Eating late at night is something I rarely do, I never really have, apart from many years ago when I worked in the casino industry and getting fed at 3am was normal. However, a few weeks ago, while sucking down the last quarter of a bottle of not very decent plonk, I was particularly hungry, and only semi-sober, and the only edible thing in the fridge was a packet of very strong mature cheddar. Five minutes later there wasn’t.
Most people will tell you that eating cheese this late at night and in such quantities will bring about nightmares, and they’d be right, but only sort of. Because I didn’t have nightmares, I had incredibly vivid dreams, and they produced a high which I was instantly addicted to and had every intention of repeating. There was just one small problem with my newly acquired habit, the cheese was too wet. As I scoffed down slice after slice that first night I realised that it needed something extra to help it go down, and all I had was bread, which just wasn’t going to cut it. I craved something particular, one thing, something I haven’t had for a very long time and wasn’t even sure if it still existed. I didn’t bother trawling through the kitchen cupboards because I’m one of those people who knows exactly what’s in there and what isn’t, and this item definitely wasn’t. Instead I sulked for a while and tried to remember the taste as I finished the bottle and slipped off to bed, disappointed and unsatisfied. I hate that kind of discontentment, in much the same way as I hate the feeling I’m left with when I go to the pub but have only one beer, it’s just not right. I was determined that this denial wouldn’t happen again and decided that when I took my usual lengthy Saturday morning walk I’d make it my mission to track down the objects of my late night desire – well, one of them at least.
Come Saturday morning I thought it might be a good idea to record whatever events befell me on my journey to track down the accompaniment that would complete my cheese and wine nirvana. I don’t know why I wanted to record it, it wasn’t as if I was about to climb something stupidly high and freezing cold, but record it I did.
I live pretty much on the sea-front, which means no matter how warm it is the wind blows like a bastard, and today was no exception. I stuck my earphones where they’re supposed to be and set off along the seafront to shoppers hell, Tesco. Being almost like summer, people were milling about on the seafront pretending to enjoy themselves as they stuffed their cake-holes with ice creams while being buffeted about like characters from a Lowry painting. I know I stand alone in this but I really do not see the point of spending your hard earned cash having a holiday in a seaside resort in this country, Spain, yes, here, no.
The second site that greets you in this and every other seaside town are the ubiquitous gulls (according to Stephen Fry, they’re not seagulls, they’re just gulls, who am I to argue with the word maestro?). The gulls make more mess than the chavs as they tuck into whatever garbage those idiots have been too stupid to properly dispose of…..
…..these guys rule the coast, but only because we let them.
Strolling a bit further along the front I come across this…..
…..it marks the starting line for the first ever International motor race held in Britain, 1902 it says. Why did they choose this place? When you think about how difficult it is to get to this town today, imagine what it must have been like in 1902!
A few more paces brings me to here…..
…..and no, this picture wasn’t taken at 3am on a Wednesday, but 11am on a Saturday, in the middle of summer. You recall that wind I told you about a few seconds ago which blows like a bastard almost all day, almost every day, come whatever season?….. surely it was blowing on the day/s that someone was staking the area out and thinking this would be a good place to open an outdoor cafe! Surely! Moving on.
During my time as a student in Exmouth I worked part-time for the local council carrying out various odd jobs, one of which was repairing the beach huts. I hadn’t thought about it much since, but seeing these…..
…..reminded me of the absurd rule which prevents owners of the huts from breathing life into them with a spot of paint and a few baubles here and there. What exactly is it that these councils are afraid of? Colour? Have none of them ever holidayed along the Mediterranean coastline or California or pretty much anywhere other than Britain? Or should I say England? Open your eyes you dreary-minded sods.
Anyhow, as I near the halfway point of the walk I arrive at the semi-literal pile of dung known as the Water Treatment Works. The stench that emanates from this eyesore is akin to sticking your head in a gas oven with the tap fully open but unlit…..
…..pretty innit?
Twenty more yards or so up the hill and you reach this…..
…..the finishing line of the aforementioned motor race. You’d think they could have come up with something a bit more inventive and artistic than a couple of lumps of rock with metal plates stuck to them wouldn’t you? Maybe you wouldn’t, I would.
As I climb the short, steep slope I reach the highest point where mad buggers can sometimes be seen strapping brightly coloured nylon blankets onto their backs before throwing themselves over the cliff, but sadly not today. Just beside the coastguard office sits this…..
