Fish, Chips and Colin

The local chip shop on a Friday night always has a queue. This is one queue I hope never disappears. I love queue-watching at a chippy early doors, around 6pm, before the pubs are kicking out and the vibe changes — a dad on the chip run with excited kids in tow, a tradesman, a small group of boys in hoodies and puffer jackets, and a knackered mum who’s escaped solo (that part is sometimes played by me).There’s an air of excitement: people lit by the neon glow of the menu signage, the yellow batter of fish and sausages shining inside the glass case with its silver frame. It’s a community spot, shared by all regardless of class or culture — if you want a proper fish and chip supper, you go to the local chippy. Especially if you live in smaller or more remote towns and villages where the option of Uber Eats is still something of a mystery.A Friday feeling. A bit of nostalgia. A ritual that has all the parts a ritual should have: smell, patience, and warmth.I also think it’s imperative to eat this particular cuisine out of the paper it comes wrapped in, and where possible, with your hands. I don’t believe you can truly recreate a fish and chip supper at home, although my dad used to give it a good try while my mum panicked over a pan of boiling oil. However, he did have one big advantage — he grew up in a fish and chip shop. Not only that, he was actually born out the back of one.My Gran and Grandad had a shop in Leicester. They ran this very special meeting ground, unfortunately interrupted when my dad decided to make his arrival on earth at the most inappropriate moment: ‘frying time’ — the point of the day when the fryers were ramped up and the teatime rush was imminent.My Grandad Colin, a tall, handsome Scot who would tell me stories of limbs being sawn off in the war due to infection while carefully turning sausages on the BBQ, had what you might call a toughened soul. His porridge was made with water and a pinch-of-salt mentality. Once, while mending the roof, he fell and told no one for nearly six months. One day my dad pulled back his handmade jumper to reveal an arm so black and swollen the sleeve could barely stretch over it. Only then, after much persuasion, did he get it seen to.So when I say he told my Gran to head out the back to give birth because frying time was non-negotiable, I hope you’ll understand.Even though I wasn’t around to witness the glory days of my Gran and Grandad’s fish and chip shop, I did eat fish and chips with them on many occasions — some more memorable than others.They always had dogs. For most of my childhood there were two poodles, Elsa and Dacey, whose hair was cut with absolute precision by my Grandad into perfect pom-poms on their heads, legs, and tails. In turn, my Gran would cut my Grandad’s hair into an equally exact bright white pom-pom. Alongside the poodles was my dog, Roma — a ‘Lassie’ dog. The most beautiful, gentle beast, who never left my side when I was around.We’d take all three dogs on long beach walks, rambling through the New Forest before hitting Calshot Beach, where we’d stop to eat fish and chips — the sharpness of vinegar cutting through the moreish salt mix, with an occasional crunch of sand.The other time fish and chips featured heavily was when I went away with them in their tiny caravan. It was always the smallest on the pitch. My auntie would arrive with her incredible Winnebago-style, flashy white number, while Gran and Grandads could only fit one double bed (converted from the table) and a tiny pull-down bunk, which I climbed into. I was the youngest, so my sister stayed in the Winnebago, and I stayed with my grandparents.The lack of room and no plumbing meant there was a separate porta-loo in a tall, narrow tent outside. I also don’t recall a sink, only a blue bucket that would be filled at the communal taps and carried back. First, the blue bucket, would be used to rinse me down, then after dinner to wash the cutlery and plates in — including the dog bowls. Buckets really are the most universal piece of equipment.One very cold night, snuggled into my Tom and Jerry sleeping bag, I lay listening as the wind howled outside. The caravan rocked slightly as rain hit it sideways. I closed my eyes tightly, holding my breath to minimise any movement that might be the final catalyst to tip the whole thing over.Then I heard the gentle trickling of water. But not outside — inside. I stayed completely still until the sound reached a point that suggested this caravan is going down. I slowly opened one eye.There stood my Grandad, carefully weeing into the blue ‘washing up’ bucket.That evening we ordered fish and chips and it was from that day on, as my Gran carefully placed down the freshly washed cutlery and plates that I vowed to only eat fish and chips with my hands and straight from the paper. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit toriecampbell.substack.com