A BRIEF HISTORY OF CHIPPY TEA

 

“And then they had Chippy Tea on the way home.”

So wrote JRR Tolkien at the very end of The Lord of the Rings, the battles won, Sauron defeated, the One Ring destroyed, and friendships maintained. 

Those final words in what is arguably the greatest saga written in the English language confirms one thing that binds us all together as a people, as humans, as rational beings, in an idea that goes all the way back to the early days of Christendom.

Chippy Tea. 

The great prophet, procrastinator and sometimes writer Douglas Adams once theorised that every civilisation in the universe had a concept called “Gin and tonics”, which formed part of an end-of-day ceremony relaxing from the rigours of life.

Be that as it may, any civilisation that thinks mixing something that tastes of horse’s piss with something else that tastes of horse’s piss, then serving it with ice and lemon as a means of relaxation deserves its ultimate destruction.

While Adams was correct vis-a-vis the universal proliferation of gin and tonics, what he failed to note was that this only applied to those sections of society who considered drinking horse’s piss a good thing. 

Instead, scholars who have spent their lives and piddling research grants looking into this sort of thing say that what he should have noted was the idea of the Chippy Tea, which is both classless and doesn’t taste of the passed water of equine species. 

Chippy Tea, then (known in some parts of the Union as Fish Supper) is the genuinely universal constant, a reward for a hard day at work that any sentient being can enjoy.

In its classic form, Chippy Tea is defined by its very British form: deep fried fish or deep fried sausage, accompanied by deep fried chipped potatoes, all wrapped in paper, which is itself deep fried, purchased from a fish and chip shop.

The connoisseur may embellish their chippy tea with additions from the chip shop menu, such as a pickled onion, a pickled egg, or a pickled deep fried Mars Bar.

And here’s the important part: There is no point-scoring among those who partake in a Chippy Tea, because Chippy Tea is an end unto itself, and it is considered bad form to criticise another diner’s choices. 

This is important when you remember that the first Chippy Tea, in which Jesus himself fed the multitudes with five loaves and two fish, resulted in absolutely nobody complaining about a) the portion sizes, b) the fact that the invention of chips was over a millennium away, and c) nobody having the wit to get a Deliveroo in.  

Down the centuries, Chippy Tea (always capitalised, never preceded the definite article) on the way home followed the Lord Christ’s example that it is a reward for a job well done; or a pick-me-up for those times when (and to quote St Paul’s letter of complaint to the Romans) “it’s all turned to shit, lads”. 

The Emperor Claudius brought Chippius Teaus to the people of the British Isles during the Roman invasion of AD40, but it didn’t reach what would become its true heartlands until Agricola’s campaign against the northern Celts in AD73.

From then on, Chippius Teaus became universal - at spearpoint if necessary - and a central part of culture under the Roman occupation. Indeed, a recently discovered midden at Hardian’s Wall turned up pages from the Daily Caesar newspaper, perfectly preserved in fat from  Chippy Tea, inscribed with the words “Centurian Flavius - cod and large chips, salt and vinegar, mushy peas”. 

One can only presume that following the collapse of the Roman Empire, the Dark Ages, various invasions of Saxons, Vikings and anybody who thought they were hard enough, the idea of Chippy Tea on the way home remained part of the psyche of the people who would eventually become known as the Britons. 

However, there are no written records until the Domesday Book of William the Conqueror, which mentioned such establishments as “Greasy Joe’s Chippy” in areas scores of miles away from fresh fish shops. Even then, the uncomprehending Normans tried to suppress Chippy Tea, and replace it with Gitanes and a Gallic Shrug, which - unsurprisingly - did not catch on among the more stoic Britons.

It’s at this point that you may be asking the very pertinent question “Why is it called Chippy Tea when potatoes were not introduced to Europe until the 16th Century?” The answer to this is simple: Shut up, you fool.

The more complicated answer is, however, “arrangements were made”. 

Take, for example, King Henry V’s famous speech before the Battle of Agincourt on 25th October 1415. Most Shakespearen scholars know the words by heart:

“...we happy few, we band of brothers; for he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile, this day shall gentle his condition; and gentlemen in England now-a-bed shall think themselves accursed they were not here, and hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks that fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.”

What is largely forgotten is Kenneth Branagh’s words immediately after, to whit:

“Chippy Tea on the way home, lads! The Earl of Westmoreland’s turn to pay.”

And it is here that the Bard of Stratford reminds us that if there were ever a controversy about Chippy Tea, it is that of whose turn it is to pay.

