Food’s a funny thing. Back in the day it was all about battering a nearby monkeysaurus to death with a blunt rock and, provided you’d had the requisite fire making training course certificate, burning it until it was ready for consumption. After that it all started to go downhill with things getting a bit poncey – no longer was food just a necessity, it was now a fashion statement, something to be dressed up like a fancy French whore, complemented by flavourless lumpy things dug out of the ground and served on a bed of orphan’s hair with a ‘jus’ made out the tears of boiled baby swans.
And it wasn’t just the food that got out of hand either – as the ‘plating up’ of basic survival became ever more absurd, so evolved the very antitheses of ‘a good time’: the dinner party. Rearing its Jocelyn Wildenstein hideous head in the 70s, not only did people now have to endure the experimental excrement of personalised prawn cocktail recipes, something called Quiche Lorraine, and Black Forest Gateaux washed down with a mug of Maxwell House instant coffee, they now had to suffer all that while making polite conversation. It was the culinary equivalent of being water-boarded.
Simultaneous to the rise of the dinner party came the cult of the ‘celebrity’ chef, a concept I still struggle with today – You cook food, yes? In a kitchen, yes? For money, yes? Then get back in your kitchen and cook food.
Staggeringly self-important for no discernible reason, these glorified burger flippers are better than you and they want you to know it, whether it’s Monica Galetti sneering in disgusted judgement over the efforts of contestants on Master Chef, hirsute heist-hobbit Antony Worrall ‘Gummage’ Thompson stealing from Tescos like the world owes him a living, pissed-up Norwich City shareholder Delia Smith instructing you on how to boil an egg, or just out-and-out self-righteous fat-tongued Mockney spittle-sprayer Jamie Oliver haranguing dinner ladies and turkey farmers, if they could ration all food and withhold it from you until you learn absolute servitude they would.
What we’ve lost is all the fun out of food. Just like when it was man versus beast, playing with his food in a savage pulping to the dinner-table death, we need to lose all the pretentions and learn to laugh at food again. Face it, when fast food restaurants start bandying around the term ‘gourmet’, it’s all gone wrong, hasn’t it? And that’s before we even touch on the stuff on shelves! Stuff on the shelves? Oh yes…
Mmm, 10 delicious sticks of crack from the people who brought you Crispy Parachutes. Tasty, filling, addictive and 100% pure – that’s why Pete Docherty’s mum goes to Iceland.
Not really selling itself particularly well, nevertheless, this may simply be a case of Ronseal-itis. Containing “Hotly-Spiced Pepper Sauce”, it may not exactly do what it says on the tin, but the name may have been given to serve more as a brutal warning of the after effects…
Is there anything else that so successfully points towards the imminent end of civilisation than a sandwich in a can? “For Grab-and-Go Convenience” is the tagline here, because the massive mental trauma of trying to remember the secret of sandwich construction has driven more people to their deaths than the Hyundai Accent. Each can “contains: a hot dog sized bun made from a special military developed formulation that allows it to stay sweet, soft and fresh for over a year”. Mmm, military developed formulation.
Ah yes, yes there is actually something that clangs frantically at the bell of mankind’s absolute obliteration with even more intensity than a sandwich in a can – Saunders 10 Eggs. Just in case Delia’s instructions proved too much for you, why not just buy your eggs pre-boiled and peeled in a bag? If only they could find a way of doing away with the tricky ‘bag’ part of the equation too and you’d be sorted. Perhaps they could come pre-chewed as well for even more convenience?
Toms Jungle Skum
Yeah, you tell ’em Tom, fucking jungle scum! Tarzan, trees, animals, Sting, that deadly frog thing, indigenous tribes, rain, undiscovered species – scum, the lot of ’em. Not sure I’d want to eat them though, Tom. I think you may have confused your market there.
Grace Cock Soup Mix
Spicy cock anyone? All the way from the Caribbean this tasty treat will slip happily down any eager throat. etc. Given that Cock Soup hails from the same region as Jerk seasoning, none of this should come as any surprise. Jamaica? Yes, actually…
Van der Laan Picnic-Bog
Actually a work of genius, because not every motorway layby has food outlets or loos, if caught peckish on a long journey, pull over, get out, feast on your tin of pig and Dutch stereotype toting reformed meat-like-product, wait for the Ebola to kick in and then use the empty tin as a handy receptacle for your violently ejected excretion. Real convenience food. Warning: Picnic-Bog may contain traces of nutrition. Warning: violently ejected excretion may contain traces of your stomach and bowel.
Kellogg’s Honey Smacks
The 70s was a funny time for a lot of things – fashion, music, previously mentioned dinner parties and, of course, breakfast cereal. Take Honey Smacks for example, the free love hangover was still thick in the air and a lot of poor decisions were being made. With Head & Shoulders leading the way many companies thought the way forward was to combine two or more products into one better whole, hence the new palatable face of breakfast smack. Joining Honey Smacks was also the first iteration of Special K (Ketamine), PCPops, and Cheerios which back then contained a lethal overdose of heroin. Look at poor Fleegle… off his tits.
From a more innocent age. Pebble-dashed for his pleasure.
Sweet Tamarind Cock
No, I’m good, thanks.
Grudging respect in a pot.
What’s to say other than whoever looked at that product and came up with the name should seek medical attention immediately.
Ha, ha, ha! That’s not real, is it? Just stupid…