Eegads. There are adverts on the telly about secret pork pie eaters. It’s not just me. They say your subconscious is very powerful, like a big ocean with tsunami sized waves crashing down onto your conscious mind. Maybe, maybe not. But I never thought I was a pork pie lover. But I’m going to visit my grandparents today, and I do have to drive past a Pork Farms factory / abatoir / pig processing plant. And I typically visit my grandparents for a meal, so I typically drive by the pig cemetery when I’m hungry.
Pork Farms aren’t stupid, oh no. They don’t want passers-by to notice the rancid stench of eviscerated hogs, and associate it with the eight foot high legend, ‘Pork Farms’. So they vent the bakery section onto the A60, so you associate Pork Farms with fresh baking. According to Delia Smith, the smell of baking stuffs is enough to whisk you off to faraway lands, and sever your earthly links with your nasty bedsit in Archway. And this is the smell that I associate with Pork Farms Pork Pies. Which I scoff. That’s my excuse.