In Jamie Oliver’s pampered mind it appears he thinks everyone has a farmer’s market just down the road. No-one has mobility problems, and so can easily drag home bags of shopping, even if the plebs don’t have a car. The electricity and gas required to slow cook cheap cuts of meat never runs out. Hard pressed single parents can simply pop out to browse the artisan stalls outside the local Poundstretcher, whilst pensioners should just pick up some cherry tomatoes and fresh fucking mussels at the off licence on the way home from the Bingo.

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The Sleepcoat League

Armchair anthropologist, sometime scribe, freelance philosopher, amateur artist, part-time poet, musical maven, alliteration aficionado.

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