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It’s Saturday night.  Whatshername is out, leaving me alone in the house.  I’d make burgers, I’d decided.  Chilli burgers, in preparation for a chilli burger-making competition (no, really).  Two burgers: 500g of minced lamb, plus secret ingredients (I’ll tell you specifics after I’ve won the competition, as I know at least one of my rivals reads this thrilling and informative blog).  That’s slightly more than two quarter-pounders’ worth of meat.  That’s plenty enough for anyone’s tea, yes?

At the end of last week I came up with a plan: to eat smaller meals and less carbs.  Our bodies crave carbs, because carbs give us energy.  The Atkins diet works by starving the body of carbs, which in turn forces the body to use up fat reserves and lose weight.  I’m not advocating the Atkins diet because I don’t think long-term it’s a good way to lose weight, but the theory holds true.  Instead of cutting out carbs altogether, just cut back on them.  This is what I’d decided to do.

 

I would put each burger in a bap, I decided.  A bap, a roll, a cob; whatever you want to call it.  I’d call it a cob but I’m also open minded enough to accept that this may confuse other people who refer to a cob as a specific type of roll.  (For example, I’m not the type of bell-end who joins a facebook group called, “Its called a F***ing Cob! Not a bap, or a role [sic], its a COB!!!!”)  So, two cobs would tick the carbohydrate element of this particular meal.

So, to recap, two burgers totalling circa half a pound in weight, in two lovely soft white baps.  Plenty enough for my tea, especially when washed down with six bottles of Peroni.  But then I committed a cardinal sin.  A schoolboy error.  And the lesson which I already knew but which was reiterated to me on Saturday night is thus:

NEVER GO SHOPPING WHEN YOU’RE HUNGRY

Whilst shopping whilst hungry I decided I would have some chips to accompany my burger.  I couldn’t buy a bag of frozen oven chips, because I knew at some point in the near future I’d have to endure something like the following conversation:

Whatshername: Why is there a half-eaten bag of chips in the freezer?

Me: I bought some chips on Saturday night.

Whatshername: Chips? You’re supposed to be on a diet.  You’re never going to lose weight and on and on and on and on and on and on

 

And she’d be right.  Burgers in cobs and chips is exactly the type of thing I should avoid.  And whether it’s the freaking weekend (quote: R Kelly) or not, it’s the type of thing I should be trying to cut out.

But anyway, once I’d got the idea of chips in my head, there was no turning back.  I could buy potatoes, I thought.  Some Maris Piper ‘best for roasties’ potatoes, and make my own chips…  but proper chips take ages in the oven, and they make the house and everything in it smell of chips, which whatshername would smell like a bloodhound from three miles away.  There was really only one thing for it.  The chippy.  The trusty Great British institution that is the bloody chip shop.

I love our local chippy.  It’s only a five minute walk away, and more importantly they do great fish and chips.  Very occasionally (although not for a while) we get fish and chips from there, as a Friday tea treat perhaps, and we always argue about the size of the chips we get.  I think a regular bag of chips is about right for two people (one of whom, remember, is a gluttonous bastard).  Whatshername thinks a small bag is fine for the pair of us to share.  Whilst I’m tempted to agree with her, I remember one time we ordered a small bag and it wasn’t enough.  That night still haunts me.  If a trip to the chippy is — as it usually is — a treat, then I want more, not less, than I strictly need.

So, to bring us up to speed; it’s Saturday night, I’ve made two burgers which are ready to grill, and I’m going to the chippy for a bag of chips.  I fancied a regular bag to myself, but then I thought no, I should just have a small bag.  A SMALL BAG IS PLENTY a voice screamed inside my head.  A REGULAR BAG IS TOO MUCH FOR TWO PEOPLE YOU MASSIVE TWAT, it went on.  A louder, more persuasive voice told me to stop being such a girl and just buy a regular bags of chips. 

I made a decision.  I would walk in and ask for “a bag of chips.”  If asked for clarification re the size of the bag, I would say small.  If not asked I would just accept what I was given (usually when they don’t ask, they just give you regular).  This is what I’d do.  I’d let The Chippy Woman decide for me.  (She’s obviously far more qualified in the field of nutrition.)

So, I put the grill on to warm up, donned my lovely warm coat, and marched to the chippy.  After watching some fat bastard (and I realise the irony of me saying that) place a fucking ridiculous order (which, I decided, was all for him), I walked to the counter and asked for a bag of chips.

“Small or regular?” The Chippy Woman asked.

Without a second’s hesitation: “Regular please.”

 

 
And I ate the lot, despite feeling ridiculously full and then, a bit later, quite sick.

I really am a knobhead.