A Complaint to Greggs the bakers.

Dear Greggs, or Gregg, I’m not sure how many Greggs will be reading this.

First of all this isn’t a complaint, I just want to share my experience in the hope others can avoid the same happening to them.

On my lunch break today I visited one of your fine establishments and treat myself to a Steak bake. Now I have to admit upon receiving said steak bake I was warned by the lovely lady that it had just come out of the oven. What I hadn’t realised that by oven, she meant baked in a kiln at the centre of mercury for ten years and brought back on the flaming fish slice of Hades.

Biting into the tasty pastry treat my mouth was immediately injected with what I can only describe as molten meat magma. As I was on a very busy main street I tried to continue eating the searing mouthful as to not attract attention, hoping it would cool down by doing that open mouthed ghaspy slurpy thing to try and cool it down, and I replicated the exact sound that Anthony Hopkins made when he was describing eating his fathers beans in Silence of the lambs (Or something like that). 

Losing the battle to keep it in my mouth I attempted to elegantly spit the inferno back into the packet, hoping no one would notice my vile gravy regurgitation, unfortunately I failed to realise that the rest of the pasty was half unsheathed and sticking out of the packet and I ended up sticking my face nose first and into the boiling remainder. I instantly withdrew but now not only still had a mouth like a beef volcano, my face was now so covered in blistering gravy bits I looked like a vet who had just returned from a uncooperative cows colonoscopy. 

Now turning quite a few heads, like a man being attacked by a swarm of wasps I furiously wiped my face with the a tiny piece of tissue I had in my pocket, it was a futile attempt and akin to someone mopping up a casserole with a postage stamp. I managed to get the thick off, and stood wincing in visible discomfort clutching my now sodden in brown gunk tissue paper, looking like I’d just been caught short on my way to the bogs at the metro. 

Head down I set off immediately back to my car, I had to unfortunately bin the remainder of my steak bake as in the scramble to wipe my face I dropped it, though I wasn’t too concerned, this was from on of your South Shields outlets and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the first pasty that had been smashed on that street. That bin however has probably since melted to the ground. 

So all in all it wasn’t a great experience, and I’m starving now but my mouth still feels like a Californian forest fire so can only manage to suck on an Ice cube (The frozen water variety, not the rapper).

Having said all that, is hasn’t put me off from returning to try some more of your pastry products. I quite fancy a Chicken bake next time, perhaps if I buy one tomorrow it’ll be just right for eating by the weekend.

Yours blistered



Park Life

An Unforgettable visit to the park.

I had an eventful visit to a nearby park today, it’s one of my three year old son Logan’s favourite places to go, and used to be one of mine until today.

First stop was to feed the ducks.

Now I know that some of the ducks from the park are members of Facebook and regular users of the internet and I have seen them posting how they don’t like eating bread and much prefer halved grapes, pumpkin seeds and oats, so for the purposes of this story we left the car with our bread bag full of halved grapes, pumpkin seeds and oats, definitely no bread, so no need to call the old Bill.

Excited to see the plethora of ducks, swans and seagulls that were already at the riverbank my son grabbed my hand and dragged me down. Fortunately I’m well known for my mountain goat like balance and I managed to descend the bank and steps with the grace and splendour of an ice skating hippo fighting off a fit.

I took great satisfaction in informing my son how The Queen owns all swans, which upon thinking about it is quite strange really and I wondered if this meant that the Mayor of our home town owns all pigeons.

Ignoring my instructions to give the birds a little bit of food (halved grapes, pumpkin and seeds and oats) at a time, he instead chose to tip the bag upside down in one go. Needless to say what followed was carnage.

Within minutes a Hitchcockian scene was unfolding by the river. It was the birds answer to Black Friday.

Seagulls swooped down in formation, dive bombing us, the ducks quacked in angry chorus and swans rose out of the water, stepped on to the riverbank and they bullied the other birds to one side, the look on one of their faces told me they were saying “Get the duck out of the way” The Swans, now puffed up chests on display made angry deep hissing noises at me, they sounded like an old man rattling around a record breaking grem and I felt sure pretty soon I’d be drowned in swan spit. The Queen can keep her swans, I thought, I never feel this intimidated by a pigeon, even when there are heard’s of them outside of Greggs bakers, there’s usually little threat of a military coo.

We managed to escape and headed over the bridge to the park, and I breathed a sigh of relief that the scene from Daving private Ryan was over.

