I arrived back in London after popping out for super important business meetings and I found myself to be rather peckish. Unluckily for me, the only place I could sit down in at Marylebone Station was a piece of shit Burger King hole-in-the-wall with some greasy seats inside amongst the piles of trash and garden furniture outside, located in a wintery wind tunnel.

After ordering the Bacon Cheese Chicken Royale and staring in awe at the stuck up bitch next to me, I braced myself and went to the outer seating area where I tipped half eaten ‘food’ on the floor from the chair and then sat glumly looking at the paper bag containing my meal.

I unfurled the bag and laid out the contents accordingly. As I did, I couldn’t help but notice how awfully shite the sandwich felt in my increasingly colding fingers; microwaved and soggy bread that bookended contents of the purest of crap.
I set it aside and sampled the ill Pikachu-coloured fries, and as expected, they were like eating hot, salted air. After three or four, I decided to push them to the far end of the dirty table as I just simply had enough.

Back to the sandwich. I had a big bite as I could feel the icy grip of death-by-hunger seize around my throat, and immediately thought this sandwich will kill me quicker than anything else on Earth.
 

The ‘cheese’ was so plastic (even more so than usual fast food cheese) than I might’ve well eaten a melted pen for all the good it did for flavour. Bacon, a big selling point in most sandwiches, was present in the shallowest of forms – the strips were as thin as a dollar bill and tasted like overcooked car tires, taken from a fiery catastrophe without anyone’s permission.

Finally the chicken slab…I’m sure that each branch of Burger King has a single chicken breast to last them for the day. They’ll use a cheese grater to shave bits off into a bowl of flour, air-pocket technology leased from Aero bars, and a white solidifier, cover it with the kitchen floor sweepings, and fry it in year-old oil. Of course, that is just conjecture, but I’d be completely emotionless if it turned out to be true.

After a few forced mouthfuls, I conceded and wrapped it back up. The feeling of wasting my money on this insult of a product, plus the razor blade-like wind that was cutting through my clothes, made me want to rally an army of men and march on the Burger King’s castle to oust him and his court. Once I had named myself the new Burger King, I’d have the old rulers bricked up beneath the dungeons – I wouldn’t want them to ever see daylight again. They’d be well fed and watered, but with no light to see anything, they’d all have to sit there for the rest of their lives and think about what they did.

All the while I was trying to understand what I had traded money for, the dickhead manager and his grunting minion thought it perfectly okay to pour hot water into and clean the build-up of shit in the grooves for the shutter doors.

After this picture, the member of staff then decided to leave his watery shit all over the floor and put the mop and bucket so close to that bag, which contained a £580 pair of shoes (not my money, yo), that my blood boiled so quickly that the heat resonating through me could’ve powered a small but overpopulated planet.

Every single bit of my being was shaking with the purest form of hatred when I left that establishment I had to stand outside for a few hours to calm down.