Armageddon In Suffolk
The world is ending, and it’s kicking off in Suffolk, that’s right Suffolk. I blame myself entirely. And Bernard “from Norfolk” Matthews.
In case there is anyone who isn’t a regular here, I am a Suffolk yokel who happens to work in the filthy crime-ridden pit of unpleasantness that is Surrey during the week. For those outside the UK, that means just north of London (Suffolk) versus just south of London (Surrey).
For the past 6 years I have been gloating to my Surrey-afflicted chums how Suffolk is the greatest part of the country with its marvellous coastline, low house prices, great eductation and fabulously low crime. Seriously, if ever there was a poster-child for Suffolk it’d be me with a buddy-Christ style thumbs up expression.
My motto, until recently, was “Suffolk, safest place in the country. The rest of you suck.”
It seems, however, that my abilities to affect the cosmos are better than I originally anticipated since now, for the second time in three months I have to change my slogan.
Three months ago, or thereabouts, there was a well-publicised serial killer in Ipswich (yes, that’s in Suffolk) who was offing prostitutes at a rate of knots, which shot my previous sentiment full of corpse-shaped holes. The revision became :
“Suffolk, the safest place in the country. Unless you happen to be a prostitute.”
It wasn’t ideal, but I felt that pretending all was well would be doing wrong to a county comprised mainly of fields, coastline and some fairly cruddy towns.
So this weekend, once again, the statement requires further revision because lo and behold the dreaded “we’re all gonna die” bird flu has arrived in the north of the county. Now the advertising spiel reads :
“Suffolk. Safest part of the country. Unless you’re a prostitute. Or anywhere near birds.”
For fuck’s sake.
However, there is something sinister at play here. And those who know me will recognise instantly what I’m driving at when I mention two words. Two words which drive fear and loathing into the hearts of gastronomic experts and turkeys alike :
Bernard Fucking Matthews
For those not in the know Mr Matthews is the purveyor of multitudes of reconstituted poultry products which he describes as “bootiful” with the rest of the country describing as “crap”, “cheap” and “I can’t believe it’s not chicken”.
Mr Matthews’ organisation is based in… wait for it… Norfolk.
That’s right. He doesn’t infect his own county with the deadly, yet overhyped, mass extinction plague of the birds does he? Oh no. He infects Suffolk, because he knows we are far superior to the inbred Norfolkers, so figures the only way to win the game is to kill us off using his cardboard fowl (or is that foul?) produce.
I am moving towards a time where I will declare war on Norfolk. Them and their “you can have my turnip when you prise it from my cold dead hands – with its six fingers.”
Bastards.
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