A Double Whopper with Cheese, and a full-fat Coke.
Just a small gesture. A little token resistance. Probably not a big deal in the grand scheme of things. But today it just felt good to do something bad.
And believe me, I’ve been really good. I’ve towed the line. I’ve done as I’m told. I’ve swallowed the medicine. Even the really bad medicine. I’ve stuck to the schedule. Followed the diet.
It hasn’t been easy
I hate being told what to do. Always have. I’ve absolutely no idea where it comes from. But ask anyone I’ve ever worked for. Tell me to Zig, and I’ll Zag. Guaranteed. Not in an angry, belligerent or confrontational way, but quietly and in my own time. I like to work things out for myself, and discover my own truths, even if it means reinventing the wheel more than once.Taking things on faith has never been my style.
The trouble with orthodoxy and prescribed wisdom is it’s all just a bit too easy. That doesn’t necessarily make it wrong. Just a bit… well, unsatisfying. Convenient but unsubstantial. Like fast food.
So back to the burger. Was it a revelation. An epiphany. A religious experience?
Not really no.
But it was pretty damn good.
Two limp, allegedly beef related patties, glistening alluringly with saturated fats and processed cheese the colour of custard, thrust between the flabby white cheeks of a sweaty sesame seed bum. Gherkins, onion, tomato relish and mayo. The token soggy lettuce leaf which I carefully removed. Plenty of time for lettuce, I’m only interested in the truly bad stuff today.
Yes it was good. In that cloying, guilty, slightly sordid way that junk food is meant to be. But ultimately, this wasn’t about the burger. It was partly about a little act of willful dissent, but mostly I think, about spending twenty minutes in the convivial company of fifty other unreconstructed hedonists. All happily abusing their digestive systems and clogging their arteries in the safe and certain knowledge that bad things always happen to someone else, and that they will all live to enjoy their ketchup-stained spare tires and pudgy grandchildren in guilt free repose.