Gherkin

As I ate fois gras with Mrs Acular and the Twins Aculae earlier today, we pondered why the gherkin always appears in certain 'culinary offerings'. Take a bite, spit it out - for a gherkin rests within. Why?

I'll tell you why.

Because the McDonalds Corporation is doing me a favour. And let me explain.

Ronald McDonald doesn't just buy a peck of pickled cucumbers, but rather an entire GDP of pickled cucumbers. They do so in order to enhance the experience of the Big Mac eater. And glad we are too. Except that I have never met a soul who doesn't be-grease his or her fingers in the extraction of the slimy green disc of gammy sludge that resides between the nasty dayglo mustard and the wangy cheese that has no more seen a cow than my gerbils. Such is the accepted architecture of the modern burger, a la McDonalds. We all loathe them, we all pick them out, but yet the Golden Arches clan continues to insinuate gherkins into the heart of the English Burger. 

Better that they are though.

The thing is, if McDonalds stop putting gherkin into my burger, the great Gherkin Conglomerate in deepest Gherkinland would, in a trice, go out of business. That would generate a specific and calculated response from Christian organisations, each desiring to keep the gherkin industry afloat.

With the sweep of a dozen committees and the issuing of a dozen more edicts, we would all become Fair Gherkin Churches, members together of Fair Gherkin Dioceses.

Then, instead of the noble Sunday morning coffee, we'd all be committed to sup gherkin juice ... for God.

So, McDonalds - know now that we delight in you putting gherkins into your food. If you didn't, people like me would have coffee mornings to save the green perils.