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Jacket Potato Monologue

Look, mate, I know life is difficult. I know things seem to be going down the swanny for you at the moment. But you can’t just sit around eating sodding jacket potatoes all day every day. 

We – humans (a category in which I still begrudgingly include you) – simply have better things to do.

We’ve got lives to lead, Siamese cats to dangle, industrial strength toothpaste to squeeze!

Perhaps you should focus less on eating potatoes and more on brushing your horrible salty teeth

…Limericks to learn, lemons to juice… apples and oranges to bite! Yum yum. Get out in the sunshine, expose yourself and soak up that illustrious old vitamin D.

Mister, come on now. We’ve got symphonies to compose, beautiful pictures to sketch, effigies of all kinds to burn! 

Culture to curate… 

I know jacket potatoes are seriously lovely and everything. I do acknowledge that. The butter, the cheese, the bacon, the beans, the pepper. The turkey chilli, the Caledonian Rye, the tuna! The brie, the butter bean, the spicy dahl… The scotch egg paste. Et cetera, et cetera… 

Delicious all these things indisputably are. But the question is, do you want to be a human compost bin? The world’s potato sack? 

 “Oh, you know what, I don’t actually fancy this potato anymore, I think I’ll just throw it down Spud’s throat, that silly muppet won’t mind, he loves potatoes!” says Everyperson from Anyplace, Planet Earth.

Do you really want to end up like this total git of a man? Credit: Washington State Potato Commission

Oh yeah, also, they take bloody ages to cook

So, in addition to the downright absurd proportion of your time you spend eating portions of jacket potato, there is the matter of cooking the damn things. It takes like, upward of forty-five minutes. Ever tried boiling pasta? Quick. Frying an egg? Speedy. Buttering a piece of toast? Rapid. Don’t you think pesto-pasta on egg-on-toast might be more efficient than yet another jagged potatty? Come on, me old mucka. Play the game.

Random but true: Inexplicably popular TV chef Greg Wallace probably wouldn’t approve of your diet

Oh, and, lest we forget…

Famine? It’s on you, Cholmondley-warner 

If you carry on the way you’re going – douchebag – there won’t be any bastarding potatoes left for anybody else. We saw how that turned out for the Irish in the 1840’s. Not pretty, honey bee. Eat some kangaroo instead. Australia has an absolute abundance. I heard they go nice diced and roasted with grapefruit and coriander. Get lean, brother.

Right, and don’t you dare just start eating Chip Shop Chips. The jig’s up babycakes. Everybody knows they’re potatoes too. It’s not 1984 anymore -truth is back.

And no crisps. Nope, not even posh ones – every potato counts.

In sum

Give up the spuds, Spuddy

Note: This monologue was written as a direct address to e-mailer ‘Spud’ (pictured below) who told us he can’t stop eating baked potatoes and needs to be publicly convinced before he stops.

Life imitates art: should we blame Spud’s (dead) parents for calling him Spud in the first place?

Good luck, Spud!

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