What the fucking hell am I supposed to eat? As an adult (ha ha ha ha) I should know by now how to eat properly, shouldn’t I? But I don’t. This modern technological era is stuffed with so much fucking information and uninformation and misinformation and superfoods and evil undigestible foods, probiotics and prebiotics, opinions from people who are expert food eaters and opinions from people who shouldn’t really be allowed such things, doctors and dieticians and Nigella Lawson and other chefs making delicious foods and there is a tag for food porn and how can you not eat that stuff all the time?!?!?!?! It’s left me at a complete and total loss as to what I am supposed to be doing. Evidence supplied below.
I decided I needed a regime change when I found myself in McDonalds one day, putting the chicken nuggets inside the burger and demanding more BBQ sauce. Although I’m not overweight, I felt a growing need to treat my body more like a machine requiring quality fuel than a vessel in training for ingestion of the Dark Lord Satan. So that night, after several bowls of country crisp cereal and at least three lion bars, the research begins.
I embarked on the quest to create my own diet plan, as I didn’t want to do any of those weird things people do like the one where you cut out every carb in existance, or where you stop eating meat (ugh). Just a normal diet for a normal person, one where you aren’t required to source insane hippy-esque ingredients and which wouldn’t require me to give up on living, as counting the calories in everything I ate would only make me want to kill myself. This is the most difficult thing I have ever done ever in my entire life. Ever. Sifting through the insane amount of available information caused me to become one of THOSE people. You know the types. The stage 2.
Now equipped with an insane amount of information about food, and no memory of anything for the past 4 years. Not that it was possible for me to put any of this marvelously useful information into practice, as everything I wanted to eat had some kind of dire health consequence, and all the stuff you’re supposed to be eating is more expensive than bull semen and tastes worse, too. Taking me to a supermarket would take at least two hours. I became unable to buy anything remotely close to being considered essential. Trying to make meals out of blueberries, bananas, lean chicken, lemons and green tea ain’t for the faint of heart. Also, brown rice. I became obsessed with brown rice as my idiot brain was convinced white rice was poison. But brown rice tastes like shit and takes twice the time to cook. Thankfully, I saw sense eventually and went back to the proper curry accompaniment with gusto, but for a month or two there, I embraced the darkness. Bwah.
This insane amount of information started taking over my social life as well. I’d absorbed so much information that it started spilling out into normal conversations. When someone was telling me about a hooker who could shoot a banana from her loveglove to her friend’s mouth, I went on some insane tangent about the radioactivity of the average banana and how there’s a real-life scale based on it called the “banana equivalent”. Naturally, no-one invited me to parties for a while. Couldn’t go to a buffet without having some sort of crisis. Stage 2. Fucking hell. Thankfully, it doesn’t last forever and once I relaxed a bit, everything became a bit more normal.
After trying to deal with eating only the most super of foods, and failing faster than a chocolate fireguard, I slowly started to allow normal food back into my life. Milk and cheese crept in through the cat flap, with bowed heads and avoiding eye contact, promising not to hurt me, and whatever they had done, they were sorry. Bread sent a series of reminders that it was still a thing, and maybe we should get back together, eh? Missed you too, bread. Bacon had been peering at me through the window for days and, before I knew what was going on, beer, vodka and class A drugs kicked down the door like the Glasgow Met, screaming “GET US INSIDE YOU, YOU FUCKING ANIMAL!” Life went from gloriously healthy to just fucking glorious.
Repeat stage 2 and 3 until you forget who you even are.
I wish I knew what this was, but I am still on stage 4. AH! – just kidding. Finally, the balance is restored. Sort of. A very British sort of balance, where from monday morning to friday afternoon you eat and drink and fuck normally. There is a set routine and a boring diet and only missionary or reverse cowgirl positions allowed. You will experience, at least once, the entire week go by on auto-pilot. Then, from friday 1700 hours until monday 0700 hours, it’s a free-for-all-anything-goes-let’s-‘ave-it-all-out-frenzy. See me swan dive into a bowl of chilli nachos and wash it down with a pint of bacon double cheeseburger and a bottle of sticky toffee pudding. Pizza slut for breakfast. 48 hours of doggy style. Snorting the salt with tequila shots. Was that really salt? Hallucinogenics, motherfucker. Pouring vast quantities of maple syrup all over my body and absorbing it through my skin. Frying french toast in bacon grease. Using lard for lubricant. Christmas dinner every sunday. Chicken fried church. Booze. So much fucking booze. Whatever you puke up can be replaced with the hangover breakfast. Full english with double everything and a bowl of chips on top. Swap that fried tomato for extra baked beans. Coffee with 5 sugars and whipped cream. I don’t even fucking like coffee, I just wanted to eat the cream. In fact, just bring me the can of whipped cream and I will unload the entire fucking thing into my mouth. Oh, Satan! Halleluja!