There is nothing like good pizza…


It’s just wrong


…and this is nothing like good pizza.

So.  I’m back working now and as part of that process, the dinner situation for the adults has become somewhat dire.

You know what I’m talking about.  It’s 8.30pm.  The children are largely in bed, barring one or two strange noises, and the odd sleepwalking incident.

You’re hungry.  You open the freezer.  You could go that extra culinary mile and roast a bunch of oven chips, served with tomato sauce and aioli. Does anyone even do this anymore?  And come on.  That’s not tomato sauce.  There are no tomatoes in that sauce.

There’s nothing left to do but get on the device and order up a New Zealand American pizza.

Did you get to Italy, ever? I did.  Italian pizza is weapons-grade incredible.  I remember one night, the night of the football world cup in 1998, running through the streets of Florence to get to the pizzeria in time for kick-off.

The Italian waiters were divine.  They made me feel a little bit unkempt though, in my unsultry market dress and sandals.   I ordered the Quattro Stagioni, which I think means Four Seasons.

The Four Season pizza was a minimalist  compilation of a real tomato sauce passata, mozzarella, olives, and a long list of goods that made me feel good to be alive.  The base was both thin and puffy, and the slices folded wonderfully into a U shape.  I sat munching the pizza and watching the waiters, because who gives a shit about football anyway?

I’m sitting here, watching the recorded shows I have missed the last few nights, eating what can loosely be described as ‘pizza’.  Yes, I ordered it.  Yes, I spent money to have food delivered to my house.  Let me take you through it.

At about half past eight, I heard the relaxing sound of a rotary-engined car.  The staccato machine-gunning came round the bend and pulled into my driveway.  He was late, the pizza boy, and he was embarrassed.  Not as embarrassed as me, actually ordering this god-forsaken crap.

I got the goods inside, carefully checking that no neighbours had seen what I was about to do.

They had.  Oh well, never mind.  They can clock that one up along with the time I went outside in my underwear quickly to get the kids bags out of the car.  Yeah, lap that one up, suckers.

So, back to the pizza.  If you order a Supreme, which I had, you get a strange combination of foodstuffs, all lovingly showered onto a base that can be stuffed with cheese, sausages, or in one case, a snake of pepperoni.

The whole thing is so utterly grotesque.  It is now in my digestive tract, and I am not sure why or how it is staying down in there.

Why oh why, did New Zealand do this to pizza?  It’s the same as if one was to take a sheet of white A4 paper, that’s so simple and functional and pinking-shear the sides.  Why not paint it black while you’re there?  Why not cover it in tomato paste and cheese and stuff the sides with nacho chips?

New Zealand pizza is poison.  The only way to get it down is to flush it with many, many glasses of Coca Cola, affectionately known as the Black Death.

I feel sick.  And tired.  I crave salads and mineral water, poured over diamonds — to cleanse and purify my body — but most importantly:  my spirit.

I am also going to invest in some hypnosis to erase the catchy tune of the pizza company from my frontal lobe.

I hate myself.


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