FCK.

This was the brilliant headline on a KFC ad that appeared this week. KFC were apologising for having to close 600 stores temporarily because they didn’t have any chicken. Back in the 90s, I briefly lived in Greenwich. This was before the O2, the Jubilee line and other aspects of civilisation arrived in SE10. Very white, very working-class, Greenwich was twenty years behind the rest of London. The newsagent on Trafalgar Road was owned by white people, so it closed at 5.30 with a half day on Wednesday. Next door was KFC. I occasionally went in there and every time I did, I saw the Kentucky Fried Chicken Family. All clad in shell suits, baseball caps, morbidly obese and chowing down on a giant bargain bucket. I thought how distraught they’d have been at the temporary closure of their beloved KFC. Then I thought no they wouldn’t, because they’re almost certainly dead.