My memories of home

So we are back in India following a 16 day hiatus in the UK. There were many things I had looked forward to doing once home, some of which proved to be a let down.

Take Real Ale for example.

It was not the delicious nectar of the gods I had built it up to be in the pub-dry desert of my mind, but an often somewhat acrid tasting sluice laced with the essence of a carnivores proudmost fart.

Even my beloved Deuchars IPA was no more than alright. I found that I had missed nicely priced wine much, much more.

My memory of crisps was trodden to crumbs by the reality of their greased processed nature. The new range of Walkers “wacky” flavours was a real let down. There was some solace in Kettle Chips though the Thai curry flavour was an over spiced disappointment on a par with Ray Kennedy’s afflicted spell with the Swans back in the early 80’s

Fish and Chips were not on my agenda, though a couple of Neath market rissoles provided a nice snack one teatime.

Even chocolate was not that desirable (perhaps an early feast on Easter eggs sated my appetite?) and I was all but spent on the ham/pork front by the time we left.

There were however a couple of pork based products that retained their standout appeal.

Firstly, a couple of absolute quality Sausage and Mash dishes (Lincoln at Mrs Mash on Ganton St, and a curling turd-like Cumberland beauty at The Lavender in Clapham Junction) reminded me that when we in the UK put our efforts into it we truly have some great national dishes.

As a dyed in the wool (not “died in the wool” like the Welsh farmer who had a heart attack on-the-job) boyo, I naturally had them with extra gravy (or jus as they pretentiously described it in Clapham).

Frankly, and I mean this from the clogged left ventricle of my 30 something year old heart, let no fundamentalist Muslim nor Jew come between me and a good old bag of Pork Scratchings.

The excessively salty hit and their heart attack in a bag texture is something that I will cherish until my next visit.

When I walked out of that Balham corner shop clutching two tantalising bags of “the bad stuff”, I had the addicts sense that I was about to do something really, really wrong, but that the sorry fatty inside me was as helpless as a smack-head with a small baggy of brown.

I knew the feeling. It was pointless fighting though.

I was about to think “Sod it, sod the world, sod you all, sod Allah, sod Jahwah, sod vegetarians the world over, I want my fix and ain’t no man, no god, nor animal rights activist going to stop me”

That rustle as the bag opens the softness of the underside, the jaw aching crunch of the outer skin, and then the melee of moistening pig fat and an oceans worth of salt sending the mouth into rapture is something that no other snack can match, ever.

Britain, dead pig, and the greatness that is the humble Pork Scratching, I salute you.