From Ginsters to Greggs - An Odyssey

Back at the turn of the 90s, when computer graphics technology was still half-cocked, I spent a long and nauseous night in my Soho studio, hand-crafting Ginster Cornish Pasty pillow packs, then unwrapping and rewrapping thirty-six of the infamous product in said designs. (These were mock-ups for a designer/client/friend/mentor - although he might be surprised to read that here - that shall be known as The Bodger). They were to be completed and delivered for an 8.30 am meeting in London. It was one of the hardest jobs I ever did (I know what you are thinking: pussy, pony-tailed graphic designers). Anyway, by about 4am, all alone, I was coming to the end of the task and heaving from the pit of my stomach from the overwhelming smell that only an unheated Ginster Monster can emanate, overlaid with Essence of Art Studio: a tantalising mix of spirit markers, spray mount, cigarette smoke, dev chemical and heavy, early-morning Soho air - and Sheepdog was nowhere to be seen - him go for food and drink at midnight and him no come back†. The fragrance of that night will never leave me, I will call it Shalimah. Needless to say a Cornish pasty of any manufacture has never passed my Cockney lips since.

Then one day twenty five years later, I was confronted with a Tramp's Dick* and (at least once a week) never looked back.

So now, in my bed, sipping fabulously healthy Kale and Turmeric soup from a bamboo spoon, having rejected the frighteningly orangey-beige-looking hospital food on offer, (bless 'em they are trying) I close my eyes and dream of a limp, body-temperature, Tramp's Dick in a greasy bag, fresh from from Greggs (boulanger of the proletariat), with my boys: Slaughter: the late-night hard rock radio dj, Baz from Neverland and The Wolf of Winnersh.

I mean, who wants to live forever? Well eat a Tramps Dick and with all those preservatives you just might.

† Sheepdog: a friend a talent and a machine, being by popular agreement of his peers - the hardest working fella in the game with an earning potential matched only by his capacity to play. would work until midnight, go out and return at say 4pm, where he would tear off 6ft of brown Kraft paper from a roll, lay it on the floor and sleep like a crime scene outline, tramp-style, 5 days a week. Fucking epic.

* A Greggs Sausage Roll © BadScooterist 2016. You heard it here first.
(Apologies to Greggs, I am referring to a metaphor rather than the taste or anything else about your splendid product which could be taken as derogatory.)