Slightly Askew

Fish and chips: a very British affair. Slightly mischievous though. And not just because the food police condemn its deep-fried ways.

No sir. My whole experience of buying fish & chips (it looks so much better with an ampersand, don’t you think?) is fraught with peculiar choices and strangely consistent rituals.

Firstly, there’s choosing a chip shop. I go the nearest one - it’s always better to walk. You will find that everyone you ever meet will know where “the best fish and chip shop in the world” is. They might even know one with a cracking name.

When you arrive at your chip shop of choice, there’s the awkward who’s in the queue moment. People are scattered everywhere. Some have ordered and are waiting. Some are waiting to order. You have to guess who’s who. Don’t push in.

Once you’ve ordered, contemplate the optional extras: pickled eggs (these are my garlic bread; who the fuck eats pickled eggs?), overpriced fizzy drinks (the cans will be arranged in a 3-2-1 pyramid - it’s chip shop law), and extortionately priced condiments (presumably they’d dust that sole bottle of ketchup if you happened to purchase it).

Then there’s the open or wrapped dilemma. I’d go wrapped. It’s a salt & vinegar thing (that looks better with an ampersand too). You see, salt & vinegar added to an open bag of chips leaves the top layer heavily doused, and the bottom of the bag gasping for flavour. By selecting wrapped, the salt & vinegar achieves better coverage. Sure, you don’t get to eat them immediately, but good things come to those who wait.

Of course, if you’re at the seaside, you must choose open. If they give a choice at all.

After you’ve taken your wrapped bag of chips and begun your walk home, soak up the moment. The excitement; the anticipation; oh yes - it’s good to live in Blighty. You might even press the warm bag of chips up against your face and feel the warmth. Don’t feel ashamed, everybody does it.

You’re home. It’s time to eat. Sadly, the decisions are still coming thick and fast.

Plate or no plate? If you’re dining with your new girlfriend’s parents, take the plate. Otherwise, put the plate away and eat those chips like you mean it.

But wait. What about the sauce?

Mayonnaise. Salad cream. Tomato ketchup. Barbecue sauce. Burger sauce. All staring at you. All begging for an opportunity. An opportunity to make these chips the greatest fucking bag of chips ever.

Be brave. Choose well. Reap the rewards.

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Weekend is a glossy magazine that comes with Saturday’s Guardian. It’s a great read - especially Craig Taylor’s One Million Tiny Plays About Britain. But that’s not what I’m going to babble on about today.

Because Lucy Mangan’s column was hilariously ill-timed.

The topic of her concern was the Olympic Games, which she described as:

A bloated extravaganza designed to bring countries together for a fortnight by sublimating their vicious geopolitical rivalries into displays of native talents in the most jingoistic, neo-Nietzschean fashion possible.

Er… yeah. Right.

Mangan has, however, watched enough socially acceptable warfare amongst mental nationalists (or sport, as I prefer) to know that world records don’t come easy. She’s not particularly impressed by them though.

And how excited can you truly become now that records are broken in barely detectable increments? … Gold medallists now become so by hundredths of a second. That’s the kind of victory that depends on how many ounces less your hair weighs than the other guy’s. The barbers should get the glory.

And as I was reading it, I sort of nodded in agreement.

But a few hours later, this happened.

Either Usain Bolt’s barber is going to get a whole lot more business, or Lucy Mangan should hold her hands up and admit that Bolt’s performance was pure entertainment.

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I don’t recommend you listen to Kiss FM, but - credit where it’s due - this is funny…

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I haven’t posted for a while; naughty me.

Okay, so by now you’ll have probably heard this delightful little ditty by Noah and The Whale. It’s called Five Years Time.

Amusingly, the plebs at Censorship Central (I don’t if such a place exists, but I’m happy to go with it if you are…) have decided that the following lyric is far too disturbing:

It was fun fun fun when we were drinking;
and it was fun fun fun when we were drunk.

So on NME TV, the words drinking and drunk get that silly reverse treatment - saving our kids from such a disgraceful sentiment.

Shame on you Noah. And your whale.

And not just for your alcoholic tomfoolery, but also for your apostrophe omission.

Surely it should be Five Years’ Time.

The logic being that we don’t say one week time, we say one week’s time (and there has to be an apostrophe in this because one weeks doesn’t make any sense).

So, similarly, the apostrophe must also be used for the plural, i.e. five years’ time.

But even Hollywood gets it wrong.

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