"I've taken an executive decision and got us scratchings in". The snacks man had visited when I was down in the cellar, and purchases had been made without my consent. She tries to suppress that dismal Midlands accent, but there's no mistaking it: one of my barmaids is common as muck. Why else would she try and inflict such a foul, plebian foodstuff on our lovely, sophisticated clientele?
It took me a long time to realise I hated pork scratchings. It also took me a while to realise that that awful beard made me look like a total see-you-enn-tee, so the delay isn't too surprising. Put simply, eating pork scratchings will hasten the end of your life. Right after you open the packet and lift the grisly contents to your beer-soaked lips, take out your leather-bound organiser and put forward that meeting with Death.
The brand I'm now reluctantly selling is endorsed by CAMRA. What a surprise. Their beer festivals expose one to the most damaging of foodstuffs. Sadly, until we can empty that bloody bag, so does our little pub.
When the barmaid in question first heard about this blog, she said that she expected it to be full of angry diatribes about her and the chef. It took a while, but we've got there. Well done, love.