In Which I Discover Another of My Limitations

I was getting "my bits" from the shoppington the other day to facilitate the making of jerked pork belly with potato and pea mash up. Every so often, I will realise another thing that I cannot eat due to having some sort of idiot immune system that thinks that some foods are poison. There are the obvious ones, like I won't be having any pastries or breads or cereals anytime soon. I know this. I mean, I'm still sorry enough for myself to bang on about it, but I know this, I am slowly coming to terms with it. But sometimes I will just think "Oh, _____ is full of gluten, so I can't have that again." It's the more quiet foods, not the ones you subsist off, but the little treats. One day out of nowhere, my brain said to me "D'you know what? You can't ever have a samosa again, so fuck you!". I was reeling from this body blow when my sadistic (masochistic?) mind followed up with "Or onion bhajis, you fucking r-tard!" Coupled with the fact I can't have naan or pitta, my side order options at Indian restaurants are rapidly evaporating. Another time I realised that I can't have flapjacks, you know, what with them essentially being syrup and oats. Now I genuinely can't remember the last time I had flapjacks, but it's always nice to have the option. They're probably amongst the first dishes I concocted. Really easy to do, you know, what with them essentially being syrup and oats.

I don't remember my flapjacks turning out like this, though.

ANYWAY. In the supermarket the other day, for some reason they had eggs, flour, sugar and lemon next to each other... Brain processes this. Something wrong. Ingredients not bad in and of themselves, apart from flour... Yet feel uneasy. Why are they all there together like that, it's not pancake Tueoh FUCK I CAN'T EAT PANCAKES EVER AGAIN! ARGGHHHH!!!... Now pancakes shouldn't be such a big loss- I only eat them on the one legally stipulated day the state sets aside for them. Although it's known by most as Pancake Tuesday, a select few refer to it as Shrove Tuesday, because, y'know, shroves and pancakes. Regardless of what we call it, we're ALL good Christians in Britain. Why else would we all scoff our faces full of pancakes on the day before six weeks of grumbly bellies? This period is called Lent, as in I Lent all my food to that Dawn French and I'm beginning to think I'm not going to get it back. What with us being good Christians, we are obliged to go on a hunger strike for forty days until the day before Christ got murdered by the Romans.  Now you know that there's a certain feeling that some Catholics (whose church is centred in Italy) aren't so keen on the Jews? Mel Gibson should have an honourable mention, and as for his Dad... Well he makes Mel look like the Pope. The point is, the Jews get a lot of bad press. But who was the governing force? It was the Romans, whose centre of administration was in Italy. Essentially, despite the Romans actually nailing the son of God to a two by four and them spearing him in the side to make sure they're dead, despite this they seem to have convinced that the Jews are to blame. There's a shed load of anti-semitism around the world. What do we think when we see an Italian? Nice food, and I hope you don't try and have sex with my daughter. Not fair. Anyway, here is the traditional shirt that all of us good British Christians wear on Easter Friday to celebrate the crucifixion of God's son.  You have to understand, we'd only be doing that to make sure he saves our sins double quick this time. Help your fellow man.

Right. I believe I was procuring ingredients for jerked pork and 'ting. Go to pay and am asked by the checkout monkey if I would like any help packing. There's only five items there, I can put them in the bag I've brought along with me (save the planet, yeah?), so I tell him that I'm all right thanks. Then I ask him "Have you got a mystery shopper coming in or something?" "Mmm?" "It's just that I noticed you asked me if I wanted help with my packing." (Please note, this was more curious in nature than passive aggressive) "Yes, well we're all supposed to ask you..." "I know that, but you actually asked me, most don't bother." "Well, it's better for me just to follow company policy." He paused, seemed to have a think before deciding to confide in me "Actually, we're supposed to offer you help with your packing even if you've only one item." Now this made a part of me feel rather sorry for these poor employees who have to toe the line. It also gave a much bigger part of me an idea- namely going there, buying a stick of gum and then kicking off when they don't offer to pack it for me. I wonder what it's like to not be a bastard?

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