It’s surely not so shocking to discover that this was eaten in the remote sanctuary at the heart of a hoarder’s nest, the observation deck where a King or Queen of clutter can securely survey the full range of their filthy empire.

From the skyscrapers of stacked newspapers to the forest of used toothbrushes, past the gritty beaches of cat litter and up the glittering steppes of soiled takeaway trays.

In their very own Eagle’s Nest they feast on the remnants of meals gone by, snugly ensconced in tat, oblivious to the mouse droppings at the centre of their three day old chicken pizza.

It’s surely not so shocking to discover that this was eaten in the remote sanctuary at the heart of a hoarder’s nest, the observation deck where a King or Queen of clutter can securely survey the full range of their filthy empire.

From the skyscrapers of stacked newspapers to the forest of used toothbrushes, past the gritty beaches of cat litter and up the glittering steppes of soiled takeaway trays.

In their very own Eagle’s Nest they feast on the remnants of meals gone by, snugly ensconced in tat, oblivious to the mouse droppings at the centre of their three day old chicken pizza.

Anatomy of a super tweet

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It started with a modest proposal, ‘If I post Will Smith’s face adjacent to a street sign near my flat which bears a similar, albeit not identical, version of his name then the interest it generates will bring Twitter, and subsequently the entire internet, to its knees’.

People seem to think ideas for great tweets just appear out of nowhere but they’re dead wrong. It takes a Herculean effort to come up with this stuff, usually it’s the labour of more than one mind.

You see I only decided on ‘closer than you think bro…’ after several painstaking days brainstorming potential captions with the staff writers here at DLMFO.

Rejected were ‘You’re damn right he is!’, ‘Well it sure as shit ain’t Jazzy Jeff!’,  and ‘Gettin’ shrubby with it!’, the latter for being in the words of our head writer ‘by far the funniest, but perhaps too niche…will our readers really get the reference?’.

My fellow creative was highly supportive and, as always, had some vital input to the social media content creating endeavor.

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Hold your horses Richard, let’s not run before we’re walking.

First of all, I needed to print this Bad Boy off. image

As you can see, it wasn’t perfect. Something went wrong with the printer and Will was left with a dramatic scar running down the right hand side of his face.

I also seriously caned the ink in the printer at work. Thankfully I waited until everyone else had gone to lunch to do this.

Next up, laminating!

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I love using the laminator at work. It’s not often that I have an excuse to do so. In fact, the last I time I retrieved it from the stationery cupboard was when I had some Nicolas Cage faces to preserve in plastic.

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Following on from the low level excitement of laminating came the high risk pay off to my content generating scheme.

I was very anxious that someone might stop me and ask why I was temporarily affixing reputed Scientologist Will Smith’s face onto a street sign. 

I had no ready reply and in my heightened state I messed up the first picture. The laminated surface was reflecting the sun’s hard glare, this was turning into a disaster!

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I persevered and ended up with an acceptable photograph.

Even better, I managed to make it back to the office without being apprehended by a curious resident of William Smith Close or by a representative of the law.

It was now just a case of putting it up on twitter and seeing the retweets roll in. Brand awareness would surely skyrocket…

Wow! It certainly did. 9 people retweeted it! Pretty good going I think you’ll agree.

Admittedly one of them was another account of mine and another was the same friend I ran the idea by.

Nonetheless, I thought it was all well worth the effort as it stimulated DIALOGUE.

Some of the dialogue did linger on the similarities between this tweet and one from a few weeks earlier:


Personally, I don’t see it. The only major thing the two posts had in common was that the exact same nine people retweeted on both occasions.

But surely that just suggests I have a core audience who support me no matter what, and to that 0.09% of my twitter followers I’d like to say ‘thank you’.

