I'm on the tube platform. I'm on my way home. I'm full of Christmas reverie. I smell of whisky, and cinnamon, and fags. My eyes are heavy with alcohol. I watch two dusty mice scuttle between the train tracks, fighting over an abandoned Burger King. It glistens with fat. In my sobreness I would show disdain for Burger King, but tonight, with my tiredness and drunkenness, it looks unctious and juicy, and I yearn for it. I stumble my head upwards and try and focus...
"The.. dead of... winter. All is.. silent *hic*.. The ...world hushshshed by a thick covering of snow... strident flavours.. dank mush*burp*rooms... crispy goose fat... "
I read it again.. trying to distill the images that are being painted before me. I try and imagine why mushrooms have waited patiently in a fridge, why goose fat is considered "crisp", and how something can be 'dusky' and 'clean and bright' at the same time..
And also, to decide 'Who writes like this? This cod-romantic pennyfiffle? This prosaic fannyflap , like they've been fucked in the brain by the spastic seed of Alan Bennett? Who has come up with this shit?"
I glance to the bottom, the centre, the middle.
That knobjockey, Nigel Slater, that's who!













