It is a strange quirk of English life that it is possible to have milk delivered to ones house. It is left on the doorstep each morning by a uniformed employee of the dairy who, in popular folklore, is at it like a weasel with every bored housewife on his rounds rounds and (possibly in consequence) is always cheery. (Ours was a misanthropic pederast with terminal haliotosis, but I digress).
Unigate was a large National dairy.
Why milk, you might reasonably ask?
Because we are British, we reply.
We could have had wine, fine cheeses, fresh and crusty bread, great foaming steins of ale, cigars or high quality pornography - it's not beyond the wit of man - but no... we got milk.
Sadly the Milkman is no more in most of the UK. They probably couldn't find anyone willing to get up at 4 am and live up to the expectation of being cheery satyr.
Pizzas, I understand, can be delivered.
I wonder what they are.