stilton doughnuts

When I was little, my mother warned me never to wear socks with sandals. Not simply because it is a deeply uncool fashion statement akin to flouncing round in an ‘ich bin deutsch’ sandwich board, but because it was also a little piece of common-sense. By the age of five, I was sufficiently cocky and, i’m told, stupid, to don red sandals and white socks. Poetically, it ended in tears and four stitches. (Friction between cotton socks and sandal soles when running at high speeds can result in falls). To this day, I know that I tried the dastardly echt-deutsch combo because I was curious – it was, I suppose PRs might say, research.

We’ve just been sent a bag of stilton doughnuts at work.

One sordid bite and I was transported to a scratchy, dumpy, flabby, acrid, uncompromisng world of over-inflated PR accounts and ketchup-consistency hallowe’en make-up jam. It was one intrepid and way-too-gung-ho step too far: it tasted, at best, like a cross between horrible flabby dough warmed in a London traffic jam and battered and bruised snotty blue cheese, and, at worst, like a mouthful of genetic mutation.

I tried it in the name of research, but what a waste of cheap stilton cheese and bad doughnuts. The reason no-one’s done it before? It’s stupid.

My mother would be pleased to know what my research has confirmed: no amount of PR can prevail over common sense.

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