I can remember tasting cheese and onion crisps when they first

Host: The afternoon light poured through the dusty window of an old Northern pub, catching the slow swirl of ale in half-drunk glasses and the amber gleam of nostalgia that hung in the air like a quiet song. The jukebox in the corner hummed with something soft and familiar — an old tune from the ’70s that made time feel like a record that never quite stopped spinning.

At the bar sat Jack, hunched over a pint, his grey eyes fixed on the froth but clearly seeing something else entirely. Beside him, Jeeny cradled a packet of crisps, tapping her fingers against the bar — waiting, smiling, as if she already knew where this was going.

Jeeny: “Dave Myers once said, ‘I can remember tasting cheese and onion crisps when they first came on the market — they were the most amazing thing ever.’”

Jack: (smirking) “That’s it? No philosophy, no grand reflection — just crisps?”

Jeeny: “Oh, you cynic. It’s not about the crisps, Jack. It’s about the moment.”

Jack: “The moment?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The first taste of something new. The kind of ordinary magic you don’t realize is magic until it’s gone.”

Host: The barman wiped a glass in slow circles, pretending not to listen but smiling anyway. Outside, the wind howled softly, pushing against the door — that restless British wind that always smells of rain and memory.

Jack: “You mean nostalgia. The poor man’s time travel.”

Jeeny: (laughing) “Maybe. But Myers wasn’t talking about the past — he was talking about wonder. The way the smallest things can shift the world when you’re young enough to feel them.”

Jack: “A crisp changed the world?”

Jeeny: “For him, maybe it did. Imagine it — a postwar Britain, grey skies, rationing memories still fresh. Then suddenly, flavour. Something new, something playful. Cheese and onion. It wasn’t just food — it was colour in a monochrome world.”

Host: The pub door opened, letting in a gust of cold air and the faint scent of diesel from the street. A few regulars shuffled in, coats damp, smiles easy. The world felt smaller, warmer — like a living postcard from another era.

Jack: “You always manage to turn snacks into poetry.”

Jeeny: “Because every small joy deserves a sonnet. Myers understood that. He was a man who celebrated the everyday — who found wonder in frying pans and gravy boats.”

Jack: “You mean he was sentimental.”

Jeeny: “No. He was grateful. There’s a difference.”

Host: Jeeny tore open the crisp packet, the familiar hiss breaking the quiet. She pushed it toward Jack. The smell — that unmistakable mix of salt, onion, and artificial cheese — rose like a ghost from childhood.

Jeeny: “Go on, have one. For science.”

Jack: (taking one reluctantly) “Tastes the same as it always did.”

Jeeny: “That’s the point. Some things don’t need to change. They remind us we’ve survived everything that did.”

Host: The light shifted, casting soft gold across the bottles behind the bar. A quiet settled between them — the kind that isn’t empty, just full of things that don’t need saying.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, it wasn’t crisps for me. It was sherbet lemons. First time I tasted one, I thought I’d discovered heaven. That shock of sweet and sour. I remember thinking — ‘how can something this small hold so much joy?’”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what Myers was saying. It’s not about the food — it’s about the feeling. That first encounter with delight. The moment before the world teaches you that nothing lasts.”

Jack: “And after that, you start chasing the taste, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Always. But you never find it quite the same way again. Because the wonder was never in the crisp — it was in you.”

Host: A woman laughed somewhere across the pub, the sound mingling with the jukebox tune. Jack looked up, the corners of his mouth softening — his eyes distant but alive.

Jack: “You know, you might be right. Maybe nostalgia’s not about going back — maybe it’s about remembering that you once could be amazed.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And Dave Myers — God bless him — never stopped being amazed. Whether it was a new recipe or a roadside meal, he treated it like a revelation.”

Jack: “That’s rare. Most people get older and start building walls around their wonder.”

Jeeny: “He tore his down every day. That’s why people loved him — he reminded us that life’s still delicious, even when it’s messy.”

Host: The barman poured another pint, sliding it across the bar with quiet ceremony. The rain began again outside, tapping against the windows like applause for the present moment.

Jeeny leaned back, her voice soft, reflective.

Jeeny: “You know, there’s something heroic in that — finding awe in the ordinary. We chase miracles, but the real ones are the ones we can touch, taste, and share.”

Jack: “Like crisps in a pub on a rainy afternoon.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It doesn’t get more miraculous than that.”

Host: The camera drifted toward the window — the rain blurring the outside world, the warm glow of the pub holding steady inside. Jack and Jeeny sat together, crunching crisps and sharing silence, the kind of silence that tastes like peace.

And as the scene faded into gold, Dave Myers’s words echoed gently — not as comedy, but as quiet wisdom from a man who knew that wonder doesn’t need grandeur:

That the first taste of something new —
even a crisp —
can open a door in the soul.

That joy, in its simplest form,
is still the most amazing thing ever.

And that growing older isn’t about losing your sense of taste —
it’s about learning to savor
what never stopped being extraordinary.