Oooh... What Sauce!

SAINSBURY'S BE GOOD TO YOURSELF

Manufactured by: Produced in France (near Belgium) for Sainsbury's Supermarkets Ltd., Stamford Street, London SE1 9LL
www.sainsburys.co.uk
Ingredients: Water, vegetable oil (35%), dextrose, pasteurised egg yolk (3%), thickener: modified corn starch; salt, spirit vinegar, concentrated lemon juice, stabiliser: xanthan gum; flavouring, acidity regulator: tartaric acid; preservative: potassium sorbate.
Taste: A pillow plumped and stuffed with downy goose feathers, shingle on a foam washed beach, long life alkaline batteries and warm buttered goat's horn. A tart mustard flavoured sauce with a heady aftertaste of stormy petrel and deck chair
Colour: The platinum blonde wig of a forgotten fifties starlet blended with subtler hints of pedigree French poodle and camembert
Comments: Do something bad instead
Overall: 6 out of 10 - Just learn to deal with your guilt

WELSH FARMHOUSE

Manufactured by: Martin Pitt Freedom Eggs Ltd, Great House Farm, Gwehelog Near Usk, Monmouthshire NP15 1RJ - Flavours created by 'Steve' at the Bush House, Usk
Ingredients: Sunflower oil, pasteurised free range eggs, honey, cider, vinegar, lime juice, coriander, sea salt, herbs and spices
Taste: Soft lilting and beguiling like a summer meadow spread with daisies and grass. Coriander dances gaily around a maypole of understated lime tossing garlands of buttercups as it frolics. Warm sherbet and lager adorned with tree blossom and laundry
Colour: The colour of a warm hazy day spent lazing in a field as the sun dapples bumble bees by the dozen, only with a lot of green speckle bits mixed in
Comments: Exquisite combinations of taste and flavour dancing cartwheels on the head of a pin
Overall: 9 out of 10 - Tastes of grass, but hey - this grazing is amazing!

WELSH FARMHOUSE WITH CORIANDER AND LIME

More from Martin Pitt, the Monmouthshire chicken magnate and biggest fondler of wild fowl since the heyday of Bill Oddie. Unlike other mayonnaises which purport to be from farms whilst clearly being mass produced inside a giant vat of grease on a Belgian industrial estate, Welsh Farmhouse is so green (literally) and full of the joys of grass that it is entirely possible to imagine a sturdily built and buxom red cheeked farmer's wife stuffing the creamy rural sauce into each tiny plastic tub before packing it onto her decrepit elderly mule with intensely deep and loving care.

Wenches, milk maids, lusty squires and riding breeches. Isn't the country lovely? And isn't the grinding poverty, mass unemployment, narrow minded bigotry, intolerance, lack of basic amenities and rudimentary sanitation all combined with an overwhelming stench of horse ordure also thoroughly enchanting? And what of the whining fox worrying inbred psychopaths with a fashion sense that stops at tweed and Wellington boots, who regularly make it up to the city in order to protest about the potential loss of their God given right to murder small animals at will? Well fine, but don't come all the way to a major civilised conurbation in order to bemoan your dismal lack of trains, buses, jobs, the fact that your nearest hospital is over two days travel away or that your child's school has but four pupils no teacher and a hole in the roof large enough to lower a cow through. It's you own bloody fault for living in the wretched rat infested mire of filth that is the country in the first place. Don't complain to me because your eight hundred strong flock of sheep had to be incinerated because of some health scare that you caused in the frist by feeding them diced pigs brains and manure in the first place. Because, you know what, I don't care, I really don't. Just as you don't care about my smog coloured stress filled urban issues, I in turn hope never to have to visit the country unless I'm passing through to a far better place where large animals are far less likely to attack me. The day I get paid a massive EU subsidy which allows me to sit around all day sipping real ales and scrumpy, then maybe I'll feign a passing interest in your pathetic silage filled lives. Or something.

