Posted by Anglobert Saxadink on February 1, 2009, 2:06 pm
195.93.21.3
Many people will have noticed the current lack of good old British Working Man's Cafes. A decline in the British way of life itself. Gone has the humble, ye olde cafe, only to be replaced by trendy cafés (note the foreign accent) featuring salads and red wine on their menus.
And if it's not them it's these bleedin' Sandwich Bars: £2 for a roll that's full of rabbit food! A fat bird behind the counter with peroxide hair and tacky gold chains dangling from her neck as she serves you is obligatory. She will always squeeze your slices as she puts them into the bag, just to ensure a bit of mayonnaise squirts out onto her finger, so the gluttonous cow can wop her index finger into her mouth like a dart hitting a bullseye. The sandwiches will be filled with salad, as she's scoffed most of the meat whilst slicing it up earlier; the "Oohh... just a little slither of this beef won't ruin my diet" scenario is repeated a hundred times, effectively culling a herd of cattle in a morning and leaving nothing but gristle for the punters' baps.
We can also point the greasy spoon of woe at the fast food burger chains. The term "fast food" derives not from the speedy service but from how quickly the alleged burger vanishes into water as soon as it hits your tongue. This is why they put those horrible green things on top of the burger: it delays how fast this junk disappears, as you spend ten minutes fishing the thing out, taking far longer than it takes to eat the burger itself.
And if you get a soft drink, they fill the carton up with half of Mont Blanc. I honestly thought they was doing a promotion for the Titanic movie when I recently bought one.
And all this crap now rules the roost on the pre-evening meal front in this country.
Youth are now often oblivious to what a good old 'George Best and Rosey' is (Bacon, Egg, Sausage, Tomato and Tea). The Great British Breakfast in Full Monty is what our heritage and stomachs demand. Bacon, egg, sausage, beans, mushrooms, black pudding, fried slice with two of toast and a mug of tea, all floating in a sea of grease. (For foreign readers: black pudding is a recipe of pig's blood, sheep's brains and goat's bollocks, with a dash of eye of newt and wing of bat, all rolled into a burger-type format. It is absolutely vile, but everyone pretends they love it for some odd reason.)
Transport Cafes are as much a British institution as the food itself. The proprietor is always called Jim or George and he defies gravity with the amount of dirt under his fingernails, defies logic with his bullshit over football and politics (no-one argues as they don't want him to spit in their food) and defies accusations of witchcraft by making sure that no-one is looking when he picks fried eggs out of the pan with his fingers.
Seated in a Great British Traditional Working Man's Cafe will always be an old man with a Sainsbury's carrier bag, an electrician whose big mouth everyone wants to thump and, most importantly of all, where else but in the cafe will you find telecom, gas or council workers? If you had an emergency, rain or shine, eight hours a day, you will find them there
Thus, we are not only gradually losing our heathen diet, but also a secure community meeting place. We must defend and save what few essentially British things we have left.
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