Bag FULL Of Mash
I found the key, but at what cost? I had a pocket full of mash.
I’d first love to say we’ve all been there, and if you haven’t, you can fucking lie for once and make me feel slightly better about the position I’m in. Let’s refrain from questions till the end, one, it’s a blog, and two, well, I think you need time to marinate in this sauce of shit. Is this story just an excuse for me to draw a jacket potato — in old parlance, a Jackie P? But let’s jam on in.
One day, I was optimistic. It was probably a Monday. I was thinking, let’s start the day on a high with some beans, cheese, and a big old potato. So I grabbed what I had in, which was some grated cheese — not enough for what I wanted — we didn’t have any beans, so a tin of chopped tomatoes, some sweetcorn as another substitute, and that potato. I popped it in the oven before I headed off to work, as I was being a good person and didn’t want to hog the microwaves at work. Anyway, this shambles of a meal — you’d think it reflects how the rest of my day went. Well, you would be wrong. I got a free lunch, and that wasn’t a Jackie P but more a bowl of salmon and other bits. So the jacket potato was left in my bag. It wasn’t needed — not wasn’t loved, just wasn’t needed right then.
So I went on to the next day, and that week was filled with bloody free lunch, free dinner, and a bunch of snacks. It was like the universe was telling me not to eat this, as it could lead to food poisoning, as food and I often take the trip to the brown falls, or I’m unsure how to describe projectile vomit in a fun way.
Anyways, days had now passed. If I had just been normal and woken up late for work and just grabbed that stone-cold raw potato, the events that unfolded would never have happened. A week in, I was on the train home. I had put my keys in my bag as that day was quite warm, so I didn’t need a coat. So I put all my belongings in my bag for safety. Now, me in this part didn’t realise I had a potato in my pocket that had been softening over time, so when it came to looking for that key, I dived right in. Acting as my own masher, my own butter, even. Again, it was a hot day, so the sweat was unreal. The heat, the sweat, and my knuckles were absolutely Frenching the shit out of this poor potato till it was mash.
Have you ever stepped on a tomato and then tried to shove it through someone’s letterbox? I’m talking big tomatoes. Well, that’s the outcome I was left with — but potato, not tomato.
I found the key, but at what cost? I had a pocket full of mash. I had to root through it to find my ID, probably to buy a well‑needed pint after that shit show. The carpet on the train had more traces of mash than the remaining potato skin. I created a slip‑and‑slide under my seat, and the more I smushed, the more it was setting. Literally no choices. No bloody escape from this one. I was full of fri’ed. See what I did there. Chip pun.