I like chips. You know where you are with a chip. There are no surprises with a chip. It is what it is…a chip.
Whenever we eat out, I have chips. Sometimes I have sausage and chips or if I’m feeling like something exotic, I’ll have quiche and chips. Mostly, I just have chips. In case I haven’t made myself clear, I like chips.
So, the other day, me and OH called in a cafe for some dinner. I chose, er, chips, and OH opted for gammon and eggs. Half an hour later, the waitress came over with our order.
‘ Whose are the chips’?
‘That’ll be me.’ *all the noms*
THIS is what she gave me..
‘What’s this?’ I asked OH
‘Your chips, Dear’.
‘Er, they’re in a MUG?’
‘Could be worse, they could be in a plant pot ha ha’
Call me old fashioned but when I’m sat at a table eating FOOD, I like it to be on a PLATE. Maybe it’s because I’m from the Potteries? Folk like plates in The Potteries. The Potteries is famous for making them. Tableware is very much, our thing.
I don’t want my chips served in a mug OR a plant pot. I want a PLATE.
TEA is served in mugs.
Plant pots belong to PLANTS.
This is the North. People eat pies in the street, while wearing shorts, on a WINTER’S DAY. I refuse to believe that food served in paraphernalia OTHER than plates is a Northern idea? If it is, I’ll eat OH’s flat cap. With chips.
As far as I’m concerned, you can bog your mug o’ chips RIGHT OFF! From now on I am boycotting plate-dodging restaurants. Are you with me?
There’s an EPIDEMIC. Feast your mince pies on THIS lot:
- Bread served in a flat cap
- Steak served on a meat cleaver.
- Salad served UNDER a wine glass.
- Mushrooms served on a gardening trowel.
- Butter served on a broken bathroom tile.
- Chips served in a miniature shopping trolley.
- Bread served in slippers.
- Beef and Yorkshire pudding (WITH GRAVY) served on a bit of wood.
Mushrooms on a gardening trowel?
A F**KING GARDENING TROWEL???!!!
I pick cat poo up with my gardening trowel and CALL ME CRAZY but I also use it to dig holes with when potting plants. I know, I’m a certified NUTCASE!
I’m going to start eating my pie and chips out of this paint tray from now on. Pie to the side. Nice deep bit for the chips. Yes, I can see the ‘meat and two veg’ too. Filthy minds think alike, eh?
Who thought that serving Yorkshire pudding WITH GRAVY on a glorified chopping board was a GOOD idea?
Having said that, credit where it’s due, they had sense enough to leave off the peas…
What, in the name of MARY BERRY, is going on?!
Apparently, it’s down to some bloke serving ‘steak on a slate’ about ten years ago but I can go further back than that to the 1970s where some div started to serve ‘baskets meals’. Baskets are one thing but slates? How long would it take for the men in white coats to come and trundle me off to the funny farm if I was to climb onto my roof and start eating my pie and chips off the roof tiles? About five minutes, I reckon, but apparently it’s perfectly acceptable behaviour in restaurants.
As dear old Nan Tate says, ‘WHAT A LOAD OF OLD SHIT!’
The one exception is to eat your fish and chips out of newspaper. Old fashioned – ink all over your chips – newspaper. That’s how it was ‘back in maaaaar day’. Today, it’s plain paper, cones, or those nasty plastic trays that make your chips smell (and taste) crap.
Another whinge I have about posh nosh is that you tend to get bugger all for your money. It pains me to pay more for less. It physically hurts. It’s like with clothes. I am petite (which is another word for short arse) so you’d presume less money for less material, right? WRONG. I pay MORE money because I’m shorter than the average woman. Similarly with posh nosh where you pay a fortune for a threat of beef, a miniscule roast potato and a Yorkshire pud the size of a Rolo with some gravy drizzed over it. Looks nice. Wouldn’t fill a gnat. You have to stop for pie and chips on the way home because you’re STARVING!
‘Less is more’ only applies to cosmetics, I mean, too much of it and you look like something out of Kiss, no? When it comes to food, I want value for my money. I want to leave the establishment having had to undo my belt a notch. And I want my food served on a plate. Not a slate or a garden trowel. A PLATE.
Also, I won’t eat what I can’t pronounce. You can’t go wrong with chips. Even if you’re pissed and it comes out as, ‘Ah wil haf sum ships, peesh. Wud u lik a shnog?’
Stop farting about with our food, Britain. PLATES NOT SLATES!