What Your Meal Deal Says About You

Nothing brings the UK together quite like a Meal Deal (except, maybe, aggressively tweeting about Love Island, or the creeping unease of Michael Gove.) We're Meal Deal mad. Meal Deal, Meal Deal, Meal Deal. You love a Meal Deal, I love a Meal Deal. What's for lunch, mate? A Meal Deal? Class.

You can tell a lot about a person by their choice of Meal Deal. Why would you want to, you might ask? Well, as far as arbitrary ways to break up the crushing monotony of everyday life go, it's still better than a horoscope, and my need to find more ways to judge strangers I'll see for roughly anywhere between thirty seconds to four minutes, depending on what kind of slow shamble they'll take to reach the checkout, is all-encompassing.

So, on with it, then.

Chicken Salad Sandwich, Prawn Cocktail Crisps, Oasis

You're a sound cunt, you. You've spiced things up a bit, haven't you? You're a big sucker for the crunch of the cucumber mixing together with chilled chicken, the tang of the mayo, that sweet malted bread. You've gone a bit wild with the prawn cocktail, you're a bit dangerous. The primary colour packs of crisps don't do it for you. And you've grabbed an Oasis, because you're just sound, aren't you? You're the type of bloke that rocks up to a flat party with a separate pack of cans for everyone else, the type of guy who'll give your jacket to a girl in your friend group on the walk back from the club on a frozen winter's night even though she called you a cunt earlier and made you spill your double vodka coke so now your shoes are sticky and you thought about doing the same to her, but you didn't, did you? Because you're a nice guy, aren't you? You're the guy your ex-girlfriend brings to pre-drinks and you really, honestly want to hate him, you want him to mess up so horrifically that he makes you look like a viable option again. But he doesn't, and suddenly half the night's gone and he's bought half your drinks and given you a bit of a pep-talk in the smoking bit when you maybe started to cry but promised you weren't, and he's cheered you right up, hasn't he? You think you might love him as well, and when you look into his eyes you can see yourself reflected in them; suddenly you can recall each time you said you were going to go to the gym but never did in perfect detail, you can remember every time she suggested going to do something that you thought was a little bit out there—like couples yoga or antique hunting—and you wish you could go back and scream 'Yes! A thousand times yes! Never leave me!', but you know you can't do that, and this is your life now. And that he's your better. You're a footnote. You'll die alone surrounded by a mess of Dominos pizza boxes and wank socks.

Ahem. Yeah. Anyway. You're a hero. A silent hero. Give these people all your spare change.

Fajita Wrap, Thai Sweet Chili Crisps, Coke

You fucking hate yourself, don't you? Somewhere along the way you've been hurt so badly, so utterly destroyed, that you try to find a way to punish yourself in every aspect of your day-to-day life. You wear shorts in the winter, don't you? You deliberately don't wear sunscreen. You look at yourself in the mirror as you pluck your eyebrows to a soundtrack consisting solely of the sad James Blunt songs. You don't replace your broken headphones, where the sound only comes out of one of them properly and the other one is just a crackly, distorted mess. You don't change your socks after getting them a bit damp. You leave the house with 13 percent battery. Get help, mate, really. All your friends are worried about you.

Ham Sandwich, Ready Salted Crisps, Water

I dozed off just thinking about it. Your name's probably Emily if you're a girl, or Jack if you're a guy. You actually did the assigned reading at the start of uni, didn't you? You're the one that made a noise complaint during Fresher's and when everyone made jokes about you, you got really quietly teary and sent a multiple paragraph message to the group chat about how 'we should all be a bit nicer.' You label your milk and your cheese. And when you go to work you're actually working and not, you know, alt-tabbing out to a Reddit Thread about the weirdest kinks people have like the rest of us. You pre-prepare meals for the week and don't just scavenge and panic when it's close to lunchtime like a mangy dog in a backwater Russian village somewhere, where cars are pulled along by Clydesdale horses and the only entertainment comes from radio dramas from the 40s on loop on the communal village radio. You save up your vouchers. You know exactly how to wash each and every type of fabric. You've got your DVD collection alphabetized and you text like you're sending an e-mail. Fuck off, mate. Stop asking me if I want to come gorge-walking with you.

Anything from the 'Finest' Range

Just fuck off back to Pret, honestly.

A Pasta (But Not the Southern Fried Chicken One)

You're alright, yeah. I get it, man, sometimes sandwiches just don't cut it, sometimes what you need is a mess of cold, congealed pasta with some chunks of seasoned chicken through it. Or maybe you go for that Feta cheese one because it's the first week of January and you promised you'd start that diet this time, but you're losing hope because it's the fourth year in a row you've said that and by week three you've broken and you're going at a Bargain Bucket like you've been lost in the wilderness for eight years, and all your friends are drinking kale smoothies and you can see their abs but it's fine, isn't it? It's fine. Chill, take a breath, scoop another morsel of plain pasta with a side of bland cheese into your mouth, and try not to cry at your desk again. You can go home and watch Prison Break, can't you? Yeah. A nice little episode of Prison Break to put off the breakdown for at least another twenty-four hours.

Fridge Raiders

Look, mate, we really need to have a chat, to be honest. I've noticed you've been bringing those Fridge Raider things in—actually I noticed four months ago and every time I've wanted to say something but I'm British so I've suppressed the urge, even though they smell like absolute shit, and it always ends up manifesting on the drive home where I make rude gestures at a teenager in a Ford Fiesta going just slightly too slow—and you know, they just smell, don't they? They just smell. It's like that weird aroma that sticks to the shirt you wore to that grimy party, and even though you've washed it four times it just won't leave. The one that you'll get whiffs of that'll transport you back to someone's mouldy bathroom at four in the morning, and half the folk have absconded into the night and the other half are either dead or kicking about looking sad. And there's a guy in the bath called Chris who you've never met before tonight who keeps saying things like 'Yeah, honestly, man, I just don't know if people are being honest when they say they like hanging out with me, you know?' And his eyes are blinking at different times but he doesn't seem to notice and you don't know whether you should be nervous or not. That's what Fridge Raiders make me feel like when I smell them. Stop it.

Any Type of Smoothie

I've un-followed your fitness Insta and I know you know because you keep sending me invites to it.

One of Those Just Too Large Sausage Rolls

I've seen you here every day, and I've always thought you could be quite a laugh. You know, hard-working guy, friendly face. But now I've heard you make some quite worrying comments about how leaving the EU is 'taking our country back' on the phone outside and you're just not who I thought you were. Come on mate, really, who needs a sausage roll that size? What kind of day are you possibly gearing up for? I don't want any part of it.

Honestly, after a while, it becomes quite difficult to make decisions about a person's inner workings from their choice of lunch, but it doesn't mean I'm going to stop it. Maybe I should be less harsh in the future. Maybe I should stop thinking these things about people I've never said two words to and, you know, find out a bit about them. Yeah, that'd be nice, wouldn't it? I could work on improving myself, I could be less judgemental.

Or I could call anyone who gets a Mars Milk a man-child and get on with my day.