Say Neigh To Processed Food

I can remember when Kentucky Fried Chicken was a novelty. Yes, I am over fifty years old and can also recall when most people I knew didn't have a telephone. This may make me a bit sad. And I'm not trying to add to The Four Yorkshire Men Sketch with a variation on I-grew-up-in-a-cardboard-box, but it's interesting that I feel the need to point that out. More on this ingrained societal pressure, a few thoughts later.  

In my early teens, KFC's advertised assertion that their product is finger-licking-good is believed by me, because it turns out to be true when I have enough money to buy some. It even seems exotic and occasional leads to envy.

For instance: I go to a disco. (Once again, I am over fifty, so please excuse the antiquated language when refereeing to teenage enjoyment.) This takes place in the bar/lounge of the local airport – a useful addition to the town that will eventually bear the weight of a housing estate for some bizarre reason – and I am having a great time. So great, in fact, I discover I have missed my last bus. This means a walk of at least three miles, maybe four. So I decide to shorten the time I'll take and start jogging home. (I'm eighteen. I'm fit. I'm still doing stupid things.)

Half-an-hour later and I reluctantly run past someone who is eating a KFC. The smell is delicious. Just as I'm trying to stifle the rumble in my stomach, I'm called back. The person turns out to be none other than my best friend from school. We did everything together. Nearly blood brothers.

He doesn't offer me any.

So much for friends. Perhaps that's when the rot set in with me and fried chicken.

Today, you'll have to force me through the doors at gun-point if you want to see me eat anything available from KFC. Let's be clear: I am of the opinion that if it stays down, doesn't do you any harm, and contributes in some little way to your physical well-being as nourishment, then I'll call it food and I'll consume it if I need to survive. But, years later, I have a conversation with someone whose fiancé works in one of the local outlets. She makes some allegations about the quality of the meat, that I am not going to repeat here, which will give me pause in my future – even when I'm drunk and needing some staggering-home munchies.

And doesn't that last paragraph under-pin this debacle about horsemeat? I could tell you what she said, but part of me is nervous of attracting lawyers acting for The Colonel who might stumble upon these words and consider bringing a case of libel for denting their profits in some miniscule way. Isn't that paranoid? Or sensible? For when we buy an extremely cheap product, we still trust the manufacturer to be honest about what is in it. Or, at least, expect someone in authority to monitor it on out behalf. Because that is the ingrained social pressure we are brought up on: trust those who have more power than us, even when we suspect they are stiffing us.

I'm having steak tonight. What animal it's from may be up for debate. As long as it stays down, doesn't do me any harm and leaves me satisfied, I'll call it food.

Bon appetite.

 

Don't do stupid – it's just not clever.