A much-loved purveyor of greased bird parts puts out a tender for its distribution and chooses – hello! – a lowest-offer boxshifter with no experience of moving soggy poultry. On day one, less than a third of the chain’s high street obesity farms receives its order of reformulated hen lumps.
This goes on for days. The British public panics and swamps the police with calls for justice. The fuzz point out, with some justification, that dealing with salt-fed chicken scarcity or Zinger-related disgruntlement is not high on their list of priorities. Meanwhile breasts and thighs go pale and sweaty in the backs of vans. Charities can’t take them, because hunger doesn’t kill people, chickens do. A lot of chopped chook gets chucked. Farmers and franchisees – small family businesses – bear the brunt.
The media loves it and schedules are cleared for minute-by-minute updates from the KF-cene of the crime. Slack-jawed Boneless Banquet gobblers, their pasty faces already de-scaling as withdrawal takes hold, line up to announce, wattles a-wobble, that this denial of their usual fat-stacked BucketFeast is dangerously prolonging their lives. Social media goes into meltdown with You Had One Job memes exploding servers across the country. KFC joins the laughter with a ‘We’re shit aren’t we?” shrug.
For some this is an early glimpse of the post-apoplectic world we’ll live in after Brexit, where nothing works and no one cares. For others its proof of the end of capitalism, the final yards of a race to the bottom, where profiteers strip every last morsel of stringy wet flesh off the bones of commerce. And for some it’s just a whimsical caprice of fat that taps into the nation’s abiding love of a good old British failure.
Are we going to hell in a bargain bucket?