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I was a boy, aged eight, when I first discovered that hallowed thing called Branston Pickle. I fell in love with it immediately and soon it became something I could not and would never live without. Once I’d got over the fact that it was poo brown and smelt funny like how I wasn’t used to, I mean.

It was a fantastic era, that honeymoon Branston Pickle period. Days, long, beautiful, glorious days, were spent marveling at the way you Read the rest of this entry »

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