A bloggable offence - kebab couple
So what goes in a blog? Easy, if you have a themed blog, reviewing sandwiches (especially exciting at seasonal holidays when festive flavours and 'special editions' are on offer, who can forget the 'Sandwich Nook' festive offering from Christmas 2008; the 'Lapland loaf' that, when the filling was discovered, became known as the 'red Rudolph' and known to parents as 'the reason my child cried to the point of dehydration'. Ill advised as it was to use an animal that appears on Christmas cards as a sandwich filling, that was as nothing to the fuss their 'Wind in the willows' triple decker caused. That, and the surprising discovery many made that lots of people are allergic to badger, is the reason you don't see any 'Sandwich Nook' shops on the high street any more) or something where your stimulus is supplied on a regular basis. More problematic where the blog is about as focused as a fog bank, but less of a problem if your supply of happy pills has dried up and you can find something to be articulately outraged about on a daily basis and use the blog as a therapeutic rant which doubles as an economic measure, relieving you of the necessity of purchasing a stamp to mail your paranoid ramblings to the Daily Telegraph, or more likely from the stress-inducing deadlines one faces as a columnist on the Daily Mail.
I like themed blogs. I love those blogs that review things, like toilet roll or instant pot meals, and really love the enthusiasm and delight that the writers convey when, having exhausted the supply of martial on the shelves of national chain supermarkets, they discover regional chains and independents selling different brands, then start buying foreign brands on the internet. I'm not sure what I'd like to review least, an instant pot meal from an unlikely country with a GDP measured in goats that hasn't had an election since the British packed up and left, or toilet roll from the sort of place where the President gets driven around in a stretch tractor and the currency is a root vegetable. All I know is, if I had eaten the former, I'd be grateful for a large supply of the latter.
Ultimately, when not blogging about something; a favourite television show, books, films, comics, chocolates, rabbits, hinges, wigs, shoes, ducks, being left handed in a right handed world, having one of those blogs where you record a something-of-the-day like your poo or your kids' paintings or something else that really, really, really, is only of interest to you and even then should not be of that much interest, or if you just post occasional pictures of kittens, then blogging tends to be about nothing. A random thought, experience or image captured forever and recorded for posterity.
Like the other night, in the kebab shop.
I like my kebab shop. I know the chaps, the chaps know me. We grunt our greetings and at Christmas exchange mumbled compliments of the season. I don't go to the kebab shop for social intercourse, I go to the kebab shop for a kebab, or occasionally a burger, and for chips. The kebabs really are excellent and I should clarify that they are not purchased when I'm drunk or consumed when weaving down the street leaving a trail of dropped onion slices, the snail trail of the kebab consuming inebriated, but rather provide a delightful alternative to cooking ones own dinner and, importantly, bring a touch of that 'going out for dinner' sensation but with the added bonus that one can eat dinner at home (and my idea, Dragons, is for a restaurant chain where the seating is not the traditional table and chair set up, but rather a sofa, a telly and a couple of trays, and which will serve customers who wish to wear pyjama bottoms).
This night the couple ahead of me in the kebab shop looked young, groomed, and in that stage of their relationship where personality kinks are endearing rather than bloody irritating. Giggling like freshly medicated loons and touching each other like a pair of grooming monkeys, they eventually made their choice of supper.
A kebab.
To share.
It was, I think, difficult to decide what it was about their behaviour that I found most contemptible, hence the blog entry, to order my thoughts.
That a man would share his kebab is bad. That any self-respect woman would be seen with a man who would share his kebab is bad. That when faced with the 'let's just order one portion and two spoons' challenge, the bloke folded, is bad - but understandable, he will learn later that it's better to put a stop to that kind of behaviour early on rather than have to explain at some later date that he ordered the cheesecake because he wants a slice of cheesecake, and that if she also wants cheesecake, then please tell the nice man with the order pad that she wants cheesecake, not an extra spoon, unless she intends to help herself from food from a neighbouring table, because she sure as hell isn't getting any cheesecake and...why are you crying?
