Sunday, 27 October 2013


So, I wake up. Good start. Not dead, not quite alive, maybe. Some kind of netherworld of 5am. I think bacon's the trick for this, the cure. Hmm, cured bacon. Smokey, tasty, crispy. With an egg. Maybe two. I'll go to the shop and get some bacon, I think, no, I decide. I'm decisive. Manly. Gonna eat bacon. Me, man.

It'll taste like Babe, Pig in the City, in my belly.

Kids are in the car and I'm happy enough, trundling off to the shop. It's raining a fair bit, but I'm in the car so I get a little wet going from the house to the car, the car to the shop. No big deal. The kids don't grumble because we're taking an early trip in the car to the shop to buy bacon and they're happy. Kids like early trips to the shops in the dark, especially when there's bacon.

But it's bacon we're talking about here, not the kids.

Bacon's on special. Best day ever!

I get home and stick the bacon under the grill. Mooch a while. Maybe I make a cup of tea, or smoke a cigarette while I wait.

Something stinks. Stinks bad, like a dead dirty pig's hairy fucking arse.

It's the bacon. The bacon doesn't just smell bad. Smells like Babe decomposed a lot before making it to my grill. I check the date on the bacon. It's in date. It's dead, yes, but not decomposed at least.

Something's rotten in Denmark. Shitty Danish bacon, right? Pigs in cages, treated like their carrots or potatoes, unfeeling beasts farmed for meat and nothing else. I don't fucking care, but think, should've bought British. Bought meat with a decent standard of living...before someone killed it so I could eat it.

Nope. It is British. Says so on the pack.

Also, the pack says, 'UNSMOKED'.

Cunt, I think, and throw the bacon in the bin.


After a while, I wonder if I mean the pig, or me.

Love you. x