The Bloke: Spitting in the street

The Bloke.

The Bloke.

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I saw someone spitting in the street the other day, which is never very pleasant.

Over here it may not be the epidemic it is in parts of the Far East, where spitting competes with tucking into rotisserie dog for the honour of quirkiest national pastime, but it’s still not particularly nice to see someone hawk up their saliva and share it with their fellow citizens.

But this spitter was a bit different. If you can ever say this about a spitter, he was a considerate one.

Instead of just gobbing on the pavement, he selected a handily-placed flower bed to deposit whatever it was that was swilling around in his mouth. I must admit I was rather impressed.

And his off-the-cuff ingenuity got me thinking. Was this a glimpse of a bold new future where man and nature could work together in glorious harmony to solve the world’s problems?

Ok, so maybe I’ve been watching too much of that Human Planet series on the telly, but it did make me wonder if the tools for surviving the dreaded Coalition cuts are actually right under our nose.

For instance, in future we should perhaps actively encourage more people to spit in the street – as long as they follow my spitty friend’s lead and do it in one of the council flower beds so we can cut down on watering costs.

Lots of rubbish left on the streets and can’t afford to employ as many litter pickers?

Why not sweep it into all the potholes that are too expensive to repair? Anyone who once fashioned a misshapen paper-mâché head at primary school knows that stuff’s as tough as Judith Chalmers’ skin.

Also, health bods have been getting very hot and bothered lately about the fact the city’s takeaways are slowly killing us by putting too much salt on our food.

Perfect. Why not get them to sprinkle it on the roads instead? That way we can spare the gritters every winter.

I must get on to Tory HQ and tell them I’ve got it all worked out, because I know they’ve been worried sick about how we’re going to cope.

I wouldn’t like to give the impression I’ve spent the entire winter watching television (I also went to the cinema a couple of times, I’ll have you know), but what on earth has happened to MasterChef?

It used to provide perfect food porn accompanied by the unintentionally hilarious double act of bloodhound-eyed Aussie John Torode and excitable chubster Gregg Wallace.

Now it’s gone all X Factor on us with people channelling dead relatives while making poached eggs with hollandaise sauce, John and Gregg getting all touchy-feely with the contestants and each other, plus sweeping musical soundtracks accompanying every triumphant lobster bisque and disastrous lamb shank.

Last week there was even the first reference by a contestant to being ‘on a journey’.

If this carries on much longer Gregg’s going to have to change that famous catchphrase of his: ‘Cooking doesn’t get duffer than this.’

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