And that, Pip, is why you should never buy a 9-pack of Warburtons crumpets
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And that, Pip, is why you should never buy a 9-pack of Warburtons crumpets
It was a cold, overcast day in Trottingham. Octavia was shopping at her local market with the plucky little Pipsqueak, who she was babysitting, in tow.
The splendid grey mare was busy in search of her usual Yorkshire tea and custard creams when she saw, out the corner of her eye, Pipsqueak cantering over and picking up a 9-pack of Warburtons crumpets. Octavia was outraged with Pip's lack of foresight in his decision, and quite rightly so!
"Pipsqueak!" she blasted. "Put those down!" she frowned.
Little Pip was defiant. "But Miss Melody, I'd really love some crumpets. We've only got one left back at home."
Octavia twitched nervously. "You already have Warburtons crumpets at home?" she fretted.
"Well yes. Usually, we buy them two packs at a time, but the last time we visited the store, they had but one!"
Octavia trotted swiftly over to Pip, took the crumpets from his hooves and placed them back on the shelf. "Pip. You should never buy Warburtons. Never."
Pip was upset that Octavia didn't approve of his love of crumpets. "But why not?" he sobbed.
Octavia pointed towards the packet of crumpets. "You see this?" her hoof circled the number '9' on the packet. "This is an odd number. We're British, my dear Pipsqueak, we don't eat an odd number of crumpets for breakfast! You'll get through eight of these, and realise you have only one left, so instead you buy two packs.
But you see Pip, my darling, that's what they want you to do. You buy them two packs at once, but that doesn't make them last longer, because you realise they're going to go out of date, so you eat more of them, and then you realise you've got no crumpets left for Thursday, so you make an extra trip to the store to buy more! You buy so much, you realise you've spent all of your Sterling on crumpets, but that's fine, because you borrow a little bit of money to hold you over until pay day.
But it doesn't end there, because before you know it, you're half way through next month when you realise you're out of money and out of crumpets again! You have to go for days without your precious crumpets. You get withdrawal symptoms. You pawn off some of your stuff to pay for more crumpets. You get your hit, but it doesn't last. You need more. You pawn off more stuff. You feel good; you've got your crumpets now, but what about when you run out of them next time?
A few months down the line and your house is almost bare; you've sold all of your stuff, but you still have no crumpets. You take out a loan. You buy more crumpets. You don't know where your next hit will come from, so instead of buying two packs, you start buying four, but they don't last you twice as long - oh no - you just consume them twice as fast.
You take out more loans to fuel your habit. The loan companies start getting on your back about repaying them. They send repo guys out to take the last few items you didn't pawn off. It's okay, though, you still have your crumpets.
Your workmates start avoiding you because you come into work with a glazed look in your eye, a nervous twitch and a faint musk of butter surrounds you at all times. Your friends don't bother with you anymore, but you didn't even notice - you were too caught up in your addiction to realise how alone you were.
One day, your manager pulls you into the office and let's you know you've been let go due to 'cutbacks'. You come home to realise the locks have been changed. You never noticed the pile of letters at the front door saying "Final notice". The loan company have taken your house. You've got no money. No home. No job. No crumpets.
You start to wander the streets aimlessly. You curl up under newspapers, trying to keep warm. You rummage through bins looking for half-eaten crumpets. You find none. You start begging for money. You creep around at night sucking dicks for pennies. You imagine it's Mr Warburtons dick. After all, you're his bitch now.
You finally start making enough money to buy some crumpets... but it's only enough to buy a single 9-pack of Warburtons crumpets. You buy them anyway. As you stumble across into the alleyway you've now designated 'home', you tear open your pack of crumpets (which point would take enough time to make a 3-part feature film, but we'll gloss over that), only to realise you have neither butter nor a way to warm up your precious crumpets.
You take a bite out of the cold, dry crumpet. You cry. You've hit rock-bottom. You take one look at the crumpet, you contemplate your life and decree 'no more'. You throw the crumpets to the ground. You scream and bellow life's frustrations at them. You slam your fists on the wall in rage and sorrow of what you've let yourself become.
No more will you eat crumpets.
No more will you be Mr Warburtons pocket-liner.
No more will you let them dictate your life.
You get yourself into rehab, you file for bankruptcy, you begin to clean your slate. You get yourself a part-time job, you get back to college, you earn your degree. You get into university, you find a beautiful girlfriend, and you graduate.
You get yourself a well-paid job, you buy a wonderful house, you marry, you have multiple cars, you settle down, you have kids. Years have passed since you last ate Warburtons crumpets. You can't believe how great your life has become...
...and then, one day, you notice them... The familiar packaging, almost hidden in the back of the bread bin. You can't believe your eyes as you push the tiger bread to one side and pull the packaging out for a closer look:
'Warburtons'"
Octavia panted, "And that, Pip, is why you should never buy 9-packs of Warburtons crumpets."