Among any group of people who regularly partake in Chippy Tea, there is always an Earl of Westmoreland, for whom it is always their turn to pay. 

For some whose station in life to be the “Earl”, this is an honour, but for others it’s seen as a damn cheek, and often ends in violence in which the “Earl” is reminded of their place in the pecking order, usually through the means of a good kick in the fork. Hence the phrase “had his chips”.

The idea of Chippy Tea as a universal constant truly separate from the idea of the Adamsian “Gin and Tonics” comes, not surprisingly, from Marxist theory.

Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels had both moved to England because of the poor quality of German Chippy Tea, with Engels complaining to anybody who would listen that “they’re the wurst, dude”.

It was in their 1848 treatise Das Manifest der Kommunistischen Partei, otherwise known as The Communist Manifesto, that the magnificently hirsute duo seized the means of production of Fisch und Chips Abendessen from the public school-educated bourgeoisie (immortalised by the Bunteresque “Time of a feast, eh readers?”), and “plaiced” it back in the hands of the working proletariat. 

Freed from the shackles of Capitalism, Chippy Tea was free to take root wherever one or more people thought they needed a heart attack wrapped in paper on the way home, provided somebody known locally as Greasy Joe had got their act together with a deep fat fryer and a premises that meets or exceeds local authority public health policies. 

One would like to say that Chippy Tea is universal. And in a way it is. From the classic deep fried everything from Scotland’s central belt (the acknowledged global capital of Chippy Tea) to the refined and minimalist Chippy Tea Ceremonies in Japan’s ancient capital of Kyoto, there are few places in the multiverse where Chippy Tea is not celebrated.

And that one place where you’d be hard-pressed to find Chippy Tea is the United States of America.

The roots of this yawning gap in American culture go back to the 16th December 1773 and an event known as the Boston Tea Party, correctly known as the Boston Tea And Chip Batter Party.

Not only were the American Patriots flinging the East India Company’s tea into the harbour, but also 36 chests of concentrated fish and chip batter, an act against the hated Batter Tax which strangled Chippy Tea in the nascent United States at birth.

The only positive from this action was that the batter solidified in the waters of Boston Harbour, allowing the attackers to flee the British authorities, before having McDonald’s on the way home. 

In a post-modern age riven by secularism, post-truth politics, and society divided in ways that previous power-mad dictators can only dream, Chippy Tea stands as a rock that binds us to our humanity.

But even a rock (deep-fried as an alternative to dwindling stocks of cod) is not immune from danger. We must keep our eyes open to attempts to dilute the power of Chippy Tea On The Way Home. Blasphemies like sweet potato fries and items derived from fancy cheeses are appearing, along with catering-sized vats of something called “non-brewed condiment” that claims to be vinegar.

This will not do. 

Continuity Chippy Tea militants have vowed to put an end to these deviations from the One True Path, the lie of Hipster Chippy Tea, which must be destroyed along with their penny farthing delivery bikes. 

Chippy Tea is part of national identity in a globalised marketplace. It defines us (largely as fat bastards), it is who we are. 

For if we reach an age - even in a post nuclear wasteland, or crawling through the ashes of an extinction level giant asteroid collision - where we cannot pile into Greasy Joes and order “cod and chips twice, fish cake and chips, pie and chips, and a pickled egg” on a Friday night, then we as a people are lost.

Crowsley Park, and how it won the Cold War and killed Doctor Who

It has been more than twenty years since I, the Boy Technician, formed the last wave of staff to work at the BBC's receiving station at Crowsley Park in South Oxfordshire. That's what it looked like back then.

But because of changes in the way TV and radio are broadcast around the world, it has changed a bit since.

Somebody has gone and bricked up half the windows, taken out all the antennae used for radio reception, and added a double-decked gantry of satellite dishes.

And the opening of the new satellite array, plus the refurbishing of the existing big dishes was the reason I went back today. Also, to see if there are still traces of the old Crowsley Park to be found.

Just feast your eyes on the beauties, fellow nerds. These allow BBC Monitoring to pick up signals from those "difficult" countries where a titchy dish on the roof of Broadcasting House just won't do.

And yes, I went up there, because it would be rude not to.

"Do not walk in front of the dishes," we were told.

We only walked in front of the dishes a tiny little bit.

It also seemed entirely possible to install a satellite dish upside-down.

Our technical teams - however - are made of stern stuff, and on close inspection, none of the dishes were installed upside-down.

And yes, dear reader, I did a little squee of delight at the 4.5m dish from where we receive North Korean television.

