Tastes the same coming out as going in.

I spent most of last week in an edit suite in Manchester. I basically point at screens and eat. Eat and point. But mainly eat. Attractive young assistants bring you food of any kind from a plethora of menus all day. A bit like Yo Sushi, hotwired to your
inner bad food brain, all your fantasy food coming at you in a constant stream. Reading this back, it sounds repulsive, but when you're there, it seems perfectly natural. I got used to coming back from the loo to find a mound of profiteroles, a huge pork pie (the size of a pork pie hat, I insisted, and with pickle, not piccalilli, ugh) and a selection of satay skewers. At one stage, pointing got in the way of eating so I had to use a carrot stick (only joking, it was a stick of orange KitKat) to do the pointing for me.

And that was just during the day. My lips still tingle at the thought of my dining companion and I digging into the chilli lamb claypot in Chinatown.
They wouldn't go near anything with the word 'intestines' or 'feet' in it. Chicken.

Wow. It was such a lot of fun food.

So now I must drink arse slime and empty my body of toxins and solids untiI can go 3 weeks without shitting, only then have I achieved anything worthwhile with my life. And cleansed my soul.
And don't ask me how I know it tastes the same going in as coming out.

Just.....don't.