…..now, either that’s a beacon, or this town has some really big cup-and-ball players and they couldn’t be bothered taking their toys with them when they went home!
In between the cup-and-ball and the coastguard office is this…..
…..it’s the only way we can escape the town to savour the comparatively pornographic delights of the huge city of Hastings without being spotted by the cup-and-ball giants. Honest!
As I wave the beacon goodbye, I reach the crest of my personal mountain and am faced with…..
…..if I keep my wits about me and don’t play my Nano too loud and constantly look over my left shoulder, I might reach the bottom without getting rammed up the rectum by some streak on a bike, skateboard, scooter or skates who thinks the path was built for him to practice finding out how big his gonads are.
The other obstacles to be on the lookout for are those left behind as a result of the arrogance and ignorance of people who choose to ignore these…..
…..if you’re going to make a law that says it’s illegal to let your dog crap anywhere and everywhere, then enforce it.
Glancing to the right of the dog poo sign, I see my destination…..
…..sadly, well not sadly, let’s keep it in context shall we, the ludicrously oversized destroyer of the corner shop and therefore the community is on the wrong side of the railway tracks, which means I’ll have to walk the entire length of the cack-riddled psycho cycle path to reach it, which I duly do without incident.
As I round the corner I pass two more dying community venues, the soon to be demolished bowling alley and swimming pool, the space they currently occupy will be filled by, yes you’ve guessed it, another oversized and unwanted vendor of sameness, this time of the Marks & Spencer flavour. Once built, it will complete this circle…..
…..do you begin to see a pattern here? A pattern of piss-poor decisions being made by small-minded men and women in positions of authority they have neither the skills, the wit, nor intelligence to hold. Just saying.
Before stepping inside the killer of communes I need help to avoid the wailing and screaming spurting from the mouths of feral kids and the retaliatory garbage spewing from their guardian’s gobs, I find it in the Nano’s volume control. No matter what the reason for my being in this place, be it for one item or a weeks worth, I adopt the same stance, get in, get it, get out.
I know the precise location of my prey and make straight for it. I may well have pushed or shoved a few individuals of varying ages on the way there but it mattered not because Eminem, Pink Floyd or Limp Bizkit will have drowned out any complaints that might have been vomited in my direction. At the aisle of hope I scour the hundred different sizes, shapes and colours of packets as I hunt for my prize. I remember the packet colour from way back when and in no time at all I spot them, sitting there, bold as brass, as if no years had passed by at all. The shiny, bright yellow packet was begging to be picked up…..
…..but I’m no mug, I don’t grab them straight away, no sir, not me. I quietly and deliberately pass them by and continue looking along the shelves. I do this not because I’ve changed my mind, or gone off the idea altogether but because I’d seen the price, and it was double what I thought it was going to be, and what I thought it was going to be was what I was going to spend, no matter how many years had passed!
I trolled past the insane range of similar items looking for the non-brand equivalent of TUC, and eventually found it at the end of the row, quiet and unassuming, the enemy of TUC…..
….. and they were almost half the price of TUC, and at half the price they were in the range of what I had already decided was the right price to pay. How different can they be? After all, a cracker’s a cracker, bit of cheese, large gulp of vino, sorted. My mission was almost complete. I grabbed a packet of the Tesco cheapies, paid for them, pocketed the change I wouldn’t have got if I’d bought the genuine article and set off for home.
That night I ate less than usual at dinnertime because I had every intention of stuffing my face with my rediscovered crackers. Come 11pm, out came the cheddar and Crak ‘n’ Snak’s. As I layered the cheese onto the first cracker my head was filled with ancient memories of mouthfuls of TUC and as I chomped down my expectancy of flavour and delight was dashed in milliseconds as I my taste buds screamed at me that the similarity between the TUC I remember and Crak ‘n’ Snak I’d bought was about the same as the similarity between a pair of undies from Calvin Klein and a pair from Kanvas Kecks R Us, they might look the same from a distance mate, but the same they ain’t. So, if anyone out there is looking for some savoury biscuits, I’ve got nine tenths of a packet of Crak ‘n’ Snak going cheap. Moral of the story? If it’s cheap, it ain’t necessarily the right choice to make, be it a savoury biscuit or an element of town design.
