After a long, hard day at the office, what could be more appealing than a trudge round Iceland (not the country, I wouldn’t mind that one little bit, although I’ve heard it stays dark for about twenty-four hours a day during the winter months and I’m not sure my failing eyesight could cope with that) to stock up on faggots for your beloved spouse?
Why do I need to make a special trip to Iceland to pick up these little balls of hideousness, I hear you ask? Well, I’ll tell you dear reader….because Iceland seems to be the only shop within thirty miles of my house (actually I’ve not checked anywhere else apart from Tesco) that still stocks them in boxes of two and not the bumper, fart-inducing boxes of four and incredibly, six, yes six, that seem to be the only option everywhere else.
So there I was queuing at the till, minding my own business, patiently waiting my turn (those who know me well, know that’s a lie) when a deep voice behind me suddenly rumbled, ‘What I want to know is, what is the fascination with faggots?’
I turned around and was greeted by a man holding two boxes of frozen curry, his other shopping consisting of a four pack of lager and assorted sundries to accompany his curried ready-meals. I didn’t judge.
‘Oh,’ I blustered, as I tried to hide the four boxes (special offer, two boxes for a pound – I think this is quite telling of the composition of a Mr Brain’s faggot) under a pack of halloumi cheese and a box of salmon fillets (yes you see, one of us has taste in our house), ‘they’re for my husband, he loves them and I have to stock up here because Tesco only does big boxes, blah blah, he can eat three but can’t manage four, blah, life story, blah, cringe, why me, blah, blah, please leave me alone with my faggots, blah, blah.’
A slightly surreal conversation then followed whereby I learned that the man could probably eat a bumper box of six; that he used to tell his kids that Mr Brain’s faggots were made of squirrel brains and not surprisingly, they wouldn’t eat them; and that before his wife became his ex-wife, he used to tell her that if she really wanted to piss him off, she could put a dog poo in a pie, smother it in gravy but he probably wouldn’t even notice.
‘Would you notice?’ He asked me, to which I replied that I would probably rather eat a dog poo pie than a plateful of faggots if given the choice.
‘Would you notice?’ He turned to the woman standing behind him, eyed up her Fray Bentos pie which was sat brazenly next to, would you believe, two boxes of faggots (two for a pound, bargain) and carried on, ‘No, you definitely wouldn’t notice, there’s far worse in one of those pies, haha.’
The three of us continued to discuss faggots while the shop assistant tried to sell us some stale lemon drizzle cake and this opened up the floor to the customers standing in the queue next to us, who seemed delighted to be included in this man’s musings about stale cake and after-dinner treats.
I left the shop to a shout of, ‘And that’s why mums go to Iceland!’ in a much better mood than when I’d gone in – I reckon Iceland should employ that man to stand at the tills and engage in conversation with unsuspecting customers on a daily basis.
Mr Brain’s faggots contain approximately thirty-eight percent ‘faggot’ and the rest is sauce. The actual meat content isn’t even worth mentioning. I’m convinced that they do actually contain real brains (perhaps there’s some merit in the squirrel theory) and this is why I don’t eat them (that and the fact that they taste like shit). I felt sure that many would agree with my feelings about faggots so I conducted a little straw poll on Facebook to prove my hypothesis that everyone but Pud hates them.
I’ve got to tell you folks, I’m shocked and a little disappointed by the results. Firstly, Sisterhood, I thought you’d be on my side but I was wrong in my assumption that all women detest Mr Brain’s faggots (and this is is why I don’t work for the equality and diversity department in my workplace; such sweeping preconceptions would be most unwelcome). You love the little critters! A whopping sixty-eight percent of my carefully chosen, cross–section of the population who said they like faggots were female. And men, you’re as bad- not one of you dislikes them! What is wrong with you people?!
I’m afraid I can’t condone such treacherous behaviour. Next time, before you peel back that cardboard lid and unleash the stench of rancid pig bits into your kitchen, you all just need to have a jolly good think about my conversation with the stranger in Iceland and maybe you’ll think twice about your actions.
And on that note, I’m off to boil some tripe. Bon appetit everyone!