Haute Cuisine

Stopping off at a motorway service station can get your brain working in decidedly odd ways. The monotony of driving somehow turns these glorified piss holes into a misguided beacon of salvation, like a tarmac-desert mirage. But shitter.

My moment of weakness at this visit was food. The thought of eating alone in such locations usually gives me the urge to peel my retinas off with a spoon, but for some reason a Whopper meal seemed like the best idea since... well, the last bad one really.

I've nothing against fast food in principle. Hey, some of my best mates are burgers. Why not give it another go? So, meal in hand, I did the same as all other motorists when surrounded by restaurant facilities. I went straight back to the car.

What is it about service stations and food? You spend hours driving in the same seat, desperate to get out, scratching at the windscreen until your fingers melt into mushy blood soaked stumps. Yet within seconds of escape you're back in the car park taking part in some bizarre culinary dogging ritual, your car destined to be tainted with a takeaway smell that would make a tramp's armpit vomit.

Things start so well - the first bite brings back all those fantastic memories... ketchup soaked meat... grill lines lovingly applied with a soldering iron... onions so unnecessarily strong they have a half-life... tender luke-warm fries... Why have I left this so long?

It's only when you finish that reality kicks in like a depressing post-coital tristesse. Shame, guilt, anxiety....You turn your back on the grease-soaked crumpled paper bag, wishing it won't be staring lovingly at you in the morning. You desperately plan ways to get it out of the car without your mates noticing. How did you get yourself into this mess?

Not to worry though - there's always the half-time pies at Preston to look forward to tomorrow...