What’s underrated is going really uncomfortable things ahead of doing something quite good to make the second thing seem even better.
I went to watch The Charlatans at Delamere Forest today. Today was – and I’m not a meteorologist, so this might not be the appropriate term – fucking really hot. The mode of travel for getting from Manchester to wherever Delamere Forest is was a coach. There are amazing coaches about these days, they have TVs and air conditioning; they have leg room and comfy seats. We were on one of those coaches from 20 years ago – the ones which has cheap, abrasive carpet covering every surface. The kind of coach that has air conditioning in the form of those little round things you turn – like you have on planes (but planes are cool so it doesn’t really matter).
It was pretty hot on the coach. That was an understatement. It was very hot. Look at the sweat on the arm of the passenger sat next to me.
“Can I have chips, gravy and mushy peas, please?” I asked as though it were the most natural thing in the world. This is later, I have arrived at Delamere Forest by now and am looking to soak up some pints of lager beer. I didn’t actually say the ‘can I have’ bit at the beginning. I don’t know why I wrote that I did. An attempt to appear more polite than I really am?
The point isn’t how polite I was it’s that bit at the end. I wilfully asked for mushy peas. I don’t fucking like mushy peas. So why was I ordering them? It turns out that I’ve been left out of the decision making process regarding whether I do or don’t like mushy peas. In the last year or so I’ve definitely had them on one or two occasions. But, for 34 years I haven’t had them much more than that. I blame people making me try nice pies in up-themselves-pubs that serve food (making me try= getting something while they are with me and me also doing it because I am easily prone to suggestion).
After I had ordered the mushy peas I realised I was – after the initial shock – essentially fine with the decision made by the rest of me to begin liking mushy peas. I wonder when the decision was taken and who had the final say. Was my nose involved? Did my ears listen to reason? Did my hair have a say?
So, now you know: you can serve me mushy peas*.
*Let’s not go over the top about this. I am quite into fads and hammering something when I like it a little bit to the point where I grow so sick and tired of the taste that never eat it again.