Friday, 11 August 2017

The Egg and Cress War Looms.

Did you know that the Dutch are trying to poison all us Europeans with eggs contaminated with something called fibronil? There have been headlines, product recalls and gnashing of gums from the Arran Islands to Ankara. And do you further realise what this means for me personally? It means that I might be unable to purchase my favoured egg and cress lunchtime sandwich from Sainsbury’s next week.

Should I complain to the manager, I ask myself (which is what I frequently do in Sainsbury’s.)

‘Excuse me, my good man (because we British are very polite when we complain.) Why are your chiller shelves bereft of egg and cress sandwiches?’

‘Don’t blame me, mate. Blame the Dutch.’

‘Do you know of any such persons of Low Country provenance in the vicinity?’

‘Erm… no.’

‘Very well. This calls for drastic measures.’

And then I would have to go into the car park and look for a car with NL on the number plate, and the steering wheel in the wrong place, and wait with patient determination for the owners to make their return. And then I would have to accost them with:

‘Excuse me, my good Dutchman (because we British are even more polite to foreigners, just to show them how fabulous we are and how fabulous they could also be if only they would care to emulate us.) What do you mean by contaminating our fair ovoid fare? (That’s to confuse them with a neat little homophone which will cause confusion and give me the upper hand.) Do you have no care at all that I have been forced to consume the less favoured cheese and onion today? What have you to say for yourself? I think you’re a bounder, sir, and I’ve a good mind to biff you on the nose.’ (Unless it was a woman, of course, because we don’t call women sir.)

And then the Dutchman (or woman) would give me whatever look passes for askance in the Low Countries and shrug the shrug of non-comprehension. (At which point I would have the presence of mind not to assume that he or she was French because we British expect all persons domiciled south and east of the Channel to shrug when they’re losing the argument.)

And where would all this lead, you might ask. And well you might. Trump’s got nothing on me when I’m roused, you know.

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