VITA D'OR

Welcome aboard departure 105 from Pleberia Coach Tours ladies and gentlemen, and welcome also to the lovely Spanish beach resort of Vita d'Or, where the fun and sunshine never ends. Now for some of you, this may be your first time abroad, and for your benefit I'll just quickly run through a few small points to remember when leaving the safety of your air conditioned suites:

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Manufactured by: Produced in France (near Belgium) for Sainsbury's Supermarkets Ltd., Stamford Street, London SE1 9LL www.sainsburys.co.uk Ingredients: Water, vegetable oil (35%), dextrose, pasteurised egg yolk (3%), thickener: modified corn starch; salt, spirit vinegar, concentrated lemon juice, stabiliser: xanthan gum; flavouring, acidity regulator: tartaric acid; preservative: potassium sorbate. Taste: A pillow plumped and stuffed with downy goose feathers, shingle on a foam washed beach, long life alkaline batteries and warm buttered goat's horn. A tart mustard flavoured sauce with a heady aftertaste of stormy petrel and deck chair Colour: The platinum blonde wig of a forgotten fifties starlet blended with subtler hints of pedigree French poodle and camembert Comments: Do something bad instead Overall: 6 out of 10 - Just learn to deal with your guilt	SAINSBURY'S BE GOOD TO YOURSELF Alcohol free wine, smoking without inhaling, platonic relationships? O tempora! O mores! What terrible sanitised times we live in when even the relatively harmless and uplifting practice of consuming mayonnaise may legitimately be considered a potential threat to one's health. Why should you even so much as consider being "good to yourself" when being wicked, self indulgent and outrageously extravagant is always so much more fun? Being good is terrible onerous waste of time and energy. You could die tomorrow for heaven's sake, and would you want to spend the afterlife wishing throughout all eternity that you had never dared to risk a full fat mayonnaise? This is a world of infinite danger and excitement, of perilous spills and thrills, where being good to yourself means sitting at home in a cosy pair of slippers and a nice warm dressing gown, solving a slightly tricky crossword and eating lightly toasted plywood. Why not shed all those artery clogging inhibitions and hang glide naked over a crowded shopping centre whilst eating the biggest tub of jellied eels, custard and chips ever made. I think that my case is convincing one. If not a slightly kinky one. Being good to yourself? Being good to your stomach more like. What has your badly proportioned acne ridden body ever done for you anyway? It's sat around for all your life, growing, aching, mutating and smelling like an unwashed postman's sock, releasing foul degenerate odours and embarrassing you thoroughly whenever you're naked. I say that the mind should take precedence over any debate on 'goodness'. Licking a bowl of rancid pork fat is an extremely pleasurable experience, and your body's always going to protest against such wanton degeneracy anyway . And studying in a darkened library will cripple your back ruin your posture and most probably blind you. Why does the body do this? If it it feels good do it, and if its got 250% more fat with extra added pork lard and cholesterol, do it anyway and seek revenge on your thankless selfish body. Let the mind win - be bad to yourself. And small animals.

Manufactured by: Martin Pitt Freedom Eggs Ltd, Great House Farm, Gwehelog Near Usk, Monmouthshire NP15 1RJ - Flavours created by 'Steve' at the Bush House, Usk Ingredients: Sunflower oil, pasteurised free range eggs, honey, cider, vinegar, lime juice, coriander, sea salt, herbs and spices Taste: Soft lilting and beguiling like a summer meadow spread with daisies and grass. Coriander dances gaily around a maypole of understated lime tossing garlands of buttercups as it frolics. Warm sherbet and lager adorned with tree blossom and laundry Colour: The colour of a warm hazy day spent lazing in a field as the sun dapples bumble bees by the dozen, only with a lot of green speckle bits mixed in Comments: Exquisite combinations of taste and flavour dancing cartwheels on the head of a pin Overall: 9 out of 10 - Tastes of grass, but hey - this grazing is amazing!	WELSH FARMHOUSE WITH CORIANDER AND LIME More from Martin Pitt, the Monmouthshire chicken magnate and biggest fondler of wild fowl since the heyday of Bill Oddie. Unlike other mayonnaises which purport to be from farms whilst clearly being mass produced inside a giant vat of grease on a Belgian industrial estate, Welsh Farmhouse is so green (literally) and full of the joys of grass that it is entirely possible to imagine a sturdily built and buxom red cheeked farmer's wife stuffing the creamy rural sauce into each tiny plastic tub before packing it onto her decrepit elderly mule with intensely deep and loving care. Wenches, milk maids, lusty squires and riding breeches. Isn't the country lovely? And isn't the grinding poverty, mass unemployment, narrow minded bigotry, intolerance, lack of basic amenities and rudimentary sanitation all combined with an overwhelming stench of horse ordure also thoroughly enchanting? And what of the whining fox worrying inbred psychopaths with a fashion sense that stops at tweed and Wellington boots, who regularly make it up to the city in order to protest about the potential loss of their God given right to murder small animals at will? Well fine, but don't come all the way to a major civilised conurbation in order to bemoan your dismal lack of trains, buses, jobs, the fact that your nearest hospital is over two days travel away or that your child's school has but four pupils no teacher and a hole in the roof large enough to lower a cow through. It's you own bloody fault for living in the wretched rat infested mire of filth that is the country in the first place. Don't complain to me because your eight hundred strong flock of sheep had to be incinerated because of some health scare that you caused in the frist by feeding them diced pigs brains and manure in the first place. Because, you know what, I don't care, I really don't. Just as you don't care about my smog coloured stress filled urban issues, I in turn hope never to have to visit the country unless I'm passing through to a far better place where large animals are far less likely to attack me. The day I get paid a massive EU subsidy which allows me to sit around all day sipping real ales and scrumpy, then maybe I'll feign a passing interest in your pathetic silage filled lives. Or something.

