Post Kebab Shame, We've All Been There
Ben Cottingham| 10th August 2015
In towns and cities across the land, people wake up on a Saturday morning; a lucky few escaping the clutches of a hangover, some sneaking out of a strangers bed before the walk of shame home. Most head into the kitchen, to make a mug of life saving tea or coffee; we open the fridge for some milk, and the realisation hits us. That takeaway box wasn’t there when I went out last night...
What could be in this box? A burger? Fried chicken? A doner kebab? According to Schrödinger, there could be all three of these at the same time! Now, wonders of theoretical physics aside, we come to the heart of this article- what on earth did you eat last night, and why?!
If we’re lucky it’s some chicken, in my opinion, the most palatable of late night fast food, for me this is usually the case (shout out to Roosters for those of you familiar with Selly Oak). One step further into the vicious depths of ‘post-kebab-shame’ is the greasy burger, topped with plastic cheese and limp salad, accompanied by over-salted fries. But the namesake of the shame, and indeed this article is obviously the worst of the given examples, and I want to think about why.
What is it about a kebab that draws such violent reactions from friends and family? I made the mistake of ordering a kebab for dinner (sober I might add), to the horror of my housemates as I tucked into the garlic-sauce-laden “lamb”. I don’t get it? You’ve had a big night out, maybe you smashed your friend at pool after six pints, or perhaps the squad was out in force, tearing up a local club. In either case, you’ve worked up a hunger that only delicious, greasy, golden-fried goodness can satisfy. At 3am calories don’t matter, what matters is whether you have enough money for a kebab AND a cab fare home. No one wants to be the guy with cheesy chips, surrounded by towering burgers or crispy fried chicken.
The purpose of this food, whatever it may be, is to soak up as much of the alcohol in your system as possible and send you in to a fat-induced coma before you realise what you’ve just eaten. To sober-me, this is not a good decision, but irresponsible drunk-me usually has other ideas. Perhaps the most unpleasant thing is the choice we face the next day, do I finish this kebab, or do I throw it away? I mean, you spent hard-earned money on that food, even if it tastes of regret and bad-dancing.
Whatever the outcome of this choice, the deed has been done. I ate that kebab and I hated myself afterwards. But the worst part of this whole thing? I bloody-well enjoyed it.
