I remember (and so it seems do many of my friends) putting an empty crisp packet under the grill at home until it shrivelled up, and then glueing a pin to the back of it to make a tiny, shrivelled crisp packet brooch. This may sound odd. I must investigate with my southern counterparts to find if this was going on in Hackney and Shepherd's Bush in the early 70s too.
Went for a styling meeting today in an ad agency. One of their accounts is a well-known crisp brand. In their reception, they have a wall of crisps, there for the taking. I did some taking, getting away with two packets of salt and vinegar. Very nice they were too, Gary Lineker.
I met The Scot on Sunday afternoon for a chinwag. We ended up in a pub, and he got some crisps from the bar. We find we have a mutual fascination (or disdain) for the way crisps have stopped being simply cheese and onion - crisp connoisseurs can now tuck into mature cheddar and red onion. Marketing gone mental.
So, imagine me walking into Selfridges after my meeting, just for a little wander and look at nice things in the food hall/kitchen department, and coming across this:
For. Fuck's. Sake. Mozarella and chuffing basil on a crisp. And they're from Yorkshire (and 'convivial' ???). So, I had a bit of a Google. Seems this farmer fella called Ashley Turner in Sheffield is digging up his spuds, turning them into fancy crisps (Chardonnay Wine Vinegar flavour, anyone?) and flogging them to Fortnum & Mason, Harvey Nichols and Selfridges. I bet he's laughing his head (and flat cap) off.