In this cruel and uncaring corporate cesspool of a world a friendly face can be hard to find.
This is why you make your own friends out of ketchup and cheese.
They’re always upbeat and positive, they don’t subtly undermine you, and when you’re tired of their shtick you can just eat them.
That last one’s a big bonus, in fact, your drunken attempts at cannibalism are one of the main reasons you don’t have human friends anymore. 
Well, it looked like cannibalism. 
Leaning in your maw agape, drool dripping from the corner of your mouth, a terrifying stare of mad loneliness which could certainly have been interpreted as extreme hunger which, in a sense, it was.
Maybe you’ll steal a tomato flavoured kiss with your open face sandwich fulfilling your carnal desires with pleasurably unyielding processed cheese before satisfying your lunchtime urges and scarfing down the whole soggy mess.
Alone in the staff kitchen at work.
Sauce smeared all over your face like a drunk’s lipstick at the end of a long evening.
The aroma of over warm cheese wafting from you as you wonder if you’ll ever find love.

In this cruel and uncaring corporate cesspool of a world a friendly face can be hard to find.

This is why you make your own friends out of ketchup and cheese.

They’re always upbeat and positive, they don’t subtly undermine you, and when you’re tired of their shtick you can just eat them.

That last one’s a big bonus, in fact, your drunken attempts at cannibalism are one of the main reasons you don’t have human friends anymore. 

Well, it looked like cannibalism. 

Leaning in your maw agape, drool dripping from the corner of your mouth, a terrifying stare of mad loneliness which could certainly have been interpreted as extreme hunger which, in a sense, it was.

Maybe you’ll steal a tomato flavoured kiss with your open face sandwich fulfilling your carnal desires with pleasurably unyielding processed cheese before satisfying your lunchtime urges and scarfing down the whole soggy mess.

Alone in the staff kitchen at work.

Sauce smeared all over your face like a drunk’s lipstick at the end of a long evening.

The aroma of over warm cheese wafting from you as you wonder if you’ll ever find love.

It’s not high grade hydroponic skunk weed, as enjoyed by the ever so edgy Miley Cyrus, it’s mid range baby leaf spinach that’s been grown under normal conditions and made into a spinach mush.

A spinach mush you couldn’t finish because it made you feel a bit sick, but not sick like the like the last time you hung out with the choom gang and turned a whiter shade of pale after one drug spliff too many.

It definitely didn’t make you sick enough to throw out a perfectly acceptable packed lunch.

A packed lunch you’ll eat alone at work whilst convincing yourself the reason you do this every day is to save money.

But it’s not. 

It’s because you don’t get invited to the sandwich van.

Why don’t you get invited to the sandwich van? 

Because you stink out the office with your horrible leftovers.

What a vicious circle to be trapped in.

What a life.

It’s not high grade hydroponic skunk weed, as enjoyed by the ever so edgy Miley Cyrus, it’s mid range baby leaf spinach that’s been grown under normal conditions and made into a spinach mush.

A spinach mush you couldn’t finish because it made you feel a bit sick, but not sick like the like the last time you hung out with the choom gang and turned a whiter shade of pale after one drug spliff too many.

It definitely didn’t make you sick enough to throw out a perfectly acceptable packed lunch.

A packed lunch you’ll eat alone at work whilst convincing yourself the reason you do this every day is to save money.

But it’s not.

It’s because you don’t get invited to the sandwich van.

Why don’t you get invited to the sandwich van?

Because you stink out the office with your horrible leftovers.

What a vicious circle to be trapped in.

What a life.

A letter from Sarah Seaweed…

Dear DLMFO,

As your blog is about sad meals for sad and lonely people, I thought I’d share my sad, and potentially fatal, food story involving hijiki seaweed.

I went through a stage of really enjoying eating the dried seaweed that I’d cook up with coconut milk and spring onions. I’d go through kilos of the stuff. At the same time I started working in a hospital. I soon was suffering bouts of severe gastro, with sweating, dizziness, nausea. I just thought I was picking up every bug in the hospital and soon my immune system would be bolstered. 

Feeling somewhat smug about my new seaweed superfood, I decided to Google what awesome nutrition it contained.

I found out that the seaweed has extremely high levels of inorganic arsenic and should not be eaten in large quantities. Small sprinkles on rice is safe. I was eating roughly 2 cups in one sitting. My ‘immune-system toughening-up to hospital standards’symptoms were actually acute arsenic poisoning symptoms. 

There I was, living alone, and every night sadly eating my arsenic seaweed death meal for one.

Let this be a lesson to others with dimly lit meals for one. Stick to toast, beans, cheese, tinned pies and frozen dinners.

