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Just
over thirty years ago there were no McDonald’s restaurants in the UK. Our town centres were devoid of red and yellow
neon, fast food packaging and Ronald bloody McDonald. Lunch in town was on a plate (remember them), at a table with a knife
and fork, and you had to wait more than 60 seconds for it to arrive. But now teenage boys habitually sit in white Fiestas
(with extra helpings of headlights and drum bass), in the car parks of out of town shopping precincts, eating out of a brown
McDonald’s paper bag. Adept at opening the flap of the ketchup sachet before casually tossing it out the window, their
girlfriend Kylie looks on admiringly.
Meanwhile hordes of mothers
visit McDonalds, just to get out the house to break the mind-numbing tiredness and monotony of entertaining
toddlers. Hell you know it’s not good for them, and you don’t mind the faint smell of stale wee
in the baby’s changing room, as long as they stuff themselves and sleep for two hours when you get home so you can watch
Neighbours in peace.
But
the real reason I hate McDonald’s has nothing to do with their food, even after I read Fast Food Nation. Of
course I do mind that their new Grilled Chicken Salad with Dressing and Croutons, has more calories than a large portion of
French Fries, and more salt than the recommended daily allowance for a six year old. I mind that they add sugar to their chips
and their burger buns. That 47% of their chicken nuggets are bits of stuff that have nothing to do
with a chicken. And that the meat in their burgers may be 100% pure beef, but it’s the bit around the
rib or belly, both cuts being very cheap and very fatty. Didn’t think it was 100% fillet steak did you?
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No, I hate McDonald’s for two
other reasons. First, the cynical sales tactics, where the American cheesy-smiley-lifestyle permeates
through everything, including the language they use. For example, their fishfingers contain minced cod (not
a lot of it admittedly) caught somewhere North of Aberdeen, amongst the commercial shipping lanes, where tankers fight for
space with the huge deep sea fishing ships. It’s wonderfully creative that they describe this succulent delicacy as
being “caught from the clear, cold waters of the North Atlantic”. They also like to give the impression
that their lettuce is somehow freshly washed in flowing mountain water, straight from the Garden of Eden especially for you,
but it damn well isn’t.
As if this weren’t bad
enough, they have absolutely no qualms about covertly selling directly to your toddler, using every marketing technique at
their disposal. They do this in pursuit of what they call “brand loyalty”, a theory meaning if you’re a
regular customer at 4 years old, you will stay a customer until you are 94. Hence the old Happy Meal with its’ crap
plastic toy, the tacky brightly coloured plastic chairs and tables especially for little people and french fries made perfectly
for a 2 year old to hold in their hand on their own. It’s the crayons, the birthday parties, the ice cream with smarties
in them, murals with the truly dreadful Chuffburglar and Hamface characters and we mustn’t forget; Ronald bloody McDonald.
But the number one reason why I hate McDonald’s is that well
over 2.5 million people eat there every day in the UK. Not every week. Every day! And that includes businessmen and women
in suits who pull up to the drive-thru and secretly indulge. Why do they do it? I think they get some weird satisfaction out
of it, because aside from a hangover cure, McDonalds food tastes awful. Perhaps eating naughty food fulfils a primeval need
to satisfy our perverse side. Like having quick and dirty sex with a stranger without
anyone else knowing. Except you don’t run the immediate risk of divorce, herpes or aids, you run the real long term
risk of clogged up arteries.
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