I'm starting to feel bad now.
I imagine that somewhere, right now, on the other side of the planet, there's a lonely old man, scuffling his feet down some grimy London boulevard, desperately searching the shops for that last bag of curry-flavo(u)red crisps; the same crisps he eats each night, alone in a darkened room with nothing to do but occasionally lift the needle-arm back into place, replaying Meat is Murder by The Smiths until the sound of the record skips in time to the seismic beat of farts; farts which are scented peculiarly similar to curry.