Daft Old Duffer returns. Guest opinion articles do not necessarily reflect the views of the publication. Ed
My piece on supermarket oranges put out by OnTheWight a couple of weeks ago is one I’ve held in reserve for quite some time. It’s been repeatedly pushed to the back of the queue by the need to consider matters more urgent.
Such as, does Cameron’s Nanny still make him eat his greens, does Cleggy enjoy flower arranging, is Oblivious Osborne wound up every morning by a big key stuck in his back.
Oranges strike back
All the more eerie therefore that in the very same week I criticised them, supermarket oranges struck viciously back.
It’s my own fault I suppose. I should have read the – tiny – label. But who does? Who bothers to don their glasses when buying fruit? Surely a gentle squeeze should be enough to judge whether to purchase or not?
Well, women do I suppose. But then, they’re keen about things like price, something few men even try to cope with.
So it wasn’t until I got home, peeled one of the oranges and bit into it that I realised I was under attack.
Who still makes marmalade?
I’m not sure I ever knew about the existence of marmalade oranges. If I did I’d long forgotten. And I certainly never expected to encounter them in a reputable supermarket.
What use are they, after all? Do some strange folk actually still make their own marmalade? And if so, why?
I suppose I’m really hoping that some knowledgeable soul will say at this point – don’t be so silly, you silly person, all you’ve got to do is such-and-such and your bitter fruit will be rendered perfectly, enjoyably palatable.
For I am going to eat the damn things, stand on me. I’ve paid for them and I’m going to enjoy them. Even if I don’t.
After all, I’m British, Goddammit.
