A Poultry Post

It's been a while since I went on a full-on, no-holds-barred rant about something. I'd like to think like a sedated pensioner, I've been fairly calm and cool about life (well, on this blog at least) for the last couple of months. Now I'm angry, and Daniel needs a target to vent his anger and frustration at. Like a very stereotypical shooting game, my crosshairs have ended up pointed at chicken.

Not just any old chicken. Chicken served in a Portuguese 'restaurant' smothered in Peri-Peri sauce.

What's known as 'cheeky advertising'...

I remember the first time I went to Nandos. It wasn't exactly like the first time I heard The Beatles, but it came fairly close. The fact there were no sodding waiters you had to empty out the coppers in your wallet just to scramble together a meaningful tip for; unlimited amount of soft drinks so you had the sugar levels of a psychotic diabetic and very nice chicken-themed food.

In the same way I practically blew my load the first time I played on a Wii, I was in love with a new place to eat. However, the Wii has been sat in the corner of the room collecting dust for months now, and like Nintendo's shiny white exercise machine, I have fallen out of love with Nandos too. Why you may ask? Well, prepare for a barrage of unsupported reasons and a shit load of unnecessary metaphors.

As far as stereotypical American university-campus cliques go, the preppies have to be the worst. Flashing cash, wearing rugby shirts when all they know of hookers is what their mother does after she's finished making dinner out of a pheasant and gold-plated potatoes. They're just god awful people. I've never come face-to-face with a hardline extremist preppy, but I've seen enough Super Sweet 16 to know they're spoilt twats with far more money than sense.

And this is what Nando's feels like. It feels preppy. But accepting preppy. Not like the Bullingdon Club at Oxford where you have to be a Tory with a chequebook bigger than Margaret Thatcher's nose. Accepting of everyone. In other words, the worst type of the worst clique going.

It's fucking KFC for fucks sake. Its taken me a few goes at Nando's to realise, but it is just essentially posh fast food. The way the waiters and waitresses glare at you if you're sat around at your table longer than is necessary to finish your over-priced chicken, the way the menu comprises of three different items, the way you're sat so close to other people you feel like a battery hen. Oh look, more fucking chicken.

The first two times I was blinded by sheer wonder and didn't really notice the prices. I callously shoved my card in the machine and that was it. The other day I had a chicken wrap (it was the size of a 50 pence piece), some chips and corn on the cob. ELEVEN POUND. For the privilege of not having wrapped in a KFC wrapper. The day I have to reach into my wallet and get more money out because a Tenner is not enough for chicken, chips and bloody sweetcorn is the day I start buying shares in poultry. The word ludicrous doesn't even come close.

And now we have all these 'wannabe-preppy' food outlets popping up all over the shop. Gourmet Burger Kitchen, or as it's more commonly known, McDonalds without the wacky colours and creepy mascot. The only time I've ever been in there was earlier this year. I sat down, observed the menu, realised chips were not included in the biblical prices and so swiftly left before the waiter could steal my entire bank account asking what we'd like to drink.

I hate these stupid sorry excuses for food outlets. I refuse to call them restaurants because they aren't. They're just fast food outlets wrapped in fancy buildings. It's like taking a teen from a council estate and chucking him through a high-class fashion chain like, I dunno, Burberry. A once-well respected fashion outlet is now as chavvy and low-rent as the Ford Escort-driving scallywags who wear it. And with Nando's it's the same. Once a very nice chicken-themed place to eat. Now a food outlet where there is just as much grease on the customers as there is on the food. All in the name of profit margins. Well done chicken men, you've sold your soul to the devil and sealed the deal with a peri-peri chicken wing.

Despite all this, my god is the food bloody tasty.