The Take Out

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A brief encounter with a cheeseburger and a pretty hefty hangover on a Sunday afternoon in March led me to consider McDonald’s to be a resting place for the common people, which in theory, during a recession, means everyone.

I started to see it as not only a place for thirteen year olds to awkwardly put their arms around each other outside of their parent’s living room, but as a place of community. I don’t know whether it’s just the nature of inner city McDonald’s or be it a global phenomenon but this establishment allows a mish-mash of society to dine side by side, and I think that’s pretty cool.

Just the other day I saw a clip of Queen Delevigne being hounded buying (not eating I might add) a Big Mac. This only served to prove my point about it being a place fit for all. It also caused me to reminisce on some of my better times in Ronald’s abode. I spent a Valentine’s Day in the Exeter one,  proudly celebrated my eighth birthday in the Fulham one and have even handed over my number on a used napkin in the Piccadilly one. I won’t lie, my “romance” with Barry the copper ended swiftly after he asked me to join him at Battersea Park to watch the fireworks, followed quickly by an invitation to use his handcuffs on him. But I must thank McDonald’s for the story all the same.

Last night has re-awoken these thoughts about our favourite fast food haunt. I waltzed into the Wandsworth one, practically weeing myself at the thought of a French Frie when I found myself caught in the middle of an argument between a respectable woman of about fifty with two complete pillocks. They’d pushed in line prior to my arrival apparently. She stood up for herself. They called her names and intimidated someone probably the same age as their mother, declared that they “hated white people” to the whole store whilst asking their clearly quite Caucasian friend if he fancied anything from behind the counter. They were served promptly by the staff, and guess what? No one, including myself, said a word.

So maybe you think that my comparison of our society to McDonald’s is, in fact, pretty dismal, but it’s also a reality and a trip to one will open your eyes to the wonders of our little melting pot called London.

With every trip you’re guaranteed to see the following: a group of youfs who look intimidating but couldn’t give two nuggets that you’re there, a pensioner clutching a filter coffee, a young couple who clearly couldn’t be bothered to cook, a bunch of twenty-some things soughting after greasy food after a night out in Clapham, working men on a late shift, paramedics fuelling up for the long haul and then… you.

I’ve been in love with this city, and curry sauce, for a long time now so I’m down with casually eating horse meat next to a homeless man.

Not so cool with that? Then this city just isn’t for you I’m afraid. Or maybe just avoid greasy food if you can’t handle it.

There’s probably a Pret perched around the corner anyway.