50 Sheds Of Shit

Nothing says Christmas like Bath’s 50 Sheds of Shit, that tacky but twee festive operation to enable small retail businesses to make money by selling what I would call tat, as well as unhealthy food options. Inevitably, Bristol soon followed suit with its annual German market, which I think we can all agree is about as German as cricket itself. Yesterday, we had the misfortune to share the experience. It wasn’t good.

On a more positive note – and trust me, it is not easy to be positive about this market – some of the stalls seemed pretty good. They had numerous Christmas offerings such as…er…olives, olive wood, eye-wateringly expensive Mead and much, much more, as they endeavoured to convey a festive atmosphere on Bonfire Night. Remember, remember: Christmas doesn’t fall on 5th November.

Anyway, I was lured in by the promise of some festive joy with the offer of a cheese and tomato toastie from a pop-up ‘wrap’ van next to the big bar in the middle of Broadmead. They were ‘only’ £6 each, although I should have smelled a rat when one of the two blokes running the stall asked if I could pay in cash. As I don’t carry cash these days, he said it was not a problem and took my details from my phone. Then I watched as the other bloke assembled our toasties.

Two slices of flimsy medium white bread, four tiny pieces of tomato and grated cheese which I hoped might taste better than it looked. Spoiler alert: it didn’t. It was quite simply the worst cheese toastie in the history of the world. My bad. I moan constantly at the rip off nature of these types of markets and then ignore my own moaning. If you feel hungry when visiting the German Market, then pop into the local Sainsburys and buy a snack instead.

Much of the market is the same as usual. Dire, overpriced lager that no self-respecting German would touch, tasteless German sausages and numerous ‘carveries’. To be honest, nothing about the place reminds me of Christmas, other than the incessant messages about Christmas absolutely everywhere. At least the Christmas music hadn’t started – it’s only a matter of time before that starts – although, sadly, Mariah Carey, it’s possible she wasn’t there in person, was announcing that all she wanted for Christmas was me.

I hate the Christmas Shed Shit but I fear I am in a small minority. The bars were getting very packed by the time we moved on to a proper pub and the carvery stalls were making a killing, notably the one that sells a full dinner in a giant Yorkshire pudding including mushy peas. If that’s your bag – and I am not knocking it if it is – then get there as soon as possible. For those of you who prefer a more traditional Christmas, this might not be for you. God, I imagine, won’t be paying a visit.