ICELAND’S NOT CROSS BUNS
A TICK? What’s a f** king tick? Is it like getting a “like” on TikTok because you took a sneaky one of your big sister’s best mate’s tits when she stayed over that time?
I mean, I get it. A “cross” is negative” and a “tick” ain’t. But it seems to be rather missing the point.
Eating a load of sugary shite to celebrate someone getting crucified to death is just weird.
I bet Hamas love them.
Eric Mumble, York
DOES anyone eat hot cross buns anymore? Aren’t they banned for being racist or something?
I only ask as a bakery fellow friend of mine tried to sell a cartload of fresh hot cross buns on Good Friday last year.
Turns out that Brick Lane in east London isn’t necessarily your target market for that kind of stuff. Or the curry mile in Manchester.
Davey Blade, Southend
BUSINESS can be tricky, especially in these modern times where we encompass diversity, equality, and inclusion – all of which are, of course, vitally important. It’s why at 3am, after I tell my staff to wake up and start baking the buns and that “no” will not be taken for an answer, I soon smell the scent of rising foodstuffs.
This works very well for me and my staff. I always promise them, ‘ Six more months of voluntary 24/ 7 baking and I’ll consider letting you out of the shipping container’. Bert Hump, Cambridge
WHEN I was but a small child, I dreamt of going to Iceland. To see, well, the ice, and the Northern Lights, and strange ice people, and maybe some seals.
So you might imagine my surprise when my mum and dad, rest their rotting souls, took me out for the day wearing a blindfold, whispering, ‘ Iceland’, in my muffled ears.
Then Dad handed me a shopping basket, Mum piled it up with boxes of prawn rings, and that was f** king it apart from a go on the Thomas the Tank Engine ride.
Benjamin Felt, Sandringham
THERE is something so romantic about the idea of Iceland I find it impossible to criticise them for literally anything.
The Icelandic people are infamously rather proud of having the world’s only – for a very good reason – penis museum. Just not displaying – not quite, yet, sweetheart – mine.
But the day very much will arrive when my grizzled spent sword shall languish for eternity in Scando vinegar.
After I marry and impregnate Björk in a very Icelandic fashion.
Cillian Perriwinkle, Brighton