I Can’t Live Without Chips

Anyone who grew up with a proper chip pan will know exactly what I'm talking about.

Fresh out the chip pan, glistening away, crisp enough to hear them before you bite into them, piping hot yet fluffy as anything in the middle. Get the salt on like you've got shares in Saxa, then absolutely leather them in vinegar until the outside soaks it all up. It’s not Michelin food and it’s not meant to be.

Back in the day, you could smell it before you even got through the front door. That unmistakable smell of hot chip fat hanging in the house. It got into the curtains, the wallpaper, your school jumper, everything.

There was always one lad at school who permanently smelt of chip fat because that's what they cooked with every night. At the time everyone took the piss. Looking back, I just think he was probably eating better chips than the rest of us.

There was something about watching your mam or your nan lowering those chipped old metal baskets into the pan. No timers. No digital displays. Just years of experience and a quick glance to know when they were ready. Somehow they got them perfect every single time.

And don't start asking where the ketchup is. If your chips need drowning in sauce, they're probably shite to begin with. Proper chips don't need rescuing. They carry themselves like potato soldiers serving in the spud military.

The first one was always too hot, but nobody ever waited. Straight off the plate, burn the roof of your mouth, swear a bit, then immediately grab another because you clearly hadn't learned your lesson.

Sadly, chip pans disappeared for good reason. They weren't exactly the safest thing to have bubbling away in the kitchen, and plenty of people have horror stories because of them. Air fryers are undoubtedly easier, cleaner and a lot safer. But they don't smell the same, they don't taste quite the same and they definitely don't bring back the same memories.

Our local pub still does a bowl for about three quid. Three quid. In 2026. That's practically charity. Stick a decent pint next to them and you've got one of the greatest combinations known to mankind. You don't need truffle oil, parmesan or some garlic aioli served in a thimble.

You just need a bowl of proper chips, a pint, a wonky pub table that's had more spillages than a toddler and half an hour where nobody asks you to do a single fucking thing.

Funny how something as simple as a bowl of chips can take you straight back to your mam's kitchen or your nan shouting that tea was ready and a time when life somehow felt a lot simpler.

And for that, I can't live without chips.

Three quid chips at my local pub