We all walk past the fridge full of ready meals in Tesco and peer in to see whats up, but nobody is desperate enough to actually ever open the door and purchase one. Well, I am; plus I wanted to understand the treasures contained within the seldom-opened ice chamber surrounded in its muggy forcefield of misery.

First thing I noticed upon closer inspection was the heft which was largely in part due to the riot-shielding they used for a lid. It took me a good few minutes to open the damn thing which made the weight of all my past decisions that lead me to that point to triple in density and grow poisonous spikes.

The paper strip of information that wrapped the container concealed a ‘but it was all a dream’ level of utter betrayal. I thought that the tub of gunk was split with a vertical divider, but as I peeled back the cheap-and-meaty smelling clothing a gaping and unholy chasm greeted me as if I was in a nightclub toilet with a last resort.

I managed to pry open the tombstone of a lid and was chillingly sliced through my very being by the bitter stench of haunted plastic. The smell was so vicious that I had to instinctively whip my head back as if I had been peering into an active volcano as it erupted.

Resisting the urge to douse it in petrol and burn it in an unmarked location, I emptied the contents of the tubs into a pan (haven’t got a microwave) to warm it up. As the black bean sauce slowly came to a sizzle, the rice left behind an unsettling ectoplasmy residue in bottom of its container like they had been crying tears of thick, eggy milk.

Once heated and green-lit for consumption, the rice still retained its slimy state. The stodginess levels couldn’t have been measured by even those at NASA, and each mouthful of the waxy, rubber pellets made all of my emotions buff down towards absolute zero. Soon, I’ll be nothing but a husk of a man.

But oddly enough, the chicken wasn’t as bad as I expected. Most of the chicken slices in the Tesco meal deals and sandwiches are drier than the space around the sun but these eight segments of chicken were nowhere near as terrible. However, the black bean sauce that congealed the meaty bits tasted like a rubbery, battery-powered car accident in its levels of sharp dullness.

All in all, the experience was better left in the dusty pages of an ancient tome outlining humanities mistakes, never again to be seen by the light of day.