People set up stalls to sell food at the various agricultural shows (here) in West Cork. And that’s fine. I’ve become irrationally addicted to agricultural shows this year (a welcome chance to stare at animals: cows, people, ducks – a wide variety, anyway) and it’s always nice to look at food. So this is a pleasing combination, nothing to worry about.
However.
At just about every show I’ve been to – and my hoppity agitation has heightened with every single sighting - I’ve seen the same guy selling sausage beneath a sign that reads:
As seen on TV
(Surreptitious – well, would you feel entirely comfortable taking such a picture? - and thus poorly composed evidence here.)
Yes, but on what, exactly, Frank? Crimewatch? Sausages From Hell? When Sausages Attack? How Pretty White Babies Die: Frank’s Chorizo Sausage – The Silent Killer In Our Midst?
I mean for crying out loud, why do people blithely assume that “as seen on TV” is a good thing? Would you ever just get a grip, please? And so help me Mary, but the queue was out of sight - Out. Of. Sight. - and I just bet that far too many of those people had been convinced by the seeming validation of a TV appearance by Frank’s chorizo sausage. I pity the fools, I pity them. And even those people who may initially have failed to notice the sign will soon enough be seduced.
Customer: I’ll have six of your chorizo sausages, please.
Frank: You do know that they’ve been on TV?
Customer: Ah, ya rascal, Frank. Gwan then, I’ll take a million.
Frank: That’s the spirit.
You bandit, Frank. You terrible, terrible bandit. Those are rational people you’re destroying.
Deep breaths, deep breaths. But then I’m trying to concentrate on the “Heifer born between 1st September 2006 and 31st August 2008 not in milk (also open to the progeny of a foundation shorthorn cow and sired by a registered Bull)” awards and my eyes keep on wandering back to Frank’s infernal stall. Does he not know that the highest placed heifer in classes 169 and 170 will compete for The Desert Perpetual Challenge Cup? No. He. Does. Not. Frank’s too busy raking it in to care, the callous beast. And his till is by now so wildly overflowing that he’s having to store money in his mouth to keep it from blowing away.
Customer: I’ll have six of your chorizo sausages, please.
Frank: Oo oo oh ah ay ah ee aw ee ee?
Customer: Ah, you’re a born salesman, so you are, Frank. Gwan then, I’ll take a million.
But nobody’s asking any questions. Nobody. The very first thing I’d want to ask Frank is what programme his sausages were on. Wouldn’t you?
Me: Alright, wise guy, what programme were your sausages on?
Frank: When The Thinnest And Best Celebrities Eat Sausages And Truly Savour Them And Then Recommend Them To Their Attractive Friends – Ireland.
Me: Hmm. What channel was it on?
Frank: Bravo2+6
Me: Damn. You could be right.
Well he could be, couldn’t he? What the feck do any of us know now that we’ve forty zillion channels to choose from? Besides, if Frank is even half the cad I think he is, he’ll have spent long hours perfecting the believabilty of his answers to such a line of questioning.
I don’t really know how, precisely, but this is all somehow linked to unthinking unhappiness (as opposed to a well thought out depression), violence on YouTube, the stupefying veneration of celebrity, fame for the sake of fame and the Wikipedia intellects of the can-do, must-have, surface-smart generation. Someone clever needs to write a book.
(I know, I know.)
