Like swimming in beef oxo and going after the wrong buoy 3

Forty-five minutes later and now one hour behind a schedule which was meant to be so finely tuned and in reality was now blasted to smithereens I had picked up Nic and turned the nose of my not-very-environmentally-friendly but oh-so-reliable Toyota Landcruiser northwest. Towards Leicester and the M1. The M1 was Britain’s first full-length motorway (I don’t count the Preston Bypass), it opened in 1959 and was considered at the time to be ‘unbelievable’ due to its three full traffic lanes, no speed limit (!) and its flyovers and bridges. It still is unbelievable in my book because at times it grinds along at the speed of a 1959 Hillman Minx going uphill with the wind against it. However, a Toyota Landcruiser is hardly known for its aesthetic charm and wind tunnel-like streamlining and unless I want to see the petrol gauge going south at an alarming rate - and at 109.9p a litre of diesel nobody would want that - I tend to keep to the speed limit. So past Nottingham we trundled, noting the signs to Doncaster come and go, making small talk and idle chit chat (at least that’s what I am telling you. In fact Nic and I were hatching a plan for world domination via the ASA. They are so poorly organised they’d never know they’d been infiltrated and by that time it would be too late). Then, about 90 minutes into the journey we had the excitement of tacking onto the M18 to cut across eastwards to pick up the A1. There were still no signs for Darlington or Stockton which I started to query and when my plaintive bleating about the distance had gone on for far too long Nic broke the news that Darlington was actually beyond Scotch Corner. I hadn’t had to go that far north in a very long time. The sun was shining though, the traffic for a Friday afternoon strangely quiet and my bag of snacks emptying at an alarming rate. The good thing about playing a sport and training hard is that you can pretty much eat what you like. But that Friday afternoon, I decided that really, there had to be a limit. After a stressful week, a fitful nights sleep and a late get-away my left hand was dobbing in and out of the snack bag with alarming regularity. Finished were my favourite Japanese black sesame rice cakes, my Jaffa Cakes (are they cake or are they biscuit. Views please), a banana and an apple. I decided extreme measures were called for. Picking up the bag I launched it backwards through the car into the boot. Unless I mutated into some Doctor Who-like creature with particularly extensive and flexible limbs, then my snacking was done until dinner. But boy, did I miss that steady rhythm of hand to bag to mouth and back again. Comfort eating at its best. Nic had been in charge of booking hotels and informed me that there was a pub right next door to where we were to be staying which at least gave me something to focus on (other than the driving that is). As I could no longer force-feed myself like some goose getting fattened for Christmas I indulged instead in that happy game of ‘what do you fancy eating tonight’. Now, as it was a pub doing food and this being ‘The North’ I did not set myself up ready for a fall. We may have hit the highs of Gastropubs in middle and southern England but in all but the most cosmopolitan and happening northern cities (Leeds, Manchester, Harrogate), the culinary delights in your average northern pub were not destined to have us reaching for the pen to recommend a visit by Michael Winner. Steak then, seemed to be the answer. Steak, chips, peas, onion rings, grilled tomato and... some kind of sauce. Black pepper sauce, forestiere (ok, I forgot, this was Darlington), mushroom, spicy tomato. Any of them. All of them. Together. The length of this journey was really starting to get to me. We eventually arrived in Darlington, sanity just about intact, and noted how beautifully looked after and clean the town centre was. Perhaps my soft southern(ish) prejudices needed to be re-evaluated. My illusions were not to be shattered entirely however. As we pulled into the hotel car park having to run a slalom across the tarmac to avoid the piles of green cubed glass from a number of smashed windscreens, a small red hatchback came careering into the car park, administered a textbook hand break turn and left the way it came – with a swerve and a wiggle of its back end. And all to the eardrum splitting beat of some trance album track. Had the Paris – Dakar rally a new starting point I wondered. Was it now Darlington – Dakar? We grabbed our bags making sure nothing was left on display and wandered over to the entrance of the hotel. What I saw first and Nic didn’t clock at all was a large double fronted glass fridge full of beer and chocolate. Oh, our brains work in such different ways. Blocking off any thoughts of an early evening snifter and a chocolate fix, I took our keys and headed for the lift to the second floor. We had 3k to swim the next morning and I wasn’t intending on wasting any energy.

Comments

[Ian]

The Jaffa cake debate.

Jaffa cakes are legally cakes and not biscuits. McVities baked a 12 inch Jaffa cake to prove it after HM Customs and Excise argued the humble Jaffa was a chocolate covered biscuit, and therefore subject to VAT.

Cakes are considered a necessity by UK law and are not subject to VAT (surely only in Britain can a slice of Battenburg or a Rich Tea be deemed a 'necessity').

Anecdotally, I've heard that biscuits soften when they become stale, whereas cakes harden. Jaffas harden and are therefore a cake.

[Lorraine]

Well Ian, I am impressed with your knowledge of such things. In my mind there is no debate. Cakes are a necessity! Along with chocolate, wine ...... Maybe we should campaign to have VAT abolished on those too?