My Bananas

I eat bananas. I do so because they’re packed full of life-enhancing vitamins and potassium. Indeed, it could plausibly be argued that it’s a banana a day, not an apple, that keeps the doctor away. All of which compounds my present dilemma.

Yesterday, you see, I purchased, in good faith, a bunch of eight bananas from the local greengrocer, a man who, hitherto, I’ve regarded as being a reputable supplier. And why not? The boxes in which his bananas arrive from the wholesaler are, after all, emblazoned with a Fyffe’s logo, the universally acknowledged banana “gold standard.” But this morning, upon examining my goods more thoroughly, I made a disturbing discovery:

Of the eight bananas in that bunch, only four are actually affixed with a Fyffe’s label.

My first thought, of course, was that the bastard greengrocer had adulterated the original bunch by gluing on four additional, inferior bananas, in much the same way that cocaine retailers are wont to mix Ajax or talcum powder in with their product in order to con their customer-base. Which, if true, would mean that he probably debases his other fruit and vegetables in a similar manner. Can I now trust his fresh peas, for example? Or could it be that he takes a razor blade to the pods, extracts a good percentage of the genuine peas, and then replaces those with processed peas from a can, before resealing the pod with Superglue? And if he does this, what does this say about his 20something daughter, a girl whom I’ve always admired as being wholesome and likeable and well worth a shag. Is she, in fact, a crack whore who gives blow-jobs for 50 pence a time in order to support her disgusting habit?

Maybe. On examining the bunch further, though, I discovered no evidence of glue having been used. Apparently, the Fyffe’s bananas and their sub-standard counterparts originate from the same plant. But this has even more disturbing implications: Obviously, this is some sort of GM product – a hybrid of Fyffe’s bananas and some other variety. I wouldn’t have minded so much if these others had been labelled, say, Del Monte or Chiquita, but they weren’t. I just do not know their provenance.

The way I see it, there is only one way to assure myself. On Tuesday, I’ll go round to the greengrocer and wave a five pound note in front of his daughter. I’ll say, “Take your clothes off, bitch, this money says you’re mine for two hours. I want to do you right now, in every position, against that sack of Maris Piper potatoes. Or are they really Maris Piper?” If she acquiesces and strips off in front of me, I’ll know the terrible truth.

In the meantime, I must e-mail Fyffe’s and insist that they start breeding a new strain of banana where the label is actually grown into the flesh of the fruit and goes all the way up, as in a stick of rock. Only in this way can quality be assured.