The Labelling Brouhaha

There was a story in the news a couple of days ago, claiming that the mandatory labelling on all prepared or processed food in the UK, which tells you its calorific value and so helps us, as a nation of Tubby McLardarses to convince ourselves we’re trying to Disappear, was…well, not to put too wobble-bottomed a point on it…bullshit.

You’d think, being the semi-obsessive that I am, this would have flipped me right out. And maybe it would have if I’d had more time. Time, though, is something in short supply at the moment – with apologies to Graeme, who’s been something of a casualty of this time-crunch (will soon do as we discussed, honest!)

So when tonight, having schlepped to rather more boaty climes yesterday, I finally made my way back to Cardiff Central train station, and found myself a bit peckish, it was with relatively gay abandon that I popped into Marks & Spencer to see what I could eat without undoing the value of this new “keeping faith with myself” gig I’ve got going on since…all of yesterday. A mouthful of fruit and nuts – that’ll be 500 calories, thanks very much (a thought that will rather sober my occasional random dips into the nutbox at home). A handful of grapes? Grapes, for god’s sake! 375 calories, no waiting!

Which means when I came across a little pot of fruit yoghurt…

…well…anyone in the UK knows it wasn’t just yoghurt, it was organic eldean strawberry and Scottish raspberry yoghurt, because after all, it’s not just marketing wank, it’s M&S marketing wank…

…I was amazed to see it cost just 120 calories.

“I’ll have two!” I thought in a wild frenzy of strawberrylicious, velvet-smooth, take me to bed or lose me forever yoghurt abandonment. I did. I had two. I ate them by the “General Refuse bin on the Cardiff Central concourse, then dropped the empty pots and went on my merry frozen way, full of the smug glow of self-satisfaction.

Then – and only then – I remembered the story about the labelling.

“Ahh, crap, it’s probably all a diet con,” I muttered to myself. “I’ve probably just eaten a pound and a half of raw lard, decorated with a blended garland of berries. Probably weigh about 23 stone in the morning now…”

Then I shrugged. That was nonsense. In fact of course it was M&S nonsense. Premium nonsense. But then, since the horsemeat scandal over here, who the hell knows what’s in what? Could have just consumed lark hearts in a pigs-nipple bouillabaisse for all any of us really know.

Was tasty though, and I got to at least indulge in the illusion of self-righteousness for a bit. 

Been reasonably good otherwise today – bran flakes and scrambled egg from the breakfast buffet – defying the practically physical laws of hotel buffets, especially ones you’re not personally paying for. Slab of veggie lasagne and mash for lunch (I like my five a day wrapped in pasta. Whaaaaat?) and a couple of coffees at Southampton station to ward of the increasingly fuck-you growly cold. Enough to keep the metabolism ticking over, without driving it to apoplexy on a day when basically my entire activity-spectrum involved: sitting.

And so, please gods, to home soon, and a new day of insane multi-directional busyness come in all probability the literal dawn.