God, I love crisps, I love them so much. One of the things I miss most about my country is the beautiful, glorious, gorgeous, luscious, fucking fabulous crisps. You know what I’m talking about. Skips. Roast chicken. Roast fucking gloriously delicious chicken.
SKIPS. THEY MELT IN YOUR FUCKING MOUTH.
Prawn Cocktail. Bacon. MONSTER MUNCH.
Mmmmmmmm. I really love crisps. They’re delicious.
And you know what I really hate?
I really hate two things.
Number one: Erdnußflips. The bastard person who invented those bastard things should’ve been shot at birth, that’s my considered opinion on the subject. Perhaps, just to be on the safe side, we should shoot his whole family, sometimes these weird perversion things are kind of genetic.
Number two: Germans going on about how rubbish British cooking is.
The other night, this guy goes to me: “What do you miss most about Britain?”
You know what I said? Puke-o-rama – I said my mum. But it’s true, even if it is pukey. Anyways, then he goes, the cheeky fucker: “Well, I’m guessing you wouldn’t miss the cuisine, hey?”
I knew I just had to grin and bear it, otherwise he’d start telling me one of those complicated stories set in Bournemouth where some host family force-fed him lamb with mint sauce every day for breakfast but inside I was thinking “WE HAVE CRISPS WHICH MELT IN YOUR FUCKING MOUTH YOU IGNORANT PRICK!”
I just love crisps. I love them.
One time, when Rico was about four years old, we finished off a packet of nachos together, in front of the telly.
“You know what, Mum?” He asked me. “Crisps are one of those things. Like cigarettes for a grown-up. Or sweeties for a kid. You eat one and then you have to eat another one and then you have to eat another one and you have to eat another one. You can’t stop eating that.”
“You’re right there,” I said, as I did that thing where you pour the dregs of the crisp packet directly into your mouth like a filthy slag.
“Mum,” he said. “You know what is not one of those things? Gurke.”
It’s true, huh. Never was a truer word spoken and so on. I’ve never met anyone who said they were addicted to cucumbers, and I have met some really fucked-up people in my time.
The weird thing now is, now that fruit and vegetables are bad – now that cucumbers are DANGEROUS – I feel like we eat them all the time. Normally, I look back on what Rico’s eaten over the day and feel like the sluttiest mum who ever lived because he hasn’t had enough fresh fruit and veggies. But now. Now I look back and feel, simultaneously – this is quite a feat – worried that he hadn’t had enough fresh fruit and veg and worried that he’s had too much. It’s quite stressful, actually. I’ll be glad when this whole E. coli bollocks is cleared up and we can just go back to feeling guilty about eating crisps and Bouletten and stuff. Coz cucumber really doesn’t taste nice enough to justify a guilt trip.