Manufactured by: Specially made for Lidl UK GmbH, 49 Parkside, London SW19 5NB Ingredients: Vegetable oil, water, pasteurised egg and egg yolk, spirit vinegar, salt, glucose syrup, lemon juice, vegetable extract Taste: Thick milky butter churned forcibly then rubbed vigorously intro a damp lemur's coat with a mulched up paperback book. Subtler hints of asparagus, mutton and crow's feet Colour: Like a jaundiced caterpillar licking warm spaghetti of the marbled lichen covered grave of a long departed village blacksmith, tinged with the off white creamy elegance of a beautiful lounge suite Comments: What a nice serving suggestion. Two and a half eggs, offset with a sliced cucumber, a shiny plump tomato and a cosy bed of lettuce. Two short question though: why and where? Overall: 6 out of 10 - Vita d'Or, d'Or not? Is Vita d'Or meant to sound exotic	VITA D'OR Welcome aboard departure 105 from Pleberia Coach Tours ladies and gentlemen, and welcome also to the lovely Spanish beach resort of Vita d'Or, where the fun and sunshine never ends. Now for some of you, this may be your first time abroad, and for your benefit I'll just quickly run through a few small points to remember when leaving the safety of your air conditioned suites: The Spaniards, indeed all foreigners, are cunning, cruel and manipulative people who will attempt to fondle your bottom and steal all of your personal belongings as well as a good many of your more vital internal organs whilst you sleep. Avoiding speaking to, looking at or acknowledging them. Buy everything you could ever need from your officially approved hotel stockist at The Vita d'Or del Miramar The local siesta lasts from sun up to sun down on weekdays and all day at weekends. Foreigners are unnaturally workshy and lazy. If you need to hire a car or chase a large rat out of your shower cubicle, please contact your official Vita d'Or resort representative who will be happy to help you for a small and extremely reasonable fee The Spanish for please is 'Tus pantalones son llenos de queso' and the Spanish for thank you is 'Cago en tu leche'. This is more information than you will ever possibly need during your stay with us. All waiters in the Restaurant de la Vita d'Or are trained to answer to 'Oi Pedro!' and never to answer back or retaliate to physical threats Whilst you may hear rumours of a thoroughly reliable public transport service in the local area, we must warn you that without a single exception Spanish buses are home to the very filthiest ragged army of thieves, whores, tramps and lepers, carrying their stringy chickens and malnourished cabbages many miles to market for the meagre price of a cold cup of tea. You can travel anywhere you want in a luxury air conditioned coach courtesy of Vita d'Or Tours, for an additional fee somewhere in the region of twice the original cost of your holiday The local currency is the 'huevos' split into a myriad number of high denomination notes and worthless copper coins the size of a shirt button or smaller. We will be happy to take as many denomiantions off of you while you are here as possible. The exchange rate is set by our resort manager and bears precious little relation to economic conditions outside of our bank balance Enjoy your holiday in Vita d'Or, and always remember, as they say in these parts, "Iba a venir a tu fiesta, pero necesite cominar con mi pez!"