Written down, I realise that my thoughts were as mean as they were unnecessary. On balance it's better that young couples touch each other in kebab shops and, presumably, feed each other morsels of kebab once home. I expect to find kebabs, burgers, chips, a warm welcome and slightly shameful fellow customers at the kebab shop, I don't expect to find romance. So maybe my reaction was shock.
But I maintain that it's a bad idea to share your kebab.
I like themed blogs. I love those blogs that review things, like toilet roll or instant pot meals, and really love the enthusiasm and delight that the writers convey when, having exhausted the supply of martial on the shelves of national chain supermarkets, they discover regional chains and independents selling different brands, then start buying foreign brands on the internet. I'm not sure what I'd like to review least, an instant pot meal from an unlikely country with a GDP measured in goats that hasn't had an election since the British packed up and left, or toilet roll from the sort of place where the President gets driven around in a stretch tractor and the currency is a root vegetable. All I know is, if I had eaten the former, I'd be grateful for a large supply of the latter.
Ultimately, when not blogging about something; a favourite television show, books, films, comics, chocolates, rabbits, hinges, wigs, shoes, ducks, being left handed in a right handed world, having one of those blogs where you record a something-of-the-day like your poo or your kids' paintings or something else that really, really, really, is only of interest to you and even then should not be of that much interest, or if you just post occasional pictures of kittens, then blogging tends to be about nothing. A random thought, experience or image captured forever and recorded for posterity.
Like the other night, in the kebab shop.
I like my kebab shop. I know the chaps, the chaps know me. We grunt our greetings and at Christmas exchange mumbled compliments of the season. I don't go to the kebab shop for social intercourse, I go to the kebab shop for a kebab, or occasionally a burger, and for chips. The kebabs really are excellent and I should clarify that they are not purchased when I'm drunk or consumed when weaving down the street leaving a trail of dropped onion slices, the snail trail of the kebab consuming inebriated, but rather provide a delightful alternative to cooking ones own dinner and, importantly, bring a touch of that 'going out for dinner' sensation but with the added bonus that one can eat dinner at home (and my idea, Dragons, is for a restaurant chain where the seating is not the traditional table and chair set up, but rather a sofa, a telly and a couple of trays, and which will serve customers who wish to wear pyjama bottoms).
This night the couple ahead of me in the kebab shop looked young, groomed, and in that stage of their relationship where personality kinks are endearing rather than bloody irritating. Giggling like freshly medicated loons and touching each other like a pair of grooming monkeys, they eventually made their choice of supper.
A kebab.
To share.
It was, I think, difficult to decide what it was about their behaviour that I found most contemptible, hence the blog entry, to order my thoughts.
That a man would share his kebab is bad. That any self-respect woman would be seen with a man who would share his kebab is bad. That when faced with the 'let's just order one portion and two spoons' challenge, the bloke folded, is bad - but understandable, he will learn later that it's better to put a stop to that kind of behaviour early on rather than have to explain at some later date that he ordered the cheesecake because he wants a slice of cheesecake, and that if she also wants cheesecake, then please tell the nice man with the order pad that she wants cheesecake, not an extra spoon, unless she intends to help herself from food from a neighbouring table, because she sure as hell isn't getting any cheesecake and...why are you crying?
Written down, I realise that my thoughts were as mean as they were unnecessary. On balance it's better that young couples touch each other in kebab shops and, presumably, feed each other morsels of kebab once home. I expect to find kebabs, burgers, chips, a warm welcome and slightly shameful fellow customers at the kebab shop, I don't expect to find romance. So maybe my reaction was shock.
But I maintain that it's a bad idea to share your kebab.
Labels: Blogging, Couples, Fast food, Food, Relationships
1 Comments:
They must have just had sex after having not had sex in an extremely long time...like 5 minutes prior to ordering the kebab. There is no other possible explanation.
However, in all fairness, I have tried to come up with other explanations....such as, maybe they ate 5 large meals prior to the kebab. This might be the only way I'd share any type of food.
Granted, if this was not the case, I can only imagine her conversation later with her friends:
"That cheap bastard made me share his kebab. He probably thinks I'm fat. What a jerk. And for the record, his kebab was not large enough for me to be fully satisfied. He must be a complete moron and therefore, I am breaking up with him immediately."
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