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Hob Nobbled

It’s official. After three months of rice, fish, vegetables and little booze, the steady descent into home-country comfort food is leaving my stomach in knots.

I’m not sure if it’s the change in food composition over the years, or my aging innards, but after a few glasses of wine and some hob nobs, I’m slithering around with stomach cramps. However did I manage to thrive on kebabs and Newcastle Brown Ale, Kit Kats and double meat whoppers. Of course that was back in the day when I’d spent decades cultivating the enzymes.

Even back in the roaring twenties, Rick Moore once professed to have given up eating curries and cheese and found himself much more internally comfortable. Lactose is a whore, I realize and bread is a bad haircut that haunts you in school photographs for decades to come. That much I know.

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