eight hour compliment. Kinda feels like I’ve only been here ten minutes but also ten years. I’ve had no interactions asides service based. No one has noticed I’ve been here this long. No one looks up from the shop floor. They don’t see me, the crow, sat in a booth over facing the balcony. The Hourglass is a more clement experience than the TV set feel of Britain’s top crap pub, The Mayfield. But it feels like a wine bar TV set. I almost can’t say anything positive about it. It serves alcohol? 241 cocktails mon to fri 5-8pm?  

If I see anyone I know at this point I’m hiding from them. I’ve made it this far under the cloak of anonymity. I’m the ghost of Piccadilly station, the rat. Just looked at the Hourglass food menu, couldn’t imagine eating any of it. I’m supposed to be eating soon, oh god.

Train station hotting up now post 4pm with post work commuters. Prime time Charlies. Where’ve you been all day?

Anchor Steam is classic if unremarkable craft beer fare. It’s a solid. It’s done me a solid. I feel solid.

There’s pigeon shit on the back of the tv. One of the best things about Piccadilly Station is the pigeons. Breaks up the sterility. Reminds one of the outside. Little squidgy pidge on the shop floor hehehehe. It’s a welcome bit of fun.

4.35pm

Pint of Star(opramen) at Hourglass. Dunno what plan is. Get hungry or die bloating. I need a wee wee instantly. Fuck.

Star star star. Pint pint pint. This is a slog now. The person who served me asked if I was able to claim expenses on alcohol when I asked for a receipt second time round. First lol since arrival. Girl, if you only knew the awful truth.

4.50pm

Pints are mint, it has to be said. Right, I’m staying longer than 5.38pm aren’t I. £34.35 left to spend.

5.01pm

Back in the office. Quantum. Quids in. Shit. What’s the next step. Since I arrived I’ve not thought about anything other than my next step. What have I even been doing?

5.22pm

Zenning out on the communal seating outside M and S. Head starting to cave. Facing TGI, my final boss. Don’t feel ready yet. Gonna go back to The Mayfield for a beer.

5.27pm

Back in The Mayfair. Caledonian Coast to Coast Pale Ale £4.90 a pint. One of those fake perfumey craft beers with underlying taste of crap beer underneath. When oh when will I be hungry again. Served by same guy that served me 4 hours ago. Would he ever suspect? Flat atmos in The Mayfair. Vinegar smell from next door burger eater so pungent. A sign reads keep calm and drink jäger bombs. I hadn’t anticipated today being so pint heavy but when you’re under station arrest where else is there left to turn? There’s only so many coffees one can drink through fear of spinning out. I intended to go more cocktailcore. Keep it light, less bloat.

Not sure I’m that into consumption challenges anymore. Not keen to repeat. Miley Cyrus Wrecking Ball plays. Relating to every lyric. Eyes welling up. Is this song about me? Is every song about me?

5.45pm

I’m just past 8 hours now, just. The end is nigh.

The world is yours. I feel like Scarface sat in my mansion, my empire. Rooted at my desk, watching the invaders on CCTV about to break into my office.

6pm

We made it, girl! TGI Fridays. Just ordered 7oz fillet steak for 19.99 with £8.80 large goldfish bowl mojito. I’m not gonna lie. I’m looking to deplete the funds and get the F out of here. Do I ever order a fillet steak? Never. My server tried to pawn me off with some two-course-for-£10 incentive and I was like uh, no thanks. What do you think I am? STUPID? The mojito is a mess. It’s so sweet. Feels like a syrup rather than a drink. It’s so big I have to bow down into it. So big I have to fall down into it. Not lifting it from the table. My seating position is so exposed to the doorway. Wish they’d have buried me in the back. Don’t put the corpse in the window! I’d die (again) if anyone saw me necking this giant goblet.

6.25pm

Second wind!!! Mid eating steak. Wish I’d ordered onion rings. You can choose two sides with your steak. I opted for fries and salad because the only other option was mash. Mash. Throw onion rings in that line-up, you melts. The lady next to me just had some onion rings delivered. Ooh they look nice. So round and chewy. I mean crispy. Mmm…food. I remember food?

Reoccurring thought today - am I blowing peoples minds with my orders? Or, is that what everyone does every day. Seemingly, it is. Seems like it’s just me that’s thinking, “what the fuck is this guy doing?”. Money down the toilet. They’re all doing it. Disposable culture. Bin lickers anonymous.

I am resonating more than ever with all song lyrics. I Wanna Be Adored. Roll With It. Keep thinking I’m in a Hard Rock Cafe. They’re pretty similar aren’t they. In fact, is there any difference at all between Hard Rock and TGI? They both excel in middle of the road overpriced “American” food. To be fair, this steak isn’t disappointing. Don’t get me wrong, it looks disappointing. I was disappointed when it was set down before me. It tastes alright though. Steak well cooked (medium), fries crunchy and fun. Side salad somewhat basic but we’ll survive. I’m enjoying it.

6.44pm

Just asked for the bill. I’m on the way out. My server asks if I’m going home now. Hell yes I’m going home.

6.50pm

Wee wee at TGI. Facing self in mirror. Silently screaming. Smizing. Didn’t expect it but next thing I know I’m in Marks and Spencer(s?) holding a foil lidded plastic glass of red wine at the checkout. Never had one, always wanted to. I peel the lid off as I’m waiting for my train to peel away from the station. I daresay I didn’t need it but it tastes like victory.

7.04pm

My train departs. I face the station as we pull away. 9 hours 26 minutes after I arrived. Well, that was weird. Thanks to those who pledged: Amrit, Ashley, Aliyah, Bren, Ben, Ché, Caroline, Dylan, Darren, Evelyn, Elin, Fliss, Hannah, Hayley, HaMo, Iwan, Jonny and Charlotte, John, Jeff, Jasmine, Jonny, John, Miriam, Anonymous, Paul, Paul, Rosalind, Ross, Sara, Vladimir, and Will. Thanks also to those that didn’t.  I hate Piccadilly Station.