The pure, undiluted Kimjongilist-Kimilsungist nonsense that this one dish has to put up with. I'm going to nominate it for some sort of medal.

The state of that.

But there's one thing missing when you compare-and contrast the top two photos on this post.

Where - I hear you ask - is the HF Tower? Where is the stonking great structure from which Tom Baker fell in his last ever episode as the Fourth Doctor in Doctor Who?

The HF Tower that - somehow, and for budgetary reasons I should think - doubled up as the Jodrell Bank radio telescope, from which the Doc made the ultimate sacrifice in defeating The Master?

Alas, this concrete anchoring block seems to be all that is left of the tower, which came down in 2014.

And this is the lonely patch of grass where Adric, Tegan and Nyssa would have gathered round the stricken Doctor as he regenerated. Except they did that bit in the studio, because dignity.

A production shot from Logopolis taken on the Crowsley Park grounds. One of these characters ends episode four looking like a television vet.

And off we went down the field to look at the 10 metre dishes.

This is Dish One, which back in the day was set loose on chasing Soviet satellites around the sky.

To save money and to increase their useful lives, Soviet Ghorizont satellites weren't particularly geostationary, which meant that a significant part of one's shift chasing after a sparkly TV signal.

All this was done from the comfort of one's vigorously air conditioned control room, and today was the first time I've seen it done for real, out the middle of a not vigorously air conditioned field.

Due to being severely outranked by the person operating the dish, I am not at liberty to comment on the quality of their technique, or the shoddiness thereof. But they're not usually that high up, and that angle is only really useful as a bird bath.

There now follows a section of interest only to the old boys who worked at Crowsley Park (and because the staff was largely drawn from engineers, radio enthusiasts, and former armed forces signals types, it was almost an exclusively male preserve. It was only in much later years after Crowsley was converted to a remotely-controlled site that the patriarchy was finally smashed).

I only knew Sting (who only looked a bit like Sting), and Incorrigible Roger (who is indeed incorrigible). Reliably informed that Ooze still lives locally.

That's just the taster. Because there is no need for people to actually be there these days (but it is still staffed on a fairly regular basis because of engineering REASONS, and BBC engineers are made of stern stuff and can work even under the foulest of conditions), the following are all entitled "What have they done to my lovely..."

...bandscan desk?

...Engineering Interception Room? (before and after) - this was where radio from around the world was received, playing a significant part in reporting on the Cold War and (on more than one occasion) actually saving the planet. It's now the computer room, so doing much the same thing, only faster and in a dust-free environment.

...shift supervisor's office? Once the home of many blinking lights and an exquisitely hand-coloured illustration of HF band occupancy, now the UPS room.

But there are still traces of the old place if you look hard enough.

And exit via the gift shop.

Except there isn't a gift shop, just the mansion. Once home to the Baskerville family with the canine problem, now the beautifully restored domicile of [celebrity who values his family's privacy].

A note on access: The site is privately-owned, but there are several public footpaths so visitors may go see by foot. Please keep to the paths.

Do respect the privacy of the households who live there; and do realise that the Crowsley Park reception building is fenced off with strictly no access to visitors - large and very serious people will come along at all hours and give you a good talking to.

And if the large and serious people do not find you, the wild animals who have evolved untouched by humanity on the site will, and future archaeologists may eventually find your broken corpse down among the cable ducts which still criss-cross the site.

PRO TIP: The lunchtime shift was obliged to bring cake from the shop at Sonning Common. So do bring cake.

CRP was an extraordinary place to work. I was in the last group of people to work there as one of its operators, and only saw it as it faded into the night.

But I've a) never worked so hard in a workplace and b) never had so much fun, and it genuinely has sparked life-long friendships.

So I'm glad to see it's still not dead, and still a vital part of the place where I work. As the misprint says: NO REGERTS.

UPDATE: Here's BBC World Service Group director Jamie Angus cutting the ribbon on the new facility with BBC Monitoring director Liz Howell and members of the tech teams who worked on the project (Photo: Chris Stannard)

UPDATE 2: One from the 1990s, and an example of what might happen to your 11-metre Ku-band dish - already operating at the very eastern limit of its look angle for Iranian broadcast sources - is asked to look even more east and falls off the end of its track. You may be delighted to learn that, yes, it did buff out. (Photo: Martin Peters)

The beverage antennas and the curtain array, all removed by 2014. Walking the lines provided the usually office-bound operator with a bracing walk around the park, if the cows didn't get you. (Photo: Martin Peters)

And the very heart of the beast - the Engineering Interception Room console, where the operator could tune shortwave radios and feed the signals to the monitors back at Caversham Park. The most endearing feature of the desk was that it was exactly the right height to crack your knees, or failing that, spear your thigh on the headphone jack. (Photo: Martin Peters)

On tonsillitis and begging for the sweet release of death

Today marks the final day of my 53rd year on this planet, and - to be perfectly frank - things could have gone better.

