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Wednesday, July 31, 2013



imagine the scene dear reader.
it is late at night - or early in the morning (all depending on your point of view).
there is a kebab shop open for those denizens of the night who need food, or stuff that passes for food.
the staff have been there for a few hours and they have several more hours to go.
the clients are either out from a club and worse for wear. doing night shift work and worse for wear.

it sells kebabs.
that should tell you all you need to know.

a chap has bought his kebab.
they have cut it from the slab of slowly rotating and crisping meat (or what passes for meat in a place like this). he refuses the chilli sauce, a wise move many would say.
he is offered salad.
what have you got he asks in a rather too posh a voice for the the area and for a kebab shop.
tomato, onion, cucumber, lettuce, red cabbage they tell him,
that's not very good, he says, not much of a choice is it.

being objective he is probably right.

but it is a kebab shop in the middle of the east end and in the middle of the night - it isn't some marco pierre white establishment where they have brought in fresh veg from the foothills of the andes and mixed them with the newly dug roots from central china, while mixing a spice and herb from remotest pakistan.
no it is a fucking kebab shop.
what were you expecting.

a part of me hoped he choked on a bit of onion.

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