Just when I thought I'd discovered all the delightful things there was to discover about Scottish cuisine, this purple chariot appeared in our driveway on Saturday night.
"Is this some sort of Mr Whippy van?" I asked Gareth, peering out the window in confusion. "Aye! Except everything's deep fried!" They weren't playing Greensleeves, but the pungent scent of shrivelled chunks of potato was enough to lure the neighbours out onto the street clutching fivers, their mouths shiny with Pavlovian drool. Gareth was all misty-eyed and nostalgic as we watched the spectacle. He hadn't seen a chip van in years. Back in the day, before he turned vegetarian, he would buy a cheeseburger. Not your fancy McDonalds ones with the dainty onions and smoothy, shiny buns, but a hardcore Scottish cheeseburger – a lump of mysterious manufactured flesh and gristle with the highly processed cheese already inside! "Like a chicken Kiev!" he explained, "Except shite!" As soon as the hoardes were served they closed the shutters. This little delinquent came running down the street as they pulled away, throwing himself onto the back of the van. He whooped and cheered as they sped off into the sunset. Some people will do anything for a bag of chips.