Perhaps it is Time to Re-Consider the Parsnips

Now that the aardvarks of our night-time jelly baby-inspired manoeuvrings across the car parks of our deepest desires have grown stale, flat and unprofitable, perhaps it is time to re-consider the parsnips. At least, in as far as making sure the diversity-outreach co-ordinators of our very souls have ticked at least 80% of the necessary boxes on their compliance forms.

After all, we would not want to be found out there, facing down a wild, untamed supermarket trolley without the solid re-assurance of correctly filled-in and filed paperwork, would we? Else, that way, anarchy lies, and our Cornish pasties themselves would have their very integrity brought into question in the investigations and official inquiries that are bound to follow such wanton disregard for the correct way of going about these things.

However, as I was applying fresh cream to the underside of my checkout assistant last night I was reminded of those oh-so-famous last words of Major Peregrine ‘Lemon’ Meringue at the battle of Teasmade, in the closing stages of Peninsular war. When told he was fatally wounded and would never return home to see again the family’s infamous collection of late Medieval bicycle clips, he called for his trusty Lieutenant and said, immediately before expiring there on the battlefield, these famous last words: ‘Oh, bollocks.’