When it is hot in a fish bar it is very hot, condensation pours, fans whiz, expelairs suck and swinging doors breathe in gulps of cold night air and release chunks of fried flavours into empty streets. Salt n sauce, salt n vinegar, closing time at the pub, a coach load of football fans, old ladies on a jaunt, white stretched limos full of country girls in shiny black dresses and stilettos all getting oil on their artificial nails. Customers are a rare and strange breed, almost human at times say the friendly fascists.
Everywhere in the village there are villagers, hungry for tea and dreams of Camberwick Green and Trumpton and being made of sponge rubber. Jeremy feeds the reckless, feckless dreams and deep fries the past. They return to bungalows at length but without height. Some park cars in driveways or with up to two wheels upon the pavement. Homes without a proper post code.
If you put your nose into the fish freezer or the haggis cupboard chiller it gets cold, red at the end and numb. Jeremy likes that feeling and enjoys taking stock, even when he doesn’t have to, even when he knows all is well and that the supplies are in. The cold nose thing is a treat and measure.
If you ever drive through Wipeourasses and I expect you will, these words will come back to you, you will stop, you will buy, you will enjoy. The rich fare of the JF establishment and its garish soft drink selection straight from the lemonade factory in Buckie via the cash and carry awaits even the most casual of visitors. Sleep well / eat well.