02/09/2025
"You donât order The Pauline because youâre hungry. You order it because youâve given up."
Itâs Tuesday night. Took the kids for fish and chips as a treat.
Walked into the new local joint and asked for The Pauline.
The bloke behind the counter looked at me like Iâd just asked if he served sushi. Then he shrugged and muttered, âRighto".
It came out wrapped in grease-stained butcherâs paper. No tray, no garnish, no dignity.
Just a pallid mass of chips that looked like theyâd been boiled, then punished. Pale. Limp. Salted like someone was afraid of offending them.
I asked about sauce. He stared off into the middle distance and said, âNone of that w*p stuff here".
So no tomato sauce, no chilli-mayo, not even a lemon wedge. Just dry carbs and cultural trauma.
The fish was battered, allegedly, but it was the same bleached tone as everything else... like it had gone undercover.
There was also a bread roll. White, soft, expressionless. Like a ghost of gluten past.
Not warmed. Not buttered. Just sitting there. Watching. Seething.
And there, nestled on the fillet... a single strand of red hair. Curled. Possibly p***c.
Not going to complain. It was the only splash of colour on the whole meal. A rogue flourish. A âf**k youâ to public health, and general expectations around cleanliness.
The Pauline isnât food. Itâs a culinary threat. You chew, and the flavour is absence. You swallow, and the silence curdles into a smirk.
This isnât dinner.
This is what happens when you ask your Nan what she thinks of multiculturalism and she says âIâm not racist, butâŚâ
You donât order The Pauline because youâre hungry. You order it because youâve given up.
And when itâs done, all that remains is a smear of grease on your fingers, a lump in your throat, and the faintest whisper in your ear: âPlease explain.â