Best Before Jan 2003

Oh, here we go again the pantry door is opening for no less than the nineteenth time today. Who is it this time? Scaly arms, Bart Simpson tattoo, dirty fingernails. Well of course, fat boy! What’s he after this time? Oh, sweet jar has took a knock. Blimey I haven’t seen the bisto being pushed aside like that in weeks. He must be after something interesting. Oh I see, popcorn right at the back. I thought he had forgotten about that. Clearly not. Well that’s him sorted out for the rest of the night, munching on toffee popcorn like a bear gnawing on a drumstick. Corr, I bet it’s soft. its been in there for yonks. How would I know that? Well I have been spending the last five years cooped up on the bottom shelf of this cupboard hiding behind a tin of marrowfat peas, like a ten pin bowling pin, that’s how. 

I mean when are they going to see me? Probably when the marrowfat peas disappear I guess. You would think they would go quickly wouldn't you? What with the name marrow-FAT. After all this family eats more than a Chinese army. Opening the pantry door at all hours like a plague of gannets. Its amazing how I know what the time is. I mean its not as if I get woken up by the cockerel on the cornflakes box is it? Well Ill let you in on a little secret (don’t tell the green giant, or anyone else for that matter) I have a sneaky look at fat boys watch as he feeds his hands through the shelves like a raccoon   So I know exactly when he snacks more so than what his wife does. 

I’ve got to say though his wife is quite nice to the tins in this neck of the larder. In fact sometimes she gives them the once over with a feather duster, tickling the corn beef, the sweet corn, the ambrosia custard, the john west salmon, even the bloody peas but she doesn’t dust me does she?. Oh no! I get ignored time and time again.  Sometimes I wish I wasn't a tin of pears in syrup. I mean who wants pears in syrup anyway. Still it could be worse. I could be maintaining a permanent handstand position like the tomato ketchup with all of the sauce rushing to its lid like blood. I mean what do these people think this is, condiment Olympics. What’s next? The sugar puff monster practicing javelin with lolly pop sticks, the green giant doing the 10 inch race in the frying pan race track. I mean seriously, the way they treat us! 

Here’s another thing, I don’t like the way the haribo kid keeps grinning at me like a Cheshire cat. I mean why is he so happy anyway? Oh I know why, no sooner he’s in the pantry he’s out again because sweets are these kids favourite. how could I forget? It was like the other night fat boy had been eating something that needed honey, maybe weetabix. So the pantry door opens out comes fat boys hand picking up the squirty bottle of honey. This I don’t mind so much, but when the honey bottle gets put back it dribbles like a child, oozing honey from its lid like a tree sap, disgusting it was. 

Oh, the doors opening again. Painted nails, perfectly manicured. Yep, there she is, the wife. Oh, she’s putting the shopping away, new residents; pickled eggs, beetroot, walkers crisps. Welcome to hell I say. It wasn't as bad as the other day though, when fat boy put the shopping away, throwing tins of baked beans at us like bowling balls. Then came the worst horror of all, he only brought another tin of pears didn't he, idiot! And we all know what tin will get eaten first don’t we? I swear that tin keeps turning around and laughing at me, flaunting his low fat logo like a giant billboard. And what do I have stamped on my head, best before Jan 2003 for pity sake.

Anyway that’s enough moaning for one day. I’m bored so I think I’ll find pepper and wind him up about how his partner salt has been assigned to the dinner table on a more permanent basis with a vase of daffodils as company. I know how to shake these guys up the wrong way. I've had enough time to practice.