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May 16, 2018

WHITE ruddy-faced middle-aged men who oppose Corbyn and the metropolitan liberal Brexit-denying elite are now being termed “gammon” by the left.
It’s a part of the pig, of course, and is often greasy, fatty and sometimes bland and fairly nondescript in taste. It’s also a lower class favourite (gammon, egg and chips often features on menus in transport cafes and the like where unsophisticated blue collar workers dine out. They wouldn’t know what guacamole was if it hit them in the eye, rarely talk about the opera and never order organic food).
I am definitely not gammon.
No, I am much more fine-cured, mature jamon iberico, thinner but much more powerful and challenging on the palate, improving as it matures – high quality gourmet fayre with a long shelf life which gains in flavour, dryness, and zesty saltiness if it is left to hang out (not, crucially, hang) in natural conditions free from any overpowering temperatures or intrusive tampering by loud and intrusive people who might poke or prod, refined and distinctive so expensive to buy, a little bit Marmite (some love it, some hate it) best taken in small portions on dry bread with very high quality chilled wine sipped slowly on a balcony with a sea view.

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