Ode to the man on the bus who ate a whole tube of Pringles

From the archives.

Hello, the man on the 88 just now

You sat down and I didn't know you were special

Looking just like the grey haired foodies that commute north

The ones that complain that it took to long to get a table

You we're different

You ate a whole tube of Pringles.

You took them out of your bag

A leather satchel

The bulge explained

By the tube's swift birth into the top deck

It was ready salted

They call them "original"

But you and I know the truth.

You popped

And you didn't stop

You ate one and then two and three and more

Shovelled and jammed, tipped and jiggled, reached and grabbed

Until they had all gone: broken fragments and salty scraps the same

For you are the man that ate a whole tube of Pringles.

You got on at Great Portland Street

And by Camden your task was done

Methodical, considered, practised, efficient

I stared with admiration, then came pride and envy

To have such speed, such masticatory confidence

And so little care about your internal organs

Nothing gets in your way

The man on the 88

Eating his tube of Pringles.

Goodbye, my friend, my companion, my sage

I used to think I knew everything crisp-wise

(I know some people don't think 42 per cent reconstituted potato crumbs into a hyperbolic paraboloid are crisps)

You do

I can tell, you're a professional, like me

Except, now I know I have so much farther to go

I wanted to ask you to show me the way

Be my fried potato Yoda

Crisp training you me give

Maybe if I see you again I will have more courage

Maybe you will board the 134 with McCoys multipack

Maybe we will talk about the demise of Smiths, the loss of Ringos and Walkers' Toasted Cheese flavour

I hope so.

Go well, the man who ate all the Pringles

You've given us all something to think about.