In the interests of boosting cholesterol, clogging arteries and knocking a further 27-minutes off my life-expectancy, I decide to eat a slab of greasy meat. By happy coincidence, this involves placing an order with a Swedish barmaid.
‘Bacon cheeseburger, please – without the barbecue sauce.’
She stares at me blankly, as if I’ve just spoken to her in Uzbekistani. Perhaps her English isn’t as good as I thought. Undeterred, I stab the menu with my forefinger.
‘This one,’ I say slowly and loudly, in a cod-Scandinavian accent.
‘Oh,’ she replies. ‘You mean you want the barbecue burger without barbecue sauce.’