Sarah

Some sage advice from Sarah for anyone who’s just mildly depressed and doesn’t feel like eating themselves into oblivion, avoid the seaweed…

"Last Saturday night, which I spent alone, I ate mince, cheese, and ketchup on toast because I lost the will to prepare real food.
My thinking was that it it would be like the cross section of a burger, delicious slices of the fast food staple yet thin enough to slide under a door. 
I spent the evening looking at the Facebook profile of the guy who bullied me at school, harvesting his ludicrously open profile for information I could use to wreak a revenge sixteen years in the making.
The real reason I like flat food?
Back when I was at school I didn’t leave my room for three whole weeks because I was terrified of the same no-neck goon who I devoted my last Saturday night to stalking online.
Much of what I ate during that time was food that my mother could slide under the reasonably generous gap under my door. Pop tarts, ritz crackers, wafer thin slices of ham. 
At the end of my self-imposed imprisonment I was even more doughy than before and, unfortunately, an even bigger target for the Hyenas stalking the corridors of the concrete prison that was my school.
I’ve been eating a lot of flat food lately as I sit at my laptop dreaming of some sort of justice.
Memories long buried are dragged up with every bite of toaster pastry or After Eight mint.”I receive a lot of strange messages.
Some seem to be fantasies inspired by real life, others pure works of imagination written for pleasure while a few, I worry, may be all too true.
I know next to nothing about our flat food eater.
I hope whoever they are that they’re okay.
I hope they can take solace in their pop tarts and don’t dwell too much on the past.
I hope the flat burgers weren’t as awful as they look, that next time you feel inspired to go the extra mile and splash out on a patty and a bun.
I sincerely hope you don’t extract some elaborate Saw style revenge on your former schoolmates from in front of your laptop while munching on crackers and cackling maniacally…

"Last Saturday night, which I spent alone, I ate mince, cheese, and ketchup on toast because I lost the will to prepare real food.

My thinking was that it it would be like the cross section of a burger, delicious slices of the fast food staple yet thin enough to slide under a door. 

I spent the evening looking at the Facebook profile of the guy who bullied me at school, harvesting his ludicrously open profile for information I could use to wreak a revenge sixteen years in the making.

The real reason I like flat food?

Back when I was at school I didn’t leave my room for three whole weeks because I was terrified of the same no-neck goon who I devoted my last Saturday night to stalking online.

Much of what I ate during that time was food that my mother could slide under the reasonably generous gap under my door. 

Pop tarts, ritz crackers, wafer thin slices of ham. 

At the end of my self-imposed imprisonment I was even more doughy than before and, unfortunately, an even bigger target for the Hyenas stalking the corridors of the concrete prison that was my school.

I’ve been eating a lot of flat food lately as I sit at my laptop dreaming of some sort of justice.

Memories long buried are dragged up with every bite of toaster pastry or After Eight mint.”

I receive a lot of strange messages.

Some seem to be fantasies inspired by real life, others pure works of imagination written for pleasure while a few, I worry, may be all too true.

I know next to nothing about our flat food eater.

I hope whoever they are that they’re okay.

I hope they can take solace in their pop tarts and don’t dwell too much on the past.

I hope the flat burgers weren’t as awful as they look, that next time you feel inspired to go the extra mile and splash out on a patty and a bun.

I sincerely hope you don’t extract some elaborate Saw style revenge on your former schoolmates from in front of your laptop while munching on crackers and cackling maniacally…

"The lettuce was so damn old I almost didn’t eat it.
Almost.
I felt I needed something green in there, something to make my perfectly square lunch meat look less shockingly pink against the sliced white.
Old lettuce. It sits at the back of the fridge turning brown and daring me to eat it. 
Well, today I did. I had to smother it in mustard and it was still awful.
I don’t think it did me any good at all.”

I’ve never seen mustard wielded in self defence before, and rightly so. 
What is the point of lettuce?
It seems to exist solely to delude us into thinking our sandwiches are healthy, to hide in our refrigerators turning brown, and to make us feel guilty about the massive giant mountain of food waste our unsustainable western lifestyles contribute to.
Lettuce, you’re bringing us all down.

"The lettuce was so damn old I almost didn’t eat it.

Almost.

