It's not work food unless it's more grease than protein

Well, clearly, with the death of Nelson Mandela the only thing left now to do is to look over his life, his achievements, the controversy, his place in the world and-

-wait.

I did a serious-ish post last week. So this week it's a silly week. Phew!

Oh thank god. That topic was going to require actual research and effort. And there was no way I was going to be able to handle the death of such a momentous person without seriously stepping up my game, so we'll pass on it.

Today we'll take about the weakness of work food.

You know, it should be something simple to get correct. You have workers. They get hungry. You have a place to serve them food. But I've never worked in a place where it's one hundred percent. The one I go to now is the best I've ever had, but there's still a couple of items on the menu I'd only suggest to the brave and foolhardy. They're also not the greatest regarding timing - you're free to specify when you'll turn up to collect your order, but they haven't quite mastered the knack of having it ready. They seem to believe when you turn up is right about time to start cooking, which is kinda defeating the whole purpose of ordering ahead of time. Not a big deal... unless, of course, it's eating up your break, damn it.

It doesn't help is that it's also expensive. You get to do the great weigh up - how many hours of work do I need to do to afford a coke and a sandwich? For those commuting by train, you could depressingly see half you work day vanish to train fares and food before you actually start making money. Hoi. Of course, even more saddening is the fact that while I whine about the price I'm pretty sure attempting to buy the same things in Tescos would cause me to spend the same, if not more, so yes, it's subsidized - but food is expensive and wages are low.

The cheapest canteen I every experienced was when I worked at a supermarket, because their was no way in hell any employee would accept even a moderate mark-up when they all knew the true value of the product. It was impossible to slip something past them, especially when everyone could list off a dozen quick and harmless ways a pallet of foodstuffs could be perfectly edible yet unsellable to the customers. Oh look, a pallet of biscuits fell over. Bugger. Not sellable now, they're all broken. Anybody want a biscuit, help me clean up?

One place I worked at had no on-site facilities bar a kettle and a fridge, which was meant to contain a Mars bar and a coke for the diabetics in case their blood sugar went dangerously low because going into a coma would hurt productivity. Well, I say meant, but often some mystery dudes got thirsty and the munchies and the fridge was more often then not devoid of the essential sugary life savers. You'd just have to hope your coma day did not fall on one of those days. It did however have a selection of milk; ranging from 'two more days until becoming cheese,' and 'two more days until reaching sentience and applying for a job.' Though in fairness that is every work fridge. It's simply not a work fridge without milk that's older then the building, actively trying to escape.

2009? Pssh. It'll fine for at least another week.

The best bit was that there was a couple of snack related options, with a small greasy cafe down the road. It was sort of place that decided that arteries were fuckin' pussies and declared war on them. The best bit was that if you decided you were done for today, you'd order something that contained sausages.

After consuming the aforementioned assuages, you wouldn't have to wait long. Twenty minutes later, you'd be gripping the porcelain toilet bowl so hard you'd leave dents as your body tried to flush it's innards out of every available orifice. After the screaming and sounds something suspiciously similar to water balloons bursting against the wall so fast enough to be fired by a machine gun, you'd slither along the floor to someone sort of in charge and mournfully and weepily announce that you ate the sausages. They'd sigh, and tell you to go home, presumably powered not by your own legs but by a torrent of repulsed food eaten fourteen years ago.

Somehow, somewhere, our group collective decided that this was worth it to bugger off home early, possibly giving credence to the theory that madness is contagious. They even tasted funny, yet still we all brought them. Personally I suspect the cafe was a front for the mob, getting rid of bodies for a profit. But they were so cheap! How could you turn them down?

Honestly, it's probably healthier for employees to drive forklifts into the walls then eat this stuff.

Considering it takes around twenty four hours for food poisoning to kick in, that doesn't even make sense. It's like the 'food' offended your body on some basic level. Admittedly, what made less sense was that we kept buying them. Though in truth this tangent is less about the inferiority of work based canteens and more the insanity of man. I hope that sooner or later, much like John Snow removing the pump handles to prevent further cholera, someone civic minded torched the place down for public safety. But considering the sheer amount or grease that cafe produced, it was one errant cigarette butt away from that fate anyway.

Another great one is the food van man. Or van woman. Whatever. They come around in a van, (duh) metal and possibly shiny, that open up their sides to reveal a cornucopia of food primarily designed to inflict heart attacks and workers going for just that little bit longer. Our original food van man had a van that was at first a sleek silver van but by the time I started work had developed a patina of filth thick enough to turn it grey. But he had a notebook to have tabs and served coffee hot enough to hopefully kill anything in it that, with a shot of Dettox for everything. For many people, that was enough.

My favourite moment is when we had a second food van man turn up at the same time as the original food van man. Only the second guy had a van that was clean. The lack of sludge coating was almost intimidating. The queue of people immediately shuffled over, and the first food man would glare hatefully at the second, not seeming to understand people who need coffee will drink coffee with grime on it, but not if they have options.

Everyday this would repeat. You'd of thought the first guy would recognise that competition is best fought by improving you game, but as this sales dwindled his van started getting even grubbier, which was sort of impressive in a horrifying way. Eventually, he wouldn't even get a queue when he arrived first - we'd all be waiting for the same who served his coffee sans e.coli, thank you very much. Victory complete, the second food man became our only food man, until he got wind of an impending site move and sold his van to another, who was blissfully unaware in a few months his biggest source of revenue was about to skip town. God bless you ridiculously savvy second food van man. You are a legend.

I should probably get back on topic, but all I can think about is the fact after what I've eaten, and what I've seen people eat, it is a miracle we're all still alive. Now excuse me...

I have a hankering for a sausage roll and chips.