Sunday 5 May 2013

Thought for Food

I was poisoned the other day – again. Mrs Wumber and I were on an otherwise enjoyable trip to Edinburgh and its surrounds. We were in a very nice pub on the coast, perusing the delights on their menu, ‘I’d like the sea bream please, but I should say that I’m allergic to egg, so if you would…’
‘Oh that’s fine sir, no eggs in the sea bream.’
‘No, I’m sure. It’s just that there’s often coleslaw or somesuch in the salad.’
‘I’ll make absolutely sure they understand, sir.’
‘Thank you. A nice oil dressing is perfectly fine, just nothing mayonnaise-based.’
‘No problem sir. And may I compliment you on your choice.’
‘You may, thank you. Ooh, free bread.’

I apologized to the rest of the party for my precipitate diving into the basket of crusty bread by my plate. However, I was quickly able to observe that there had been egg on the small pillow of bread now residing in the capacious Wumber belly. After swilling a whole jug of water, the burning in my mouth, unusually, disappeared and I felt I might have been mistaken. Fortunately for all present, my subsequent and inevitable gastric distress only appeared as I completed the main course. A tiny amount of egg then.  Small enough to not be detected so that I could ingest it all – but sufficient to make me ill – sooner or later; as always. The evening’s delicious and rather expensive delights were offered to the god Sewer once we arrived home.

This is not a rare occurrence and I shall be a lot more careful about eating bread in public from now on. The baiting of bread has become irritatingly commonplace, second only to the seemingly obligatory cross-contamination found in Chinese restaurants; I’d say I’ve lost about £100 worth of Chinese in the toilet before it’s even been paid for – I no longer do them the honour of my business.

I’m quite understanding about the use of egg on the whole, though I am often bewildered by some instances of its use – and dispirited by the inconsistency of it. If you were interested enough to check the ingredients of pork pies and pasties, you would see that some are glazed with egg and some are not. Moreover, one manufacturer’s small pie might not be glazed, while its bigger brother is. This minefield is shifted periodically so that I, and the eternally patient Mrs Wumber, have to read all the ingredients of all products that could possibly contain egg, all the time.

My main frustration is that the use of egg is clearly unnecessary in these circumstances. If a pie needn’t be egg-glazed today, it doesn’t need it tomorrow. Bread hasn’t needed egg-glazes for thousands of years; why does it now? It smacks of pretentiousness and lack of thought. After all, a glaze is for the sake of appearance only, supposedly something to make a thing more attractive – even though it’s probably beneath opaque packaging.

The thoughtlessness is the worst thing. Somebody has to consider and write the list of allergens for the packaging. Why then, do they not arrive at the conclusion that the list is there to deter potential purchasers and the shorter it is, the more purchasers they might have. Some ingredients are unavoidable, but why use those that are demonstrably not? Egg is one of the most common food allergies, using more expensive ingredients to repel potential consumers – or make them ill – seems ridiculous to me. And as for spending money on eggs to adulterate something you give away – preprandial bread – bizarre!

I realize this will come across as somewhat self-focussed, but it isn’t at all. I don’t care what ingredients a restaurant uses, nor do I wish to be difficult. Just tell me what to avoid and I will do just that. But if they stopped putting egg on bread, pastries, mashed potato and the like, then they would improve their profit margin and not make some of us ill, with nobody being any the wiser.

And while we’re at it, the makers of triangular sandwiches might stop putting mayonnaise in every single sandwich and thus bring down the nation’s weight by several tonnes.

Monday 22 April 2013

Telly Schmelly



I do try to be a good husband, but there are some things a man just should not have to endure. Saturday is a day when I feel a particular duty to be sociable and share an evening in front of the telly with Mrs Wumber. Oh were it not so, but she has become a devotee of such dubious entertainment as X Factor, I’m A Celebrity and Britain’s Got Talent et al. Some of these I can bear in small doses, but I had the recent misfortune to park my rear just as The Voice emerged from our forbearing CRT. I lasted ten minutes before slithering off to an alternative viewing room in search of something soothing and more acceptably banal.

It’s not the format, nor some of the not-so-talented bleeding-heart contestants, nor the celebrities – though I feel confident Jessie J could be put to better use as a handbag – no, it’s the behaviour of all involved. Guff, gush and garbage; it all makes my skin creep. 'I’m doing this for my Nan who’s got hayfever', 'I’m gonna give it 110 percent', 'I’ve always wanted this', 'whoop, whoop, yeah, come on!' Oh please. And even the audience has to get in on all this disingenuous balderdashery. Whatever happened to the dour spirit of good old Blighty?
I’ve a suspicion my sense of distaste comes from the daily experiences of wandering about until I can lay my head in readiness for the chance to dream. Nowhere in the High St, the supermarket or train station do I ever meet any of these over-effusive, brimming-with-life, gushing citizens of Great Britain. Nobody gives me 110 percent, nobody gives me a standing ovation for hitting the high note of impeding a pavement cyclist unscathed. Where’s the love in somebody blocking an escalator because they have their face stuck in a mobile phone? Oh, and by the way, shop assistants, the word when asking for my money is “please”, not “then”.

The more time that passes, the more this disparity between television’s Britain and the real thing widens. Perhaps I’m missing something. Could it be that the participants in these drivelsome episodes are simply playing a game? Are they just escaping the interactive, interpersonal misery of everyday life? It doesn’t feel that way to me. It does seem to be some form of reality to many people – a hideous reality to the rest of us. Why is it not sufficient to sit back and luxuriate in the reassurance of a genuinely talented artist giving it 99 percent – to listen to true greatness rather than submerge somebody giving it 110 percent beneath screams and applause?

Television has just become an addiction, one where the source of the craving is an exhausted entity, an itch that no longer has anything to scratch it. I watch telly now because that’s what you do. An evening of television used to be two or three hours of a feast-worth-waiting-for, now it’s endless mire sparsely speckled with tiny, over-repeated gems. We used to watch the good stuff then go out. Now we stay in and watch trash before staying in to watch more. Still, you can always live life to the full next time. Can’t you?