“Is there a twenty pound note in this bag?” proclaimed the flash on the front of the crisp bag. Well, was there? I don’t care – what the flash should say is “Are there any fucking crisps in this bag?”, and the answer to that was “barely”. Oh the bag looks big and puffy and stuffed full of crispy goodness, but when you open it and there’s a sudden outrush of pressurised air, all that’s left is a little herd of crisps stuffed in the bottom of the bag beside a dirty great card saying “fuck off loser, no twenty quid for you but here’s a voucher for another bag of pressurised air”.
If they vaccuum packed em instead of going down the puffy bag route, they’d end up the size of a bloody oxo cube! Mined ewe, that wouldn’t be so bad – teensy little snack cubes – multipacks would be a damn sight easier to carry – how many times have I wrestled a dirty great box of fucking AIR into the back of my car? Too bloody many.
The other thing that pisses me off about them (except the recursive “here’s a twenty, oh no it’s another bag of sodding crisps” thing) is the flavour claims. Smokey Bacon my arse. I’ve tasted smokey bacon and it tastes bugger all like bacon crisps. And what about the poncy new pseud flavours aimed at yuppies and new media types? Can you imagine standing in a pub and asking for a packet of “cream cheese and chives” or “rock salt and bavarian sandmonkey”? For fuck’s sake! “oh I say, Farquar! Have you tasted those Quails tongue and Walrus tusk crisps? They’re simply delightful!”
If you came out with that in any of the pubs around here you’d be up to your eyes in chib wielding Neds and Chavs before you could say “pikey-bait”.
FUCK OFF! What the hell’s the matter with Ready Bloody Salted, eh? Basts!
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