Smudgie's Journey Through Life...

The other day I was so hungry I could hear my stomach injesting itself. So I went for a meal in a corporate canteen. It was one of those places where you proffer a plate to a bored-looking, middle-aged woman who then fills it with something called stew. This stew was composed of lamb and vegetables--for vegetables read celery-- and its surface was a thick opaque film, a sure sign it had sat untouched on the hotplate for several hours.

"Can you remove that horrid looking film?" I asked the woman politely. "Otherwise you'll feel the back of my hand."

So what did the bored-looking lady do? Carefully spoon away the surface with a spatula, revealing a glistening medley of exquisitely spiced ingredients beneath? Say, 'don't you worry, young man,' and produce a freshly cooked batch from the oven? No. She did neither of these things. Instead she used the time-honoured method of stirring the surface scum into the rest of the sludge, thus rendering it invisible.

"I asked you to remove the film, not dilute it," I hissed. Then, jumping over the counter, I floored her with a sudden and powerful headbutt and beat her a while with my strong fists (a nice touch, I thought, given my earlier threat merely to slap her about a bit).

Well of course I didn't do this. I'm a placid sort of gent, not the type to assault defenceless women without good reason. What I actually did was eat the stew, scum and all, without complaint and without pleasure. This is partly because I am British and not given to vocal complaint, prefering simmering, pent-up resentment, and also because there are times when any old sh*t will do, so long as it fills me up.

But there are also times when I fancy something other than celery flavoured sewerage, and then I head for much-praised Italian restaurant in West London. This isn't because I like Italian food particularly. In fact, I don't care for it much at all. If you want to know the truth, I find it boring-- all that pasta and pesto and tomato and pasta and pesto: for Christ's sake, change the f**king record. And those big bloody pepper pots they ostentationally grind several mile above your plate. What's all that about? Some sort of ancient Italian peasant ritual? I don't think so.

Anyway, this place is run by a chef who appears on TV quiz shows and writes for mediocre magazines. An odious little creature, but an acclaimed cook, so they say. So I eat Italian food, which is intrinsically cool, in chic West London. Occasionally I go to a Japanese noodle bar instead because that's cool too. I don't like Japanese food much either. The Italian red wine I feel obliged to drink in the Italian restuarant is described as 'full-bodied' but this can usually be construed as 'is guaranteed to make you feel a bit sh*tty later on.' Every so often the chef likes to preen himself in the dining area, doubtless looking for someone famous to impress. What a c*nt he is.

One night, after my meal, walking along the high road, I reflect on what's gurgling in my stomach. Fresh seared tuna in a tomato-based sauce containing wild mushrooms and baby vegetables, atop (quelle surprise) pasta. And I think, I've just paid £20 for a meal that students thoughout the country routinely cook in times of poverty, which is to say, all the time. Alright, so my tuna was fresh and seared (i.e. a bit burnt), not canned and flaky; and the vegetables were young and wild, not old and domesticated. But really. What is achieved by such pointless decadence? A big fat turd at the end of the night, that's what.

I don't know what polenta is, but it sounds like something I really ought to try. It's probably a peasant staple in some poverty-stricken African nation, which means by the time it reaches Britain it's pricey and devlishly fashionable. Like Thai rice, blinis and Turkish bulgar cracked-wheat (whatever the f**k that is). Some months ago I watched a news item about some famine somewhere. It contained the usual images of emaciated babies covered in scabs and flies, and I quickly turned it over because, frankly, it was putting me off my dinner. But I remember the reporter describing these little patties made with grain and goat milk, which the peasants would cook on the few occasions there were grain and goats available. And what would you know, I saw these very same things in my local supermarket's organic section only yesterday, priced £2.99/half-kilo. "African Organic Grain Cakes - Made With Real Saharan Goat's Milk", they were called. Underneath was written: "These authentic grain cakes are handmade by starving African orphans in the deadly heat of the Sahara desert. Every last drop of milk is squeezed out of a dying goat to ensure that this product meets the exacting standards of African famine victims. Spread with pate for a delicious savoury snack, or for that truly authentic touch, dunk in a bowl of diseased water before eating." It's important that we learn in such ways from our poorer cousins. They prove it is possible to eat fashionably yet stay thin. The lucky devils, they've got it all and they don+t even know it.

But sometimes you can't beat a bit of lavish Western gluttony. I tell you what I like. Those chocolate eclair thingys. The ones stuffed with the sort of cream that young women look at and say "I shouldn't" before devouring three gallons of the stuff, as though expressing preliminary doubt somehow absolves them from guilt and impending obesity. Americans can't get enough of calorific heart-stopping food. The US is the fattest country in the world, apparently. An obese slobbering glutton of a nation. Well, what do you expect when you're weaned on portions the size of Manhattan? Even breast milk comes in three different flavours with a sprinkling of chocloate on top. Americans also diet more than anyone else-- the US diet industry alone is worth more than most third world countries. But people continue to get fatter. So nobody wins. Except food manufacturers and dieticians. Reams upon reams have been written on how to lose weight when it's blindingly obvious that the crux to slimming is: EAT LESS. But I realise that many of us cannot assimilate such complicated notions and need regimental programs to follow, like some sort of automated moron. So here's my seven day step-by-step guide. The beauty of this programme is that it requires no exercise whatsoever. Indeed, exercise would be quite perilous. Remember: do not deviate or you will die from heart failure.

Monday:	Breakfast: 	Don't eat any.
	Elevensies:	One vitamin pill. 
			Glass of water, if you must.
	Lunch:		Half a peach.
	Dinner:		The other half.
	Before Bed:	Plenty of sleeping pills to 
			help you overcome your 
			gnawing hunger and resultant
			insomnia.

Tues/Wed/Thurs/Fri/Sat/Sun: Repeat

I can guarantee that by week two you will be thin as a pencil.