I Am the Tofu-Eating Wokerati. Hear Me Roar, Suella.
This is me, Jack Goodson, as a piece of Tofu.
Let’s play the blame game, for distractions are delightful.
I Am Nothing But Tofu, From Head to Toe.
Started back in ‘08. Recession hit and all that jazz. Couldn’t afford food, couldn’t afford water.
So, I went dumpster-diving instead.
Throwing my hippy-length locks over my left shoulder, I dashed and vaulted over barbed wire behind the local Tesco Express, clipping my face tattoo on the chain and scuffing my Wicca ring that symbolises prosperity in times of austerity.
Launching myself, head-tattooed-face-first into that swampy mess of just out-of-date perishables, I found myself clutching a large box between my tattooed fingers. ‘Twas tofu, you see.
And so the obsession began.
I’d awake - woke as I was - in the middle of the night, screaming for the soft, moist moistness of tofu to soothe my vegan nightmares. (I had regular nightmares, you see, of pigs’ blood being poured on me and in my mouth - like in Carrie - but far more arty and less commercialised).
Thus, I skulked on each sleepless night over to that Tesco that had become my holy Tofu grail — a substance that I now revered so religiously that I refused from henceforth to write Tofu without a capital ‘T’.
Tofu. Tofu. Tofu.
It called to me. Sang to me. Soothed me.
I began melting it in an eco-friendly microwave with a tattoo I had made on the left-hand side of the door.
I would pour the Tofu slime upon my body — close to boiling — marinating myself in the essence of veganism, of purity, of true, leftist, wokerati ethics!
One day, too eager to bathe in the boiling Tofu liquid, I did not let it cool enough. I coccooned myself in a bubble of the stuff I now held as a God.
God enshrined me. Blessed me by capturing me. By letting me become what I oh-so desired.
Tofu. Tofu. Tofu.
If only he’d left me with a copy of the Guardian to read. Gets rather boring at times.
***
Dedicated to the sweet, sweet, Suella Braverman, Daily Mail-reading, steak-eating conservarati.
