Picture the scene: a Saturday morning, a few short hours’ kip after the last of the preceding Friday night’s revelries. A bleary taxi ride with some … interesting corners, and the National Express coach station hoves into view.

(Yes, we’re getting on a coach. A fucking coach. “No, Sir, there aren’t any trains to or from that destination on that route for the whole of the weekend, as there are planned engineering works. [Check me out, planned. Yes. As in ‘irrevocable law of nature’.] No, Sir, none on that route; there are trains going there, but you’ll have to change at fucking Lahore, and you’ll have to go on the stopping service via a shanty town outside Marrakech and the arse-end of Tbilisi. No, Sir, there are no discounts available, suggesting, I imagine, that they’re trying to discourage people from travelling that weekend.” No shit.)

So, a glance, askance, at the facilities. Some fuel is obviously necessary if I’m to get through the next couple of hours, surrounded by entirely uncontrolled screaming toddlers and shit-awful mobile ’phone ring-tones, without suffering severe internal stress; but what shall I find? Something healthy and rejuvenating, perhaps, a restorative gustatory tonic to assist with recovery, to couch against the upcoming onslaught of motorway madness? Some sushi, just some salad, hell, a <splutter> Pret prawn sandwich? Yep, sure. In a dog’s cock.

“OK, I’ll have <wince> an XL Bacon Double Cheeseburger. Yes, fizzy orange, please, the sugar’ll perk me up, I s’pose. No, no chips thanks, I … You what?”

“It’s cheaper with the chips, Sir. £5.43 without the chips, £5.29 with.”

Cheaper with the chips. Cheaper with the chips. It actually costs less money to have a pile of chips than not to have them.

And you, our burghers and leaders, town–, city– and nation–wide, have the staggering audacity to wonder why the place is filling up with bloated, malnourished, yet horrendously overweight shits with pasty faces, ADD, bad skin, bad hair and bad attitudes, forcing their pre-packaged pre-rendered excuses for musical taste into our ever-assailed ears, wherever we go, through whatever latest transistorised diversity-munging gadgets they've queued up to be “subsidised” with by pan-globally profligate product pimps whose sole intention is to keep them feeling sufficiently satisfied with their lots and remaining sufficiently disengaged by your offices from any real involvement with the mechanics of this fragile equilibrium of acquistiveness that they'll continue happily to play their crucial parts in maintaining this seemingly neverending cycle of shite?

I’ll tell you why it’s happening, you cunts - it’s because you cunts allow these untrammelled shitmongers to peddle such piss-poor wares as this “food”, this putrid, nutritionless, poisonous puke, these sweaty little packages of ultimately unsatisfying and ultimately unsatisfactory yet utterly immediate gratification, all over the communities you profess to protect, shamelessly lining them up for the next fix, while shoving laughably meagre percentages of their ill-gotten gains up your greasy arseholes in planning backhanders so that you evil scum can gobble up more of the ever-proliferating, pernicious, rancid turd these conglomerate charlatans stuff down your throats in the vague, dimly-conceived hope that it might raise your vile, egotistical excuses for existences above the level of material achievement that you’ve managed to keep those you ostensibly represent down to. That’s why it’s happening.