Normally my son is happy to go on the big slide himself, but seeing that there were already cool Dads going down the slides together with their Children he decided he wanted me to go down with him.
We waited our turn and for the cool Mam’s and Dad’s to slide down and soon it was our turn to climb awkwardly on.

Now I’m the first to admit I’m far from slender and I was also padded out with my winter layers (That’s clothes not tyres) I knew this was going to be a bit tight, but I surely wasn’t that much wider than some of the parents that had been shooting down the slide with such ease.

I pushed myself off with Son sat between my legs, and off we slid..for about two foot. Stuck. Not moving. It’s fine, I thought, just a sticky spot, so I gave a little shuffle to get us going again. Nothing, we still weren’t sliding. In a panic as I knew the cool parents were watching I began to rock back and forwards to try to get us going but all I did was make squeaking noises as I moved barely an inch with each thrust. Logan turned around and with a disapproving glance I read his mind to be saying “You should have brought some butter” and he released himself from me and off he shot down the slide without me. “Weeeee” he cried, and I feared that’s exactly what I’d be covered in if I tried to push myself down any harder.

Now consumed by embarrassed panic I shuffled harder and my squeaking became more frequent. As I continued my rowing machine like movements my snug fitted crombie began to lift, not moving with the rest of me so that my splendid winter belly was now slowly being revealed to the whole park, like a bulbous skin sunrise blinding anyone who saw it. I had to get down before word got out about pregnant Paddington and the whole of the town turned up to see this unwanted Christmas spectacle.

After what seemed like an eternity I finally reached the end of the slide and I actually managed to squeak up a bit of speed so that I slid the last few feet off the slide on to my back, it was like a scene from one born every minute as the park climatically birthed and released this whopping winter baby into the world. Perhaps some people interpreted this as the second coming as one onlooking parent definitely uttered the words “Jesus Christ”.

Head down I dusted myself off and walked towards my son.

“Park” Logan pointed to the main park and it’s threatening rides. “No son” I said, taking his hand. “Let’s get back to home and we can go to Greggs bakers to feed the pigeons.


The human body is an incredible thing when it comes to adapting to life threatening situations. This afternoon I was buzzed by a particularly large bee on the way home, it was pretty much a dirty tennis ball with wings and a drawn on face full of hell, someone clearly got out of the wrong side of the hive this morning.

My body instantly went into self defence and I found myself making involuntary ducking motions as if shadow boxing a spazaming ghost whist simultaneously managing to activate a special fit like wiggle throughout the rest of my body, demonstrating some sort of ancient tribal ritual in the centre of Newcastle, at one point I thought some onlooking Charvs were going to pop over with their “Ghetto blaster” and ask me to stick a donk on it, so impressive were the shapes I was throwing at my insect assailent.

Accompanying my groundbreaking street dance I also attacked the bee by blowing at it, hard, like a fat super girl trying to blow out an inferno, the bee at this point just seemed to be happy that I was cooling it off and enjoyed the breeze being spat out from my fat and terrified face, it did nothing to harm it other than give it a yellow and black quiff which I’m sure the rest of the bee’s would be well jealous of.

Fortunately I managed to stagger away like an outcast from the ministry of silly walks, whilst the rest of Newcastle I can only assume looked on at me thinking I was the Bee’s Knee’s. Yep, all kinds of cool honey.

Bee safe everyone. It could happen to anyone.

Bread clever.

A kind soul dropped a small polythene bag on the floor of the bakery section of Asda and I’ve just managed to slip impressively on it for quite some distance.

Fortunately I managed to turn it into something quite balletic and was seen to glide the length of the aisle with the grace and majesty of a butterfly, it was a scene from scone lake and I was rasin eyebrows, I was the current star, the crust of the North and the audience would fall instantly in loaf.

To me I was the picture of elegance as I near floated across the stage, to everyone else I was a pink hippo surfing a bin liner, but art is very subjective isn’t it, and they can kiss my buns.

Special branch.

When you’re on the top deck of the bus, wistfully daydreaming out of the window in your own world and suddenly the bus noisely catches some branches from an overhanging tree. I must apologise to the other passengers for my somewhat overreaction as I all but propelled upwards through the roof, complete with exaggerated panto gasp for fear of being slapped and fingered by one of those massive tree people off Lord of the rings.