I felt I needed something green in there, something to make my perfectly square lunch meat look less shockingly pink against the sliced white.

Old lettuce. It sits at the back of the fridge turning brown and daring me to eat it. 

Well, today I did. I had to smother it in mustard and it was still awful.

I don’t think it did me any good at all.”

I’ve never seen mustard wielded in self defence before, and rightly so. 

What is the point of lettuce?

It seems to exist solely to delude us into thinking our sandwiches are healthy, to hide in our refrigerators turning brown, and to make us feel guilty about the massive giant mountain of food waste our unsustainable western lifestyles contribute to.

Lettuce, you’re bringing us all down.

"Here I tried to make purple mashed potatoes with garlic and pepper and I ended up with wallpaper paste looking mush that tasted like an unclean refrigerator. This is my biggest shame this year."

We’ve all tasted the inside of a fridge before haven’t we?

When desperation strikes and there’s nothing left to eat save for a suspicious looking carrot right at the very back of the big white box.

A carrot that’s absorbed all the evil fumes, spilt milk, and spoiled ham juice and will never taste quite right no matter how long it’s washed for.

"Here I tried to make purple mashed potatoes with garlic and pepper and I ended up with wallpaper paste looking mush that tasted like an unclean refrigerator. This is my biggest shame this year."

We’ve all tasted the inside of a fridge before haven’t we?

When desperation strikes and there’s nothing left to eat save for a suspicious looking carrot right at the very back of the big white box.

A carrot that’s absorbed all the evil fumes, spilt milk, and spoiled ham juice and will never taste quite right no matter how long it’s washed for.

Rick Evans from Barrow-in-Furness sends in a picture taken by his good friend Ian.
Ian had popped over to Rick’s house to borrow a hand just as Rick was about to have his dinner.
Rick lives alone and doesn’t like to cook much. 
He’s partial to a Fray Bentos chicken pie, although he always takes care to wear an oven glove when removing the piping hot dish from the oven as he has been known to burn himself on occasion!
Sometimes Rick wonders if he holds on just that little bit too long to feel something.
Often Rick lies awake in bed, tinned pie sitting uncomfortably in his bloated belly, contemplating the circumstances which lead him to the emotional cul-de-sac in which he now resides.
Ian’s picture was a spontaneous act, a shared joke taken on Rick’s camera phone, but Rick wishes he had asked Ian to stay and share his pie.
There’s always too much pie and plenty of ale and, as Rick stands on the precipice of forty, he can feel his body become as soft as the succulent chicken in a Fray Bentos pie.
Maybe next time Rick will have the courage to ask Ian to stay and share a plate of nourishing, long shelf life, gravy rich pie. 
Who knows, maybe Ian will say yes.


If anyone from Fray Bentos would like to use this in an advertising campaign I am very cheap to hire. You can email me at dimlylitmealsforone@gmail.com if you would like to discuss this, or if you have been affected by any of the issues in today’s post.

Rick Evans from Barrow-in-Furness sends in a picture taken by his good friend Ian.

Ian had popped over to Rick’s house to borrow a hand just as Rick was about to have his dinner.

Rick lives alone and doesn’t like to cook much. 

He’s partial to a Fray Bentos chicken pie, although he always takes care to wear an oven glove when removing the piping hot dish from the oven as he has been known to burn himself on occasion!

Sometimes Rick wonders if he holds on just that little bit too long to feel something.

Often Rick lies awake in bed, tinned pie sitting uncomfortably in his bloated belly, contemplating the circumstances which lead him to the emotional cul-de-sac in which he now resides.

Ian’s picture was a spontaneous act, a shared joke taken on Rick’s camera phone, but Rick wishes he had asked Ian to stay and share his pie.

There’s always too much pie and plenty of ale and, as Rick stands on the precipice of forty, he can feel his body become as soft as the succulent chicken in a Fray Bentos pie.

Maybe next time Rick will have the courage to ask Ian to stay and share a plate of nourishing, long shelf life, gravy rich pie. 

Who knows, maybe Ian will say yes.

If anyone from Fray Bentos would like to use this in an advertising campaign I am very cheap to hire. You can email me at dimlylitmealsforone@gmail.com if you would like to discuss this, or if you have been affected by any of the issues in today’s post.