Jesus, I had a great breakfast this morning, and I combined it with a little shoplifting, which made it even fukken greater.
I refuse to shop in your average Pikey supermarket, especially on a bank holiday Monday when I’m supposed to be relaxing after a hard working week, and so I hit Superquinn. The plan was to pick up a half pound of smoked back rashers and a few mushrooms for the breakfast. Classy, or what? However, Superquinn being a classier-than-average supermarket, doesn’t have just one sort of mushroom. No. It has about fifty different kinds. And some are ordinary mushrooms. And some are brownish. And some are greyish. And some are sort of pink. Ish. Of course, if I’d taken the touble to cultivate an AA-Roadwatch accent, I’d know exactly the difference between these fungi but, being your basic Limerick knacker, I’m in a spot of bother. You see, the mushrooms have two prices: ordinary and gourmet. But the problem is, how to spot the diference? There’s no sign among the mushrooms to tell you which is which.
Right. What am I to deduce from this? The answer seems plain enough: the mini-managers they employ in these outlets have not the slightest idea how to tell one mushroom from another. Of course they don’t, having been brought up on instant Pot-Noodle. They are therefore SNOBS, now that they have a paying job, as are most of the people in this pathetic arriviste statelet, and therefore deeply impressed by anything out of the ordinary, including brown mushrooms. “Oh fuck. That must be the gourmet ones!” (As if you’d know, you little gobshite).
I decide to test this theory and fill up a bag with the brown mushrooms, as I would certainly like to try them out. When I weigh them and press the button, a sticker comes out with some huge, enormous, ridiculous, gigantic price on it, and I instinctively recoil. “Fuck that,” I mutter and in a major act of rebellion, I press the “mushrooms” button on the weighing scale. The sticker comes out a lot cheaper.
What a rebel.
To take my mind off this act of larceny, (or is it fraud?), I pick up a newspaper on the way to the check-out, which I absorb myself in as the pimply youth processes my purchases – a bag of mushrooms and half-a -pound of smoked back rashers. The cost isn’t high, and I happily pay him whatever he asks, secure in the knowledge that I have defrauded Superquinn of the difference between ordinary and gourmet mushrooms.
As I reach the car, I remember that I didn’t put the newspaper through the check-out either.
Yeaaahh!! What a fuckin rebel!!
But to return to the breakfast, do you know what I had? Of course you don’t, but I’m happy to tell you: I had something we don’t see too much of these days and I have to tell you, I fucking love it. Fried bread. Jesus, I love fried bread. Is there anything nicer than fried bread, and if there is you can contact me in heaven? Fried bread, but not with that sliced crap they call bread these days. No. With good old cottage loaf. Fucking delicious. Let me die now, happy.
Fried bread and gourmet mushrooms, now there’s a combination. And of course, real butter. Yes, there’s no doubt I’ll die prematurely from heart failure, but by feck, I’ll die happy. Dee-fuckin-licious.