A proper soak
Oh, Wotsits. How much do I love thee? You taste like salty, crunchy magic. You bear no relation to cheese, or even actual food, but who cares? I adore you. I want Estee Lauder to develop Wotsit-flavoured orange lipstick just to have your borderline minging taste constantly at my disposal. I love the way you melt my gums. Other crisps are just vinegar-soaked Styrofoam nuggets compared to you. You are the King of Corn Snacks, The President of Cheesy Puffs.
Like the assassination of JFK or 9/11, everyone remembers where they were when they had their first Wotsit. I was sitting on the corner of Heathbank Road and Howard Avenue wearing a fake Frankie Goes To Hollywood t-shirt from Stockport Market when someone I knew came along and introduced me to a mysterious bag of tangerine coloured crack. Now, years later, I have a barely controllable habit. These delicious orange commas are the punctuation in my sentences, those sentences mostly involving the words: ‘Need, more, Wotsits, now.’
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What’s incredible about Wotsits is their unique ability to disgust. Quavers talk a good game about their cheesiness, but can their stench knock out a tramp at 10 paces? No. Few crisps can coat your skin in orange filth and render you unapproachable for days quite like the Wotsit. It is not a snack that cares for social niceties. After eating a bag, you may as well have smeared your genitals with Stilton and be pointing a hot hairdryer at your crotch, farting the theme tune to Take Me Out. Eat them before a meeting and NOBODY will talk to you, meaning you’ll have plenty of time to look out of the window, wondering when you can go home and eat more Wotsits.
Yep, you can keep your McCoys and your Monster Munch and your prohibitively expensive balsamic vinegar and Roquefort Kettle Chips. I’m a Wotsit gal through and through. If you cut me, I bleed radioactive orange dust. Admittedly, I’ve got no friends, but I’m so out of my face on cheese powder, I couldn’t care less.