I've gone virtually the whole of 2020 suffering from colds, flu, man flu, actual tonsillitis, and now what can only be described as Jamie Oliver Syndrome, whereby one's tongue has grown far too large for the rest of my face.

Yes, the world has more important things to worry about - for eg Wuhan coronavirus - but Jamie Oliver Syndrome is happening to me, personally, now and that means I'm damn well going to whine about it right here right now.

I'm not entirely sure what's caused this bout of illness. But the pattern is clear - it only flares up when I wear my new and entirely cursed hat (below), made out of real witch.

That is, of course, what it known as a "lie". I do not own a hat which is in any way cursed. The true explanation for my misery is self-inflicted: I am a middle-aged slightly diabetic chap who weighs slightly too much who is finding that his 53rd time around the sun has been a tad slower than the previous 52.

Also, life is full of disappointments. In my case, it's the disappointment at waking up every morning with Jamie Oliver Tongue, but not Jamie Oliver Bank Balance, which - frankly - sucks. And blows.

Anyway, just so you know, here is a list of things which are of no help at all when you are dying of tonsillitis:

• Wishing for the sweet release of death
• Punching yourself repeatedly in the throat
• Knitting needle through your eardrum
• Complaining that when you have tonsillitis as an adult you do not get ice cream and presents like your brother got when he got tonsillitis as a child
• Being bitter that your brother got ice cream and presents
• Wishing for the sweet release of death
• Speaking
• Breathing
• Anything at all
• Wishing for the sweet release of death
• Posting a photo titled "Dramatic Dmitry" on your social media in the hope of getting at least a single ounce of sympathy

• Wishing for the sweet release of death

Did I mention it was my birthday tomorrow? *cough* Amazon Wish List *cough*

In summary:

That Donald Trump handshake gif

Right click, save. You're welcome. 

Donald Trump FACTS!

"Fffff.... fffff.... fffff..."

He's the leader of the free world, keen golfer and host of popular TV show The Apprentice. But DID YOU KNOW...?

- Obama told Trump that bins night was Tuesday, when it's actually Thursday. Donald put the bins out two days early and was fined $100.

- Donald's favourite Indiana Jones film is Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. He also thought A Good Day To Die Hard was a "great movie, one of the best".

- Donald will sign an executive order this week to figure out, exactly, if wrestling is fixed.

- Donald's favourite Strictly Come Dancing professional is Anton du Beke.

- Donald thinks that you sue people for "liable".

- Donald's favourite piece of music is Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries", which he calls the "Kill the Wabbit song".

- Donald has changed the nuclear launch codes to "password", because he knows nobody will think of that.

- Donald believes Louis Walsh when he tells one of his X Factor acts that they're better than The Beatles.

- Donald swears he didn't order those films from Virgin Media, it was his brother Ronald.

- Donald thinks it's still called Emmerdale Farm.

- Donald thinks the White House microwave is a television. He loves that programme about the bowl of nachos.

- Donald thinks it's "lack toast and tolerant". And "peddle stool".

- Donald has launched an urgent Congressional Enquiry into how Toadfish from Neighbours' wife could come back from the dead after all these years when we all saw her go over that cliff in the car.

- Donald's mobile phone ring tone is Crazy Frog.

- Donald calls Loughborough "Looga-barooga"

Let's hear it for Donald Trump!

Lines on my local council not emptying my green bin yesterday

I return from blogging semi-retirement as my local newspaper has asked me to pen some lines on the occasion of Hart District Council neglecting to collect my Christmas tree from outside my home yesterday. As nothing else of importance has happened in the world recently, I was happy to oblige.

BEHOLD.

____________________________________________

Dear the Fleet News and Mail,

As a local council tax payer who is also a paid-up member of the Hart Council green bin collection scheme, I was apoplectic with rage when they failed to collect my Christmas tree last week, despite promises to the contrary on council literature.

Rather than clog up your editorial pages with such important issues as municipal waste collection, I thought it would be more suitable to recount my tale of woe through the medium of verse.

