Saucepangate – And so it begins!
I’m not entirely sure when the British became allergic to their very own culture….but the other day I stumbled upon a story so absurd that I had to check my pants weren’t on fire and I hadn’t been abducted by aliens and transported to another galaxy!
Apparently, a man — let’s call him Derek, even though his name is Karl — drove 90 minutes from his home in Ruislip to Bourton-on-the-Water…..you know, that picturesque Cotswold village famed for its stream, ducks, overpriced fudge, and more Barbour shops than a Young Farmers’ disco. And upon arrival, he did something truly shocking.
He left…….Within thirty minutes!
Why? ….and I swear I am not making this up…..because someone was eating out of a saucepan.
Yes……A saucepan. Not a crack pipe. Not the severed head of a wild boar. A saucepan!
Now I’ve seen some shocking things in my time. I once witnessed a man on the A470 try to dry his skiddy underpants by hanging them out of the window at 50mph in Pontypridd. But this? This is a new low in British fragility!
Really?
According to Karl, the presence of a picnic involving actual cookware was so absolutely appalling, so morally degrading, that he couldn’t possibly go on. He rounded up his traumatised children, presumably shielding their eyes from the harrowing sight of a family sharing a meal like savages which he later described as “truly awful.”
Truly awful? Really? REALLY!
I’ll tell you what’s truly awful Karl, Socks from Shein. Vegan cheese. Airports that tell you to arrive 3 hours early and then make you stand in a Pret with no seats and a sandwich that costs more than your flight. But a family eating sausage and beans out of a pan next to a stream? That’s not awful. That’s called camping without the tent.
Karl, who at 58 is presumably old enough to remember when picnics involved flasks of tea that tasted faintly of turps and sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper, decided that he must act.
So what has he done? He has written to the Parish Council to voice his blatant disapproval and requesting that they implement an immediate picnic ban.
Well of course he has!
‘Keep off the Grass’!
The Parish Council, bless them, politely reminded Mr Taylor that the grass is for everyone, saucepan-wielders included.
So Mr Taylor wants the Parish Council to put up “Keep Off the Grass” signs. This, in a country whose entire identity is based on tramping around fields in unsuitable footwear shouting, “It’s a public right of way, Maureen, just climb over the stile.”
It’s a village green, Karl. It’s not the Chelsea Flower Show.
Let me explain something. If you go to a Cotswold village at the weekend and expect to find peace and quiet, I’ve got some very bad news. You might as well complain that the sea is wet or that Jeremy Vine is smug. It’s a package deal.
Yes, people sit on the grass. Yes, they bring sandwiches. And sometimes, if they’re particularly rebellious, they bring a saucepan. Is it a crime? No. Is it a bit unorthodox? Well perhaps. But then again, so is eating quinoa, and half the country does that now with a straight face. Let’s face it, pan-based picnicking is hardly an act of war.
If Karl wanted tranquillity, he should’ve driven to the North York Moors, or better yet, bought noise-cancelling headphones and gone to a Travelodge in Swindon. But instead, he went to a tourist hotspot, at the weekend, in June, during half-term, and acted surprised when he found people.
It’s a little like going to a pub and complaining they serve beer. Karl, if you want the Cotswolds but without people, buy a jigsaw!
You Don’t Own the Countryside Karl!
What worries me more is the creeping idea that the countryside is only for a certain type of person. You know the ones: check trousers, pipe, and a deep suspicion of anyone who owns a flask from Millets.
If you’re not eating an artisan croissant, sprinkled with chocolate soil, served on a slate by a waitress called Cordelia, you’re considered a threat to civilisation.
Well I’ve got news. The countryside belongs to everyone Karl — including the saucepan brigade.
So next time I’m in Bourton-on-the-Water, I’m taking a camping stove, a folding table, and a full roast chicken. I might even bring my IKEA 365 frying pan. Let’s see how that goes down.
Because frankly, if someone eating out of a saucepan is the worst thing you’ve seen all week, you’re not living in the real world.
You’re living in Waitrose.
May we never forget the day England’s heritage was apparently dismantled by lasagne in a Le Creuset casserole!
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