Saturday, 18 February 2017

Alternative Career: Sandwich Van Operative...

Pros: Back in the days when I worked in an office, there were often times when the general malaise could only be broken by the jolly toot-toot of the sandwich van's horn as it pulled up outside - a sound not unlike that of a nuclear fallout alarm and one which had a similar effect: upon hearing said sound, someone (usually a chubby knacker such as self) would inevitably shout, ‘SAAAAANDWICH VAN!’ as though their lives had been saved at the eleventh hour or they’ve just won a tenner at bingo. Or something. Whatever.

Everyone would then abandon the good ship work and hot-foot it to the van, exclaiming, ‘last one there gets the warm black cherry yoghurt,’ or, ‘bagsy I get the last tuna and onion baguette,’ or in my case, ‘get the fuck out of my fucking way you fucking fat fucker.’ A commotion would then occur as people scrambled for their favourite tasty treat. Think Black Friday sales where people stab each other and stamp on pensioners in Asda over a cheap telly or a sweaty bag of onions. Double it. Even then, you're nowhere the chaos that the Sandwich Van's wares inspire.

That jolly toot-toot brings out the very best and the very worst in people, trust me.

There’s also been many a time when I’ve felt envious of said Sarnie Van Driver. Rather than return to the coal face with my warm can of Diet Coke and my tepid black cherry yoghurt, I’ve wanted to hop into the van and pootle around office car parks myself, bringing a wealth of smiles, calorific treats and an unspoken nur nur ne nur nur because I haven’t got to go back into an office and listen to people eat crisps and suck their fingers like the rotten heathens that they probably are. Just think: all those sweaty cheese rolls at my disposal. More Kit Kat Chunkies than you can shake a stick at. The open road. As much Magic FM as I can handle. Helping the nation get their five a day and a soggy biscuit on the side that I would serve with a knowing wink. I’d be giving back. Making a difference. I’d be my own boss. My own comestible-related empire. And I’d call it something childlishly suggestive like Baps Out.

Cons: I’m not great at mental maths, so I’d probably charge one person four pounds and six shillings for a packet of ready salted crisps and another person three new pence for a veritable schmorgasboard that could satisfy the appetites of a family called Porky-Drawers. Oh well. Also, where do I get a special van from? Or could I just chuck everything in a cool bag and serve people out of the back of my lovely little car? Of course I could. Hmmm, but what about my arteries? Surely they’re gonna take a hammering, as will my profit margin. Putting me in charge of food is a bit like giving cherries to pigs.

Chances: When can I start? Oink!

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