The organic food box and those weekend warriors
WOR lass is now a follower of that Joe Wicks gadgie. Or is ‘disciple’ a better word?
It’s not just the exercise – food generally has become a thing of obsession and fetish rather than being something to savour or enjoy.
Among my more middle-class Jesmondista or Tyne Valley Barbour babe friends, organic is the holy grail.
Each week they smugly announce the arrival of the ‘organic produce box’ on their doorstep before going off on a self-righteous rant about the poison the rest of us plebs are pumping into our pasty working-class bodies.
Haddaway – I buy fruit too y’knaa! You would think I was feeding my bairns deep fried lard and kebab pizza as opposed to their miserable tiny apples that are as shrivelled as a witch’s whatnots !
Also, their food has to be ‘ethically sourced’ – which means the animals have full internet access, en suite troughs and a jacuzzi.
This ensures they are blissfully happy when a bloke who looks like the lovechild of Liz Truss and Benny off Crossroads lovingly kills them with a shovel.
Not surprisingly, you are asking for trouble if you ever have them round for a meal.
Just for a laugh, serve them the cheapest bargain range chicken breasts you can find – the ones with more steroids than a prison gym – reassuring them that they were hand-reared by Oxbridge graduates who fed them brie and grapes – and only spoke to them in Latin.
In contrast to this, you have the weekend warrior; the confused soul who diets like Gwyneth Paltrow Monday to Friday and then turns into Fat ******d off the Austin Powers movie for the remainder!
Weekdays – breakfast is dry toast or yoghurt, lunch a pitiful handful of rice that would be frowned upon even in a North Korean re-education camp.
By Thursday, these guys have been to the gym more than Rocky, eaten less calories than a size zero model on benefits and are more jumpy and miserable than a night watchman at a Russian ammo dump.
It usually starts with the first cheeky bevvy on Friday after work. Fatal.
The immortal words: “Well, I’ve been good all week”.
Begin an orgy of bingeing, gluttony, excess and eventual downfall that would be worthy of Boris himself!
This post-work glass of wine becomes a proper, ney prisoners, neet oot on the lash, which inevitably leads to a table in one of Stowell Street’s or the Bigg Market’s finest culinary establishments.
The person who, for five days, closed their eyes when passing a shop selling muffins, now gleefully orders a starter, three types of naan bread, a stack of poppadoms and a chicken tikka masala.
The plot is totally lost when a kebab is purchased for the taxi ride home, whilst the munchies continue with Hobnobs and toast to see them through the journey from the kitchen into bed.
The following morning, feelings of self-loathing and disbelief combined with a hangover worthy of Reed, Burton, O’Toole and Harris at the peak of their powers, can only be put right by one thing.
A fry-up !
Bring it on. To all such people, enjoy yourselves.
There’s always Monday!
It usually starts with the first cheeky bevvy on Friday after work. Fatal. The immortal words: ‘I’ve been good all week’