My name is Bob and I run Mrs Higgins’ Pie Shop. However, there is no Mrs Higgins and it wasn’t established in 1876 as the sign outside claims; it is less a shop and more of a cross between a bakery, a cafe, and a kitchen with nothing but industrial microwaves in it. And although I do sell pies they certainly aren’t my biggest profit-maker… oh no, no, no… that particular accolade goes to the soup. Oh wonderful soup of lusciousness, how I love thee. Not for your taste or for your texture but for the clink clink sound of profits as the gullible hordes gurgle you down.
“Please come on in, dear sir,” I chime as a customer enters my domain, “would you like a steak and kidney pie? Maybe a minted lamb pasty? Or how about the soup of the day…?” I produce the best shit-eating sycophantic grin that my money-hungry mouth can conjure and gesture, tantalisingly, towards the steaming pot beside me. Oh how easily the people are fooled; open up a few dented tins of tomato soup, bung in a peeled onion or two, and suddenly you have an elixir of happiness. Their eyes glaze over with rustic joyousness the moment they catch a glimpse of the earthenware ceramic pot and the sight of the Victorian ladle makes them forget about their iPhones of nonsense for just a moment.
“Drink it up, while it’s still steaming!” I jovially instruct them, “And don’t forget your complimentary buttered roll,” I cry as I stifle a sneer. Yes, a ‘complimentary’ bit of stale bread that not even the birds would bother with yet it makes their entire journey worthwhile. And yes, I know that you stole an extra one when my back was turned. You didn’t think I saw, did you? Oh, I see it all… I expect it… I positively encourage it. It gives you a warm feeling of victory over me as the realisation of paying £6.49 for a scoop of lukewarm liquid dawns on you. And you will be back for more, craving that sense of victory.
You pathetic toad.
Michael Cargill
Welcome to my world of pies
“Please come on in, dear sir,” I chime as a customer enters my domain, “would you like a steak and kidney pie? Maybe a minted lamb pasty? Or how about the soup of the day…?” I produce the best shit-eating sycophantic grin that my money-hungry mouth can conjure and gesture, tantalisingly, towards the steaming pot beside me. Oh how easily the people are fooled; open up a few dented tins of tomato soup, bung in a peeled onion or two, and suddenly you have an elixir of happiness. Their eyes glaze over with rustic joyousness the moment they catch a glimpse of the earthenware ceramic pot and the sight of the Victorian ladle makes them forget about their iPhones of nonsense for just a moment.
“Drink it up, while it’s still steaming!” I jovially instruct them, “And don’t forget your complimentary buttered roll,” I cry as I stifle a sneer. Yes, a ‘complimentary’ bit of stale bread that not even the birds would bother with yet it makes their entire journey worthwhile. And yes, I know that you stole an extra one when my back was turned. You didn’t think I saw, did you? Oh, I see it all… I expect it… I positively encourage it. It gives you a warm feeling of victory over me as the realisation of paying £6.49 for a scoop of lukewarm liquid dawns on you. And you will be back for more, craving that sense of victory.
You pathetic toad.
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