The problem with Canada’s kebab places is they’re too clean and healthy. I want a proper British kebab.
I want an angry brown man who is 94% beard to hand me a congealed slab of suspicious meat drenched in garlic sauce. Like I can tell you the kebab I’m eating right now isn’t a real kebab because I’m eating it while sober. The Kebab shop is always ran by a huge dude called Amir. Amir does not speak English. He does speak every other language in the world. Including “I’m shit myself drunk” -ese. “HARGHN JUGHBO GELRCIH PLAGHS?” you ask him. He nods. He begins shaving “meat” off that huge fucking rotisserie beef thing. Your brain, floating as it is in vodka, offers one word, “hoss?”. Amir grins. He has heard that joke before. There’s no horse in Amir’s kebabs. Oh no. Horse is for those fancy fuckers on main street. Amir’s meat is heady mix of rat, greyhound and eastern European girls who aren’t very good at holding their breath. Amir gestures to the sad-looking vegetables on the counter, but you’ve already fell asleep with your face pressed against the counter glass. Amir tops your kebab with lettuce, cucumbers, bubble wrap and Styrofoam. He then adds so much garlic sauce that those ingredients cease to be. Amir grunts, and hands you your kebab. He grunts again when you nearly leave without paying. You stagger back to the counter and thrust a – wad of sweaty fivers into his hands. Amir gives you your exact fucking change. The next minutes look like a mix between the walking dead and a particularly messy bukkake video. You pass a young couple, you attempt a smile. You look like you just came off the casting couch with Peter North. Eventually you make it home, leaving a slimy trail of garlic sauce behind you. Then you fall asleep mid-shit on the toilet. You awake to the gentle touch of cool porcelain. Your throat and tongue seem to have sprouted hair. One of your eyes is crusted shut. Know now that this is your heritage and your legacy. You are a man of Britain my son. Change your sheets before you go out for a night on the town. It’s the best gift you can give your drunk self.