Take It Away!
Takeaways aren't something I go in for a lot - largely for health reasons, (they are usually bloody unhealthy) - but occasionally I indulge myself with something suitably greasy and non-nutritious. Usually when, like yesterday, I get back home after a long drive, after an active day out, and feel that I can't be arsed to cook anything. So it was that I found myself at the counter of a local takeaway specialising in post-pub fare like kebabs, but where, nonetheless, I've always found the food of excellent quality, ordering some chicken and chips. This is where it all started going wrong as I realised that I'd ordered the wrong chicken - I actually wanted the nuggets - but the guy had already stuck it in the fryer and - being British - I was too polite to say anything. But what the heck, I thought, chicken is chicken, isn't it? A thought which lasted until I got home and opened the carton. I don't know what is was about its contents, whether it was the sight or smell, or some combination of both, but I immediately found myself gagging and just knew that I wouldn't be able to eat it. To be fair, I did try to cut off a piece to try and taste it, in the hope that I could digest it in small portions, but none of my cutlery could make a dent in it. For some reason, that 'chicken' nauseated me so much, was just so repugnant, that I just knew that I didn't want it in the house, not even in the kitchen bin. So, I decided to stick it outside the backdoor, thinking that maybe either the local rats or cats would eat it.
I did decide to give the chips a go, but they were definitely sub-standard too - some burned, others barely cooked. I ended up throwing a fair proportion of them in the bin and found myself forced to cook something anyway. But I couldn't stop thinking about that 'chicken' out in the back garden. I mean, not even rats deserve to be exposed to the risk of food poisoning and while the only cat on the terrace at present holds a grudge against me, (it's a long story), I still wouldn't wish any harm on the furry bastard. Worse still, one of the local urban foxes who sometimes put in appearances might eat it and I really couldn't face going out the next morning and finding a fox slumped against the wall of the alley at the end of the terrace, in a pool of its own vomit, groaning, 'Shoot me, please. For pity's sake, just shoot me.' I mean, I'd have had the RSPCA trying to prosecute me for animal cruelty, for sure. So, I went back out and retrieved the 'chicken'. It was completely unscathed - not even the rats had touched it. From which we can safely conclude that they aren't cannibals. But I still didn't want it in the house. In fact, I didn't want it anywhere near my house. So, having packaged it all up in the carton, I took it down to the nearest rubbish bin and dumped it there. I was half expecting to see a load of guys in Hazmat suits cordoning it off this morning, but it apparently hasn't been found yet. Either that, or it crawled out under its own volition and even as I write this, is lurking in the drains. I'm not sure what the moral of all this is, other than that I have to strike another takeaway off the list, as it has clearly taken a catastrophic dip in standards and now relies on the fact that its clientele are all drunk and will blame any ill effects on those ten pints of cheap lager they had at Wetherspoons. I'm still sore at the money I wasted on that inedible takeaway, but at least I didn't eat it. Even so, just thinking about it still makes me nauseous.

