Hello and welcome to another stunning edition of The Devilish Dish. You may not know this, but I’ve always had a passion for flying around in bubble cars. Yes, I, Borton Brahms, routinely fly to a fro in a hovering motor machine whilst wearing a tweed cap and delighting my fellow countryfolk with elaborate and cheeky escapades. After all, you know what they say, “All work and no play makes Borton a bad little donkey boy!”

You may be wondering why I told you all of this. Well life isn’t always fun and games. Today I want to talk about something that’s very dear to my heart – ham and cheese toasties. When I think of a ham and cheese toastie, my throat feels dry, and it becomes hard to breathe. My inhibitions turn to snow and I begin to melt like the creamy cheese of a toastie as it oozes between the buttery baps struggling so hard to contain it. The ham butty calls to me. And I want it. I want to bite that bap and own it.

Today’s tale of caution took place several weeks ago. As usual, I was zipping about in a futuristic bubble and looking for someone to prank. I finally arrived at the drive-thru of my first mark – fast food restaurant, Prêt à Chier. To escape recognition, I affixed a fake beard and slipped on a woman’s bra filled with two well-endowed coconuts. I pressed the gas button and pulled up to the menu, which is where I caught my first glimpse of it. I couldn’t believe my eyes. My head started firing like a thousand slot machines. It was an advertisement for a fucking toastie.

The caper I had spent all morning planning suddenly seemed distant as I struggled to think straight. Pure instinct took over. I abruptly screamed into the intercom that I was in fact Borton Brahms and needed to close the restaurant at once! I then revved up the bubble, sailed full force into the pick-up window, exited with a karate kick, and stormed into the kitchen. The looks of horror were all around me.

“Don’t look at me!” I shrieked, demanding that they show me to the toasties, never believing that I’d actually see them. An employee named Jamie took me to the freezer. “Open it!” I insisted. She complied, pulling the stainless-steel doors apart like a Hercules.

There, shining like ambrosia in a crushed cardboard box, were the beautiful toasties. Using my chef’s jacket like a sack, I snatched as many as I could and rushed back to my aeronautic hovercraft. I don’t recall much after – save for zipping off like a Jetson with a ham butty in both hands and howling like a lunatic. When I woke up several hours later, I found that I had crashed out in a nearby pond. It was the bubble what saved me.

I wrote this article today to release myself from addiction and to admit that I have a problem. Please don’t go down the same path as me. You may not have the power to shut down restaurants at whim – an ability granted to me by British Parliament – but I still implore you – all of you – to send me your cheese toasties and bacon butties immediately to prevent any further conflict. And to the employees of Prêt à Chier: If you tell the Bobbies, I won’t hesitate to give your restaurant a one-star review.