Snack attack

Ultra processed carbs are serious business

The always excellent Marianne Jennings (if you’re not subscribed to her then go and rectify that, we’ll wait right here) has been running a world cup of crisps the last few days. The tournament has been a lot of fun, but as with so many things out there, it’s set me off.

“Everything sets you off, Holmes.” Yeah, I know - what’s new, right?

I think justice sensitivity may be kicking in a bit here. That intense, unstoppable urge to right some wrongs. The problem is, justice sensitivity is a runaway bronco. If I could get hold of it, I’d be the saviour of humanity. I’d be the greatest human rights advocate on earth¹. I would fight crime. You’d all call me SuperLew.

That’s just a dream though, innit. Because I can’t pick what sets my justice sensitivity off. Which is why I spend days upon end obsessing over the snack preferences of strangers on the internet.

Photo by Zoshua Colah on Unsplash

Frankly, I’m appalled. Appalled at the so-called crisps that’ve breezed through the tournament like they’re beef and mustard Brannigans². This is in no way a dig at Marianne, who’s clearly an all round gold soul on top of being a great writer. She was also gracious enough to say “Sure, angry man, you can spit 1900 words off the back of my lovely bit of frivolity.” Marianne, I probably owe you a bag of crisps. But I tell you now, they won’t be fucking Skips.

Because Skips aren’t crisps.

I can hear you furiously tutting out there, and I don’t care. Skips are floaty light bullshit for children. Nostalgia clearly plays a big part in their popularity; everyone remembering their packed lunches from the 80s and 90s. Listen, when I was a kid I used to sit at the back of the class sniffing marker pens. Kids get things wrong all the time.

Skips provide neither flavour nor texture. I mean, prawn cocktail, come on. A little tang of tomato, a faint whiff of the sea. A nothing flavour, miles from an actual prawn cocktail. You might as well have dust-flavoured crisps. Texturally they have all the bite of my old nan when she’d slipped her dentures out. I want a crisp that’ll slap the taste out of my face like I’ve just besmirched the honour of Mrs Crisp; Quavers are like a weak little tap on the shoulder from a supply teacher.

Skips are clearly popular though, comfortably sashaying past flame grilled steak flavoured McCoys³, so I don’t want to dogpile them too hard. Some of you Skipites might be considering subscribing here. No, let’s share the wealth around a little and have a pop at Quavers too. Strap in, Quaverphiles.

They have that same floaty light approach to life as Skips, with somehow even less flavour going on, sitting somewhere between a Dairylea triangle and the actual emptiness of the void. As if that weren’t bad enough, now remove the fundamental aspect of a crisp - the clue is in the name, gang - and spritz that faint ersatz cheese flavour onto some finely shave polystyrene. That’s Quavers. You know Terry Jones’ feeble Prince Herbert in The Holy Grail? Quavers in human form.

And yet Quavers are overwhelmingly popular. At the time of writing they’re slugging it out in the semi-finals with Mini Cheddars, a cheesy face off even cheesier than actual Face/Off.

Quavers have smashed their way through the competition. They comfortably beat my beloved Twiglets (not a crisp, but at least they pack a punch) and early favourite picked onion Monster Munch (also not a crisp, but they’ll carve the roof of your mouth open if your not careful, so don’t tell me they’re nothing). Cheese/Off might be a bit beyond them, but for a floaty bit of nonsense they’ve done really well, like that time Greece won the Euros.

The other semi-final sees Frazzles take on ready salted Walkers. You’ve been paying attention over the last 800 words so it barely needs saying that Frazzles aren’t a crisp. They do, however, work brilliantly in a sandwich (on their jack jones or as a flavour bomb addition) and soak up a pint with admirable aplomb. They’re the exception to the Big Maize Cartel that apparently dominates the nation’s tastebuds. And they’re up against arguably the most boring snack in Christendom. Ready salted Walkers? The boiled rice of crisps. What’s up, scared you’ll taste something?

I have two main criteria when it comes to crisps. Firstly, as alluded to with Frazzles, they’ve got to go well with, or ideally in, a sandwich. They’ve got to add texture as well as complimenting whatever else is betwixt the bread. Salt and vinegar McCoy’s are total champs for this, because they go perfectly next to or into any sandwich you’d care to mention. I have done extensive research in this field, because sandwiches are my favourite food in the world and you’re never too old to keep fucking around with your favourite food in the world⁴.

Many years ago, I was working a part-time gig at my favourite pub. The crisp of choice here was Real crisps, the main USP of which was that everything about them was big and bold. Garish packaging, punchy flavours, intensity dialled up to 11. If I was running so late from the day job that I missed dinner, I’d get a ham and cheese sandwich from Tesco’s, and snag a bag of Real jalapeno flavour. Then I’d shove most of the crisps into the bog standard supermarket sanger, and scarf the whole lot down while sat on a church wall watching the world go by.

