No one in sandals is gonna cook my chips

The invite was greatly appreciated. However, I was unsure whether my anticipation of this Northern delight was stronger than Bertie’s acceptance of ‘anything to shift this fucking hangover’. So the PC was powered down, the cigarettes and phones were picked up and the house was vacated. I was going on the road with mONKEYs fOREHEAd.

Bertie called shotgun and took the drivers seat. Skinny Boy’s argument was that if I was to die then it would be up to Bertie to take over the driving as he was in the co-pilots seat. He said that he was happy to be cargo in the back. I decided to absorb the ambiance and push for some comments about their life on the road. However, this was not easy over Bertie’s insistence of ‘picking the tunes’. This became a dialogue of shit, shit, no way, hate him, shit, classiccccc…but not in the mood, shit, isn’t that…shit, hate him HATE THESE, fucking adverts. And then we arrived.

I could smell the fat before we turned the corner. Bertie looked in the window that allowed the not so attractive rear view of the proprietors cooking said culinary pleasures. I noticed that he was not in fact checking their wares like Charlie Bucket at the sweet shop window but instead was looking at floor. So I explored this with him.

‘No one in sandals is gonna cook my chips…dirty bastards’. I felt this did not require any further exploration. Instead, I opted to enter chip shop.

The doors swung open and afford me the hot blast experience of alighting an aeroplane in a hot foreign country only this time had the distinct smell of fish. I perused the glass menu of general food stuffs that was attached to the back wall. The pictures had clearly been taken in the seventies with the only change being that a new white sticker would replace the current one with a thick black marker price written on it. I now had the difficult choice of making my choice for dinner.