Crisps. *tch*
Primary school kids have no sense of proportion.

Lunchtime, and someone had brought with them a bag of "Brannigan's Beef & Mustard Crisps". These were *special* crisps. They were thick-cut, crunchy, hearty things with proper flavour, and they had what looked like a fat child-molesting butcher on the packet, grinning his fat red grin.

Mustard. Whoooooo. These were *strong* crisps - they'd blow your fucking face off if you put two in your mouth at once. You had to be well 'ard to eat these bastards. Someone ended up in HOSPITAL because of these once, honest!

So of course, he had one crisp, made comical flapping motions and offered them up to the rest of us. Some of them didn't have the guts, but I was game.

"Bet you can't eat 'em all", said my mate. Well I'd decided I could take it. I wasn't a girl.


I ate them all. They were delicious. I received adulation and respect for *days* for that act of consumption. I could eat MAN CRISPS. I was a MAN.

They're fucking CRISPS!!!
(PyroTyger I ate all your bees., Thu 1 Nov 2007, 18:38, closed)

I found this review of them...
On picking up the packet of this recently relaunched, former indie snack beloved of real-ale drinkers, your gaze is met by what I imagine to be a kindly-looking Irish delicatessen-cum-butcher wearing a pristine white apron and boater, and a twinkle in his eye. he appears to be saying “come into my spotless back parlour and savour my quality product. Enjoy yourself. Not only is my product steeped in traditional values, but it has integrity, and has beef in it”. Suitably reassured by this subliminal greeting, the packet is opened. The nose is as you would expect of the standard-issue synthetic beef flavouring, laced with the lighter note of mildly acrid english mustard. However, this does not fully prepare you for what lurks within the packet. My first randomly plucked crisp was a truly magnificent specimen. It was as if it had been hewn freshly and thickly directly from a huge village fete prize-winning king edward, lovingly cradled in the makers hand, and placed gently into the finest oil, and at the apex of readiness, lifted, golden and triumphant from the oil, and allowed to cool, glowing in the warm late summer Irish sun, and finally dusted finely with the magic beefy mustardy powders. The bite of the crisp proves sturdy, and the onset of flavour is nothing short of a snack miracle. The familiar rich beef flavour soon gives way to a nostril-searing twang of traditional English Mustard. This experience is repeated until, all too soon, the packet lies empty. The now crumpled face of our friend now seems to be nodding and smiling, and saying softly, “yes, i understand..”

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I suspect that the reviewer is very much like Comic Book Guy on The Simpsons...
(The Resident Loon Don't worry, we're from the Internet!, Thu 1 Nov 2007, 19:59, closed)

I fucking loved those crisps!
But i cant find them anymore :'(
(Guilt wants to get in your moist confines, Thu 1 Nov 2007, 23:46, closed)

Guilt...
One place I know that sells them: Warwick University Costcutter.
( sudo is bored, Fri 2 Nov 2007, 14:49, closed)