Last week sometime, I had to pop and do some shopping into my local supermarket and so, after a protracted time spent fondling nets of Satsumas and trying to decipher the ‘best before’ dates on half cucumbers and round lettuces, a sit down at my local cafe seemed the perfect remedy. Finding an empty table inside, I ordered a cup of coffee and a bacon butty from the young girl behind the counter and then sat down to peruse the morning paper I’d picked-up while shopping. As I begin to scan the pages, I became aware of two lads sat just across from me and they epitomised the appearance of the poverty-stricken youth of today: each was wearing a dark, hooded jacket, shell bottoms and trainers, with shaven heads finishing off the look. They must have been aged in their late teens or early twenties at a push and one of them was telling a profanity-laden story whilst the other one listened, nonchalantly.
With the power of today’s media, there always appears to be a new way of dredging slutch from the bottom of the consumer barrel via some ad-agency’s latest idea, presumably thought up by their newest, hippest and Twittering whizz-kid, which is then patted into a mould and crammed down our wanton throats. From this month comes a duo of semi-hardened sculptures of slop – their thin Crème Brule crusts straining to contain their fetid stench – that are the latest exponents from Kingsmill the bread maker entitled “Kingsmill Confessions”; a collection of jovial little 10 second snippets that revel in the concept of Humanity’s Selfish Gene and its unerring, primordial urge to look after oneself above all else.