Open your minds plebs and let my paint of knowledge create art on your canvas of ignorance.
Pictured: Your stupid brain.
It's a Saturday night, you're in the town centre with friends, or at least you think you are, you can't quite remember. As the red haze of drunkenness clouds your vision, and you proclaim your love to the seventeenth stranger that night, you feel something in the back of your mind, something primal, instinct.
Even the cats are pissed, when was the last time you saw a drunk cat? Never. That's how drunk you are.
As you stumble through town, possibly through a field, maybe even an abattoir, you don't know, all you know is that alcohol poisoning is setting in. Your mouth is dry, your stomach is churning worse than that time you ate the mystery meat at that one restaurant you went to.
You need help, and fast, you know you can't handle another stomach pump, not after the last time, you can't handle all the disapproving eyes again. A white hot thought seers through your mind, and you now know what must be done. You stumble through the town/field/abattoir, the point of no return is closing in, you feel all hope drain from you, which will be shortly followed by all the other fluids of your body.
You finally see it, on the horizon, a place of hope, a place of recovery...
Greenwich? How the bloody hell did I get here? And why is it Christmas?
The Great British Food God has heard your drunken ramblings for mercy and has found you deserving. He has given you the only cure for irresponsible drinking.
He has given you...
Vertical meat.
Through the wonders of miraculous food science, it has been scientifically proven by science that the only way to treat the onset of severe alcohol poison is through the immediate consumption of the healthiest food known to man. Doner Kebab.
Now, I know what you're thinking, you're thinking, 'But Daystar, you seismic mass of manliness, doner kebab is Turkish, what has this got to with British food?'.
That's a good question, my fragrant ferret, and I have the answer.
The Turkish come from Turkey, and as we all know, Turkey was named after the bird, which pre-dates the country by eleventy thousand years. turkey is a bird that Americans eat at Thanksgiving, America was a British colony, ergo, kebab is British.
True story.
Have you ever seen a more British moustache?
You stumble into the kebab shop and rest your chin on the counter. The chef takes one look at you and nods knowingly, he knows what you need, and with twinkle in his eye, he shaves the mighy vertical meat.
Yeah, that's right.
Shaves.
It's like he's shaving the face of deliciousness.
The chef gathers the delicious shavings and places them in a pita bread, adding a handful of salad (how else will you keep that figure?). You hand him an unknown amount of money, you don't care, money is inconsequential, you need the man face meat shavings.
He hands you the kebab, along with £45 in change.
The face of meat.
You take a bite of the kebab and your senses are overwhelmed. A taste explosion on your vomit stained tongue.
You feel the magic, as a litres of fat enter your stomach, neutralising the alcohol, you feel better already, with a grumble, you thank the moustachioed chef and head in the direction you think is home.
You wake up the next day, your face smeared with grease, the sun shining in your face, you're not at home, you're on a bench, but you're still alive.
Alive enough to do it all again next week.
Thank you doner kebab.
You're a hero.
Pictured: Your stupid brain.
It's a Saturday night, you're in the town centre with friends, or at least you think you are, you can't quite remember. As the red haze of drunkenness clouds your vision, and you proclaim your love to the seventeenth stranger that night, you feel something in the back of your mind, something primal, instinct.
Even the cats are pissed, when was the last time you saw a drunk cat? Never. That's how drunk you are.
As you stumble through town, possibly through a field, maybe even an abattoir, you don't know, all you know is that alcohol poisoning is setting in. Your mouth is dry, your stomach is churning worse than that time you ate the mystery meat at that one restaurant you went to.
You need help, and fast, you know you can't handle another stomach pump, not after the last time, you can't handle all the disapproving eyes again. A white hot thought seers through your mind, and you now know what must be done. You stumble through the town/field/abattoir, the point of no return is closing in, you feel all hope drain from you, which will be shortly followed by all the other fluids of your body.
You finally see it, on the horizon, a place of hope, a place of recovery...
Greenwich? How the bloody hell did I get here? And why is it Christmas?
The Great British Food God has heard your drunken ramblings for mercy and has found you deserving. He has given you the only cure for irresponsible drinking.
He has given you...
Vertical meat.
Through the wonders of miraculous food science, it has been scientifically proven by science that the only way to treat the onset of severe alcohol poison is through the immediate consumption of the healthiest food known to man. Doner Kebab.
Now, I know what you're thinking, you're thinking, 'But Daystar, you seismic mass of manliness, doner kebab is Turkish, what has this got to with British food?'.
That's a good question, my fragrant ferret, and I have the answer.
The Turkish come from Turkey, and as we all know, Turkey was named after the bird, which pre-dates the country by eleventy thousand years. turkey is a bird that Americans eat at Thanksgiving, America was a British colony, ergo, kebab is British.
True story.
Have you ever seen a more British moustache?
You stumble into the kebab shop and rest your chin on the counter. The chef takes one look at you and nods knowingly, he knows what you need, and with twinkle in his eye, he shaves the mighy vertical meat.
Yeah, that's right.
Shaves.
It's like he's shaving the face of deliciousness.
The chef gathers the delicious shavings and places them in a pita bread, adding a handful of salad (how else will you keep that figure?). You hand him an unknown amount of money, you don't care, money is inconsequential, you need the man face meat shavings.
He hands you the kebab, along with £45 in change.
The face of meat.
You take a bite of the kebab and your senses are overwhelmed. A taste explosion on your vomit stained tongue.
You feel the magic, as a litres of fat enter your stomach, neutralising the alcohol, you feel better already, with a grumble, you thank the moustachioed chef and head in the direction you think is home.
You wake up the next day, your face smeared with grease, the sun shining in your face, you're not at home, you're on a bench, but you're still alive.
Alive enough to do it all again next week.
Thank you doner kebab.
You're a hero.
