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Mechanically Recovered

“May Contain Nuts” said the sign clipped to the shelf of nuts and snacks in a store I was in recently. Really? I thought. I’d have been disappointed if I’d bought that packet of honey roasted cashews and peanuts and it hadn’t contained nuts.

I took a look at the selection of fresh sandwiches and pastries that would act as the pre-nut main course. Reading the small print on a chicken filled pie I recoiled at the line “Contains Mechanically Recovered Chicken”. Why would they need to do that?

Unless the chicken truck broke down on the way to the chicken preparation factory, and a helpful mechanic gave the chicken truck a tow, I didn’t see how “mechanically recovered” chicken could be a good thing. I’m not expecting them to lie to me – creating the impression that the chicken in the pastry was prepared by cheerful Oompa Loompas working at a factory where they tickle the chickens to death. Fact remains I’m eating a dead bird, so there’s no need to candy coat it for me. Although I do find myself wondering if that would be a tasty option!

Seriously, though; why would any food produce company interested in making a profit tell me that the chicken had been “mechanically recovered” in any shape or form?

Whatever that means, it’s hardly going to be nice. For me it conjures up images of whirling claws of metal tearing the very flesh from chickens that they didn’t have to kill first because the poor fuckers had heart attacks the second they set eyes upon on the mechanical recovery machine.

Actually, to answer my own question, it is only the quality food produce companies that do make a profit who tell you that kind of thing, albeit in small print, on the label.

Makes me wonder what the rest of them get up to. I mean, if they’ll admit to mechanical recovery, what macabre practices aren’t they telling us about? Mechanical recovery of anything sounds absolutely grim, but something like, say Electrically De-Sphinctered would have me running from the aforementioned food outlet with puke squirting between the fingers of a two handed attempt to keep the previous meal on the inside.

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Stuck in the City

Sarah Jessica horse features might be on to something; Sex in the City is a whole lot better than being stuck in the city.

Today I was back down in London again for a couple of quick meetings when the nutters struck again. First I knew of it was when I went for some lunchtime shopping, and decided to pop up to Nike Town at Oxford Circus for a quick look at stuff I couldn’t really afford. In the shop all was well, but when I came back out the corner of Oxford Circus was getting pretty crowded. I hung a left and cut into Top Man for a quick gander in there, none the wiser.

When I emerged a whole line of buses are blocking the view of the other side of the street due to a bit of a traffic jam. This isn’t exactly unusual for Oxford Street on any given day other than Sunday, so I was oblivious to what was going on until I’d weaved my way through the traffic to cross the road. There I saw the Underground staff with their day-glo waistcoats, squinting in the sunlight, some guarding the shuttered station exits and others just standing chewing the fat.

For a reasonably clever guy like myself it didn’t take long to put two and two together, realise it was a Thursday, two weeks since the previous terrorist activity, and get a picture that something must have happened somewhere on the Underground network.

I made my way back to the lobby of the building where my next meeting was, and they had Sky News projected onto the wall. Man, if that channel becomes any more americanised in its hyperbole–rich coverage they’ll have to charge for it in dollars. “We can neither confirm, nor deny that explosions have taken place at Warren Street…” – so instead you’ll speculate wildly and raise the concern of the general public in some cheap ploy to garner viewing figures?

Anyhow, I left the Sky “news readers” to it and my meetings continued during the afternoon until just after four o’clock. Even then, three hours after the incident, I found the traffic grid-locked and the Tube suspended. In short – going nowhere fast.

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The 8k challenge

Our follow up to the 5k Challenge was the Sefton Park 5 Mile Run, and I don’t mind telling you that it was bloody torturous. First lap wasn’t pleasant, and the second lap was bordering on downright self cruelty. Five mile runs, it turns out, fall right into the “bollocks to doing that again” category of events that include crashing into a wall on my mountain bike at 40 miles an hour, and running out from behind a bus.

Graeme produced a leaflet for a 10K in October when it was all over, but the way I felt at the end of the five miler he’s lucky I didn’t have the energy left to stick that leaflet where I wanted to!

There are some pictures in the gallery for those interested. Oh, the humanity.

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