Let me tell you, the addition of those crunchy, spicy little bastards turned that humble repast into a thing of beauty; like Vin Diesel hitting the nos in The Fast and The Furious, my dinner was turbocharged and I was sorted for the rest of the night.

Secondly, crisps have to be the perfect sidepiece for a pint. This has taken on greater importance since I quit smoking (cigarettes being an actual dance partner, Ginger Rogers to Pint Astaire); you need a different flavour profile to cut through the lubberly beeriness. Something punchy, something to make you sit up and take notice. And, again, you need that crunch, that textural slap in the face.

Consider, if you will, the notion of a pub salad. Stop, no, back up. You’re not in the local gastropub now, Jemima. Oh no, you’ve ducked into the spit and sawdust local where the heights of culinary delight are a cheese and onion (the slices of which are thicker than Robert Jenrick) bap wrapped in clingfilm. I am eternally fond of our UK equivalents to a dive bar, because they know exactly what they’re doing when it comes to snacks. Consequently, they serve the best pub salads.

In this less salubrious environment, the pub salad is when you get any number of tasty treats (minimum of three, maximum of one of everything on offer), open a couple of bags out to form the mixing bowl, then dump everything in the middle of the table. There is no pickiness, there is no debate, you all just share the Great British pub snacks and get on with arguing about whatever it was you were just arguing about.

A definitive but not exhaustive list of incongruous things. Christopher Biggins in a moshpit. Freddy Krueger at an child’s birthday party. Me going to high tea at Buckingham Palace. Quavers in a pub salad. Some things just do not belong.

Imagine bland, inoffensive Quavers snuggling up next to those Real flavours above. They’d get eaten alive - metaphorically, of course, because ain’t no one going for the lightly flavoured packing chip when you’ve got a real potato that kicks like a mule right next to it.

It’s at this point that I find myself picturing the reader⁵. You’re sitting there, lovely Ledgeheads, going “Why do you care, you weird little man? It’s just crisps!” A totally fair question. Especially if you a) have voted in Marianne’s tournament or b) really, really enjoy Skips/Quavers/shit crisps.

I’m not just being obstreperous, I really fucking care about this. I care because I haven’t eaten a crisp in months. I love crisps, used to go through them like a jackhammer, but I’ve had to quit them.

Just before my previous employer jettisoned me (for the crime of being more expensive than an equivalent worker in India or Hungary), I availed myself of a medical MOT at their expense. The assessors are always amazed by how healthy my numbers are when compared to my appearance, and I always tell them not to judge a book by its cover and I actually eat really healthily, thank you very much⁶.

This time out, however, they weren’t so easily placated. They pointed out I was a lot closer to 50 than 40 (the rotten shits), and that a few healthy changes wouldn’t go amiss. I think I’m actually allergic to the gym, so something had to go. Sayonara, delicious crisps.

Yes, friends, this whole piece is driven by envy. Enjoy your Quavers.

---

Footnote: Frazzles lost in their semi-final of the crisp tournament to ready salted Walkers. The plainest crisp in the history of humanity is currently beating Mini Cheddars in the final. I’m assuming it’s mainly Brits voting, and honestly I haven’t questioned British democracy this hard since Brexit. We’re a nation of net curtained, white bread, Ford Mondeo, weak orange squash, Ed Sheeran, meat and two veg, boring bastards.

Footnote 2: My buddy Daniel Puzzo set me a little challenge to use no fewer than four words from his recent piece, Let’s Be Reading Buddies. Can you guess what they are? (Without clicking through to the piece, ya cheater). Daniel - you don’t get to play, mate, sorry.

---

Thanks for reading. My ego is huge but fragile, so please show some love before you leave. Bang that like button on your way out, or leave a comment if anything in the piece landed with you. If you’re feeling really flush you can chuck some coin in my Ko-Fi and I’ll love you for all time. Cheers, see you again soon.

---

1. If you’re even slightly Farage-ist, YOU have human rights too. The megarich want you to forget that, because we’re all just currency to them, but I don’t want you to forget it. Your problems and mine are the same, friend.

2. The absolute GOAT crisp. Don’t even attempt to argue otherwise.

3. An undeniably proper crisp there, but trying a little too hard to prove so with that name. Just call yourselves carcass crisps, lads.

4. When I first started on Substack, one of the first posts I dallied with was my top 10 sandwiches. It’s still there in my drafts. If you want to see it, bribe me.

5. This happens in everything I write. Because, at The Ledge Beyond the Edge, we care a lot. Little Faith No More reference there.

6. I’m married to a vegan, my diet is now primarily comprised of food that my food eats. (Thanks for that one, Ron Swanson).