30. JUNG PEOPLE TODAY

Phoebe Weller of Valhalla’s Goat in Glasgow is needlessly and lyrically abused while cycling. But frankly there’s just too much going on to get upset by it

Wraps because of their health benefits: “You can put beans and salad and chicken in them. They’re healthy. They can also be deep-fried.”

In 1995, Glasgow had more Chimichanga outlets per head than anywhere else in the world. In 2015, Glasgow resectioned more colon than anywhere else in the world. Coincidence?

Last year during the Festival (which makes me sound actually like I went to see anything in the Festival, which I didn’t) in a particularly engaged mood fuelled by an ill-advised warm bottle of Prosecco in a courtyard which was essentially a Radio 4 panel show, I happily watched a burrito being filled surely to the point of bursting. Contents were piled into the centre which could no way be contained by the tortilla, and yet with some astonishing jostlery and gluten wrangling there it was, a perfect contained thing.

This descended into a bit about Miles Jupp and Susan Calman which felt a bit Try Hard so I deleted it.

I liked the Amazing Lunch that featured “New Guys” Tapsafff Tinyguitar and William, who treated me to a spectacular word performance which I wanted to join in with but there was no space. There was a good bit about a Big Kestrel and a Crow sitting on a wall, but I might make that into a children’s story. There was one which banged on about Jung for a bit. God I Love Jung. There was a bit about words being great but also our heads being full of them, them not being our words but other people’s and that being a/the problem. The flatbreads of the world list deserves some air: “Podpłomyk, Slavic flatbread, Sabaayad of Somalia, Chikkolee, Shelpek, Malooga, Lefse or Bammy.”

I’ve started a lot of lunches this month because everything’s in that terrifying skittery (both Scottish and English meanings) expansion phase: there’s a lot going on. Everything’s going on. Every time I look outside the nettles and dandelions have creeped a little closer to the house, like a big cruel game of What’s the Time Mr Wolf with me against the Green Things. And so finally I relent: there’s so much going on that I am not even going to try to pretend that I have even a modicum of control over anything. Except trying not to hate Teenagers so much. Fuck up you stupid cow – done.