I went to a cafe the other day for fried egg on toast.
I should have known it wouldn’t have been just a fried egg on stodgy white when I walked into the place. It was one of those terrible, trendy cafes that puts the word “Artisan” in front of everything.
Artisan loo roll in the bogs.
I’d made the mistake of going for breakfast with a colleague of mine who wears plain glass, black rimmed glasses and skin tight jeans because he thinks they look cool. So of course it was going to be an artisan wank fest.
My egg on toast arrived.
It was a fried duck egg on sourdough bread. Horrifying enough in itself, but the bread was spread with a thick layer of slimy, tasteless mashed avocado.
I almost cried.
I’ve always been more of a “McDonalds and an early death” kind of person than someone who enjoys avocados. I think that if I am run over by a bus tomorrow, I’d rather go out eating a cheeseburger than lay dying on the pavement with a washboard stomach and taught abs.
The trouble is, when you eat like that all the time, you get fat.
I got fat. Fucking lovely, bastard McDonalds.
So now I have a whole heap of well meaning people trying to help me be not fat again, because my God, I moan about it. One of the things they keep going on about is fucking avocados, like they are the cure for obesity and all the wars in the world.
It’s almost like a competition to see if they can out do each other with who can pack the most avocados into their week; slathering it on carb free bread or putting it into disgusting green smoothies that look like they have been scrapped from the underneath of a manhole cover.
Yes, good for you. You and your unclogged arteries will no doubt live longer than me, but I will never join you in your love for green slime.
So I am going on a diet where I get to drink a chocolate milkshake (meal replacement, not McDonalds, sadly) three times a day with no avocados or green juices in sight.