After all, if it were good enough for the likes of Shakespeare, Keats and Tennyson to complain about their bins in this manner (Keats' "Lines on My Bin Going Unemptied For a Month" is a classic of the so-called Dustbin-Realist genre), then it's good enough for me.

Yours furiously

Alistair Coleman

Ode to Hart District Council and their shocking omission to collect our Christmas tree, even though we are fully paid-up members of their green collection scheme

By Alistair Coleman, Bard of Fleet, aged nearly 51

The local council bin men forgot my Christmas tree

Now it's sitting outside my house oh dearie dearie me

'What am I supposed to do now?' is something that I think

It could poke someone in the eye and blind a kiddiewink.

We even pay a council fee to have the extra bin

But what's the point, I wonder, if they ignore the tree within

I might just pull the blessed thing out and leave it on the grass

Or take it to the council office and shove it up their back stairs*.

January 20th 2017 will go down in infamy

Not because of Donald Trump, but because of my Christmas tree

All I can do is point and rage, it simply just won't do

And write these words in fury and send them in to you.

Now it's time to stand up and fight against this injustice

Who's with me to march and prove we really don't like this?

Gather your rakes and burning torches, I'll meet you all in town

I hope you've got legal knowledge because the cops will send us down.

*Sorry, couldn't think of a rhyme.

London 2012: Four years later

Four years ago, we held the Olympic Games in London.

We welcomed to world to our country with open arms, and we genuinely feel like we were part of something huge. Something important. Something to make us proud about Britain's place in the world.

Now it's 2016, and look at the state of us. Hateful, selfish, insular, stupid, threatening to throw out the people we called our guests. I'm ashamed.

So, here are some of the photos I took at the time of the Games, the test events, the people and the Good Times.

Here's to the return of better days.

Well Fancy That! No.5

An occasional series explaining the origins of well-known words and phrases

No.5: "Master of the Rolls"

WHO is the Master of the Rolls, and what does he do?

In olden days, judges had to make their own meals, but it was found that instead of doing important judging, they would spend their mornings deciding what they were going to have for lunch.

This led to all sorts of judicial cock-ups, not least the infamous Bloody Assize, when Judge Jeffreys was so busy deciding between Starbucks or a Quarter-Pounder from Ye Golden Arches that he accidentally sent 347 men to the gallows, and they had to send out for more rope.

So what exactly, does the Master of the Rolls, Britain's top judicial post do? The answer to this question is a simple one: It is is a traditional post, handed down through the centuries to the most senior judge in the country, usually after a legal career lasting many years, without falling asleep on the job.

He has seen infamous suspects come and go, criminals, traitors, politicians and has handed down judgements in some of the most important cases in recent years, and it is now time for him to take it easy. The Master of the Rolls does one job and one job only - he is in charge of the lunch menu at the Old Bailey.

In Italian law, the equivalent post is Il Padrone di Panini; while in Germany he is Der Bratwurstmesiter. The same post in the United States Supreme Court is traditionally held by a man called Greasy Joe.

So now you know! Share this with your friends and see their jaws quite literally drop!!

Well, Fancy That! No.4

An occasional series explaining the origins of well-known words and phrases.

No.4: "A stitch in time saves nine"

WHERE did the popular phrase "A stitch in time saves nine" come from, and what does it mean?

While it sounds like the kind of line that your grandmother might have used, the phrase only dates back to the mid-1980s and the rise of the television infomercial. 

"A stitch in time saves nine" was invented by an advertising agency to go with a "miracle" sewing device that can still be found at lower-quality car boot sales, and its meaning has been largely forgotten after a mysterious tax-efficient fire destroyed the factory.

Experts in the English language now agree that it's "just a load of wanky bollocks, and anybody who uses it immediately exposes themselves as being a bit UKIP".

So now you know! Impress your friends and family with this new-found knowledge!!

Well, Fancy That! No.3

An occasional series looking at the origin of well-known phrases or sayings.

No.3: "U OK hun?"

WHY do people on social media use the words "U OK hun?" to denote concern?

BECAUSE a similar phrase was already in use in the olden days and has simply lain dormant in our lexicography waiting for the right time to come back into fashion.

It actually comes from the last year of the First World War, when a British soldier accidentally discharged his weapon while accepting the surrender of a German soldier and shot him in the foot.

His exclamation "I'm terribly sorry, but are you alright, you swine of a Hun?" has since been shortened for the internet age and taken up with gusto.

So now you know! Next time somebody uses "U OK hun?" on social media you can impress them by showing them this page!!