Viva the Funky Combo Revolution!!

“Two cheeseburgers and… a cappuccino!?”

Mrs B repeated my order back to me with a furrowed brow.

“Yes please.” I politely replied.

“You’re going to wash down two cheeseburgers with… a cappuccino?”

“Yes PLEASE!” I again replied, this time less politely. I always get slightly anxious ordering at a drive through being aware that there is probably someone waiting impatiently behind me who knows exactly what they want to order, and will not have a significant other sat next to them questioning their selection.

“Weird…” she muttered under her breath, before relaying my order to the little speaker box that had been listening to this brief discussion from its beginning.

‘Would you like anything else today?’ The speaker box enquired with a high-pitched enthusiasm that suits the role perfectly. Images of a retainer wearing chirpy ‘teen’ with the occupational hazard that is greasy spots around the chin popped into my head. ‘Jolly McSpotty Spot’ certainly did not judge my food choice!

(I shall) firmly grip the shoulder of the slouched man dipping a chicken nugget into his soft serve ice- cream, and call him “brother.”

(My guess was miles off. The employee turned out to be a tall man pushing thirty with perfectly straight teeth and not a blemish to be seen. They must train all of them to sound like Mickey Mouse to lull you into a sense of childlike comfort. When the question of adding to your order is almost sung at you with such sweet positivity, you think of only the potential extra joy inducing delights on offer, not the fact said additional purchase will tip the calorific value of your single meal over the recommended weekly intake of an adult walrus.)

As the paper bag containing my apparently controversial order was passed to me, Mrs B joked with the girl at the window that I have weird cravings and must be pregnant. They both laughed. I did not. Such a ridiculous thing to say. I am a bloke for starters, and anyway, everybody knows caffeine can be awfully bad for the baby.

The collective experience got me pondering. Why is it only pregnant women can eat unusual combinations without being questioned? Do we not all have the right to amalgamate any food we choose without the critical glances and judgmental comments of society? In fact, surely imaginative food unions should be celebrated!

Perhaps I should lead a culinary revolution!? A call to arms of all those that want to eat the unusual in public without being shamed!

Stretch my hand out to the shy girl munching on her jam and salt and vinegar crisp sandwich while giving her assurance that she is not alone.

Firmly grip the shoulder of the slouched man dipping a chicken nugget into his soft serve ice cream and call him “brother.”

Lead my pickled onion and custard munching companions out of the shadows and charge against those intolerant of flavor experimentation!

As we made our way home, I munched and slurped thoughtfully. I had never initiated a revolution before.

Where to start?

 A Facebook page followed by a You Tube channel. Then on to merchandising! T-shirts, baseball caps and hoodies with slogans like ‘Double Cream is my Gravy!’ and ‘Have a Steak, have a KitKat!’

I will get flyers made. Arrange a press conference (hmmm, that will take some googling).

Take the issue to Parliament. Watch on with pride as both those in power and the opposition are united in making the country and the world aware that those with unusual taste preferences are people too!

I fantasized of how I would become recognized as a champion of those with an unusual palate. Peanut butter and pickle chomping strangers would stop me in the street and shake my hand. Maybe a bronze statue could be erected in my honor, depicting me triumphantly holding a jar of marmalade with a hotdog poking out of it.

My internal excitement was palpable, and I had every intention of implementing these plans the moment I got home, but they were stalled somewhat by an unforeseen circumstance.

I suddenly developed a contrasting internal feeling that could politely be described as a ‘dicky tummy’, and I lost enthusiasm for the scheme somewhat.

Must have been something I ate…?