Anyone who has any experience of me whatsoever will know that I am far from a manly man (I own a Lhasa Apso, for God’s sake). But when I’m holding a Walkers Deep Ridged Crisp – DRC for short – I feel like the lovechild of Zeus and The Incredible Hulk. Granted, there are several issues here, such as the fact that, even were they real creatures, they would be unable to procreate. But no progeny of a mere woman could come close to the manliness I feel myself to possess when I have DRC betwixt my thumb and forefinger.
The packet under consideration was purchased from a friendly middle-aged man in a sandwich shop in Shoreditch. Believe me, these crisps were probably the manliest thing Shoreditch has seen in the last decade. My cheese and onion DRCs tasted as though the cheese had erupted as molten lava from Vesuvius, poised to boil a dozen Shoreditch weaklings in its wake. And the ridges were like the bloody Grand Canyon. Truly, those ridges were deep, in every possible sense of the word ‘deep’.
These crisps are so manly, so virile, so potent, that I am probably pregnant now. With twins.