Chips, change & brown paper scrotums - how our chips make us an international disgrace
Hot chips. Mmmmm yeah.
From the time you begin scraping up your change, right up until the point your flatmate busts you on all fours looking for that chip that fell under the couch, hot chips are a champion feed guaranteed to impress the gang. But they offer so much more than a quick hit of bachelor chow. Hot chips provide, surprisingly, a barometer of overall social health so exact it goes to the seventh place after the decimal point and as we shriek in delight while our planet careens out-of-control into something pretty fucking hard, our chip rations have shrunk to the point it’s just not worth it any more. It’s a national disgrace and if we rise as one to overthrow our masters for better chip rations, well, every society has to end somewhere I guess.
Bear with me. When I was a kid, the world was pretty cool. Sure, you had your Craig MacLachlans and your Marky Marks, but you also had your It’s a Knockout and your hot pink happy pants. Hang on. The world sucked when I was a kid. But a mere $2 would get you a sack of chips so big you felt bad dragging it backwards out of the chip shop door. Once, my dad went for $4 worth and it was a family event. He kind of announced it to dead silence – we tagged along just to see if he would really do it. He did, and it was the single most heroic act ever witnessed by anyone ever. I though that kind of bravery was gunned down on the beaches at Normandy, and it was formative indeed to see him storm the cholesterol trenches on our behalf. The resulting mound of chips was so huge it became sentient by virtue of raw mass. At one point, it began attacking the cat and we were all too full to do anything about it. I miss Puss.
Clearly, the world at that point had much to learn about mass entertainment and fashion sense, but had a lot to teach about feeding the population, and feeding them like you gave a shit. My, how things change. The world is now shifty and uneasy, greedy and more than a bit underhanded. So, what’s changed on the chip front? Well, spuds are still basically free. So is cooking oil, especially in commercial quantities. The chip shop attendants are still on a Dickensean junior wage and the place still looks and smells as slipshod as it always did. But the chips are now so goddamn expensive you might as well chop up some spuds and fry them yourself. Sauce in a sachet, battery farmed chicken salt, what’s happened to the Wide Brown Land, I ask you.
I’m so angry right now.
This attack on our national character has taken many forms and worn many masks, but probably the most insidious development has been the ‘bag’ of chips. All a bag is, is a proper chip pack missing one end so they can fit less in. Gone are the swathes of spotted, off white paper. In is the untrustworthy brown paper scrotum that looks like you’re hiding a mini bottle of top shelf. Without exception, your $2.50 minimum spend will get you one of these highfalutin ‘bag’ contraptions. You’re lucky if they fill it and heaven help you if you ask for sauce. Back when the world sucked less, minimum spend was a relative thing and the lady would just hand you the Heinz with a grin and a wink.
At times like this, I remember that incident with dad, how proud I felt of him and me and the heroic men who manned the fryers. My children will never feel the same joy and it’s nothing short of a national disgrace. We must reclaim the chip; seize it back from the petty bourgeoisie and stiff necked kulaks who smother the fruits of our toil with oily dreams and beady eyes. Together, we can dissolve the state and deliver the means of chip production back in the glorious, work stained hands of their rightful owners.
It’s high time, because I know I’m fast running out of ideas for the side dish option.
