Be warned: this is a piece about fatbergs, which are really, really disgusting.
Somewhere nearby, underground, growing in the dark, there may lurk a fatberg. The fatberg is here. It has arrived. We have reached fatberg. We have achieved fatberg. We achieved it a while back in fact. The fatberg has been deployed. We are all fatbergers now.
Mmm. Fatburgers. The appeal of the fatberg, I think – the very early appeal – is that it is a word that lies across a strange linguistic divide. Do fatbergs have feet? Grant them feet for a second, at least. One of the fatberg’s feet rests in the world of all things disgusting. But listen to it. Hear its whisper: fatberg! One of the fatberg’s feet brushes up against something that sounds delicious. Who knew that this liminal world existed, that these two kingdoms, disgusting and delicious, had a shared party wall?
