You are poor. I have seen you. You are eating chips on a bench, and you have the nerve to look at me as if I have not just diagnosed your entire financial situation from the way you hold a paper bag. This week, I have done something for you. I have visited three fish and chip shops in Maidstone, and I have rated them for the sole purpose of farting on you. Not for the quality of the cod. Not for the crispness of the batter. For the dispersal of my flatulence, which I consider a civic service. You should be grateful. You are getting free methane, and I am getting a brisk walk to the next shop.

The Codfather, Week Street

I entered at 12:47pm. The queue was long, which is good, because poor people love queues. I ordered the large cod and chips, ate it in four minutes, and then attempted a discreet release. The manager, a man named Barry, approached me.

“I saw what you did,” said Barry Thwaites, Manager of The Codfather, Week Street, Maidstone.

I said, “I did nothing. You are imagining things.”

“The CCTV is very clear,” said Mr Thwaites.

I said, “CCTV cannot smell, Barry.”

He escorted me out. I rate this shop two out of five. The chips were adequate. The fart was a complete waste. No poor people were in range. I will not be returning.

The Golden Plaice, Union Street

This is more like it. The dining area is cramped, with twelve tables squeezed into a space designed for six. The poor people are everywhere. I ordered the sausage and chips, which is what the poor eat, and I sat in the centre of the room. I waited for the right moment. A woman with a pushchair sat to my left. A man in a high-vis vest sat to my right. I let go. It was a masterpiece. The chips were average, but the atmosphere was perfect. The staff did not notice, or did not care, which is the mark of a truly great establishment. I rate this shop five out of five. I would have given it six, but the ketchup was watered down.

The Salt and Vinegar Arms, Lower Stone Street

This shop has a sign that says “Voted Best in Kent 2024”. I do not believe it. I ordered the jumbo battered sausage, which is a lie, because it was not jumbo. I sat in a booth near the door, which I thought would be good for a quick escape. I let go. A man in a suit, who was clearly not poor, looked at me.

“That is a staff toilet,” said Gerald Pimm, Regional Inspector of Catering Facilities.

I said, “No, it is a booth.”

“The sign, you imbecile,” said Mr Pimm.

I looked up. There was a sign. It said “STAFF TOILET”. I had been sitting in a toilet. I rate this shop one out of five. The poor people were outside, and they were laughing at me. I will not be prescribing this shop to anyone, except as a punishment.

Now, for your own health, I prescribe the following:

  • Walk briskly away from Maidstone.
  • Reduce your egg intake to zero, then lower.
  • Apologise to the poor people you have wronged.
  • If you smell something, it is not me. It is your own failure.

I have been watching you eat those chips. I have been watching you for weeks. You should have saved the batter. You should have saved your dignity. You did neither, and now you owe me a brisk walk.