And there was a 20 minute section on the "King of the Spud" competition held in the West of Ireland today. I give up trying to convince people that we are not in love with any kind of potato, that our lives don't revolve around growing seasons, that we don't fight over who grew the tasiest one. It doesn't help that I have potatoes for dinner nearly every night, hmm? The news was only 40 minutes long in total, and 20 of them were devoted to spuds. With all that is going on, both here and elsewhere in the world. 20 minutes of farmers bringing their best potatoes. Of "professional" judges announcing the winner. Of the losers crying, big scary farmers, crying as they lost the potato competition. I give up. Now I shall get back to my little garden, where me lovely spuds are growing. Good day to you all.
You poor, poor person. You shouldn't try to speak for your countrymen and they shouldn't try to speak for you. Does that make you feel better?
I spend several hours a day talking to an irishman and all we ever do is make potato jokes. I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry.
Many potatoes have eyes... before the humans come along and inhumanely rip them off before slicing them up into a different assortment of shapes and burning their every atom until they cook and soften!