Today I did a taxi run in the early hours of the morning, passing the slaughterhouse at about 03.45 as the pre-dawn glinted on wet black roads, and again at 07.00 in the rain-drenched grey light of day.

Approaching the squat collection of unremarkable buildings, the first thing that always hits me is the stench; a stinking, gut-churning miasma that over the years I have learned to associate with slaughter. There’s a unique foulness hanging in the air that seeps sickeningly from depravities that no decent human should even have to contemplate. It’s a smell made all the more painful by knowing it’s demanded and paid for by consumers, shoppers and diners who are too fastidious to consider who is meeting the cost of their frivolous convenience; who is paying in blood and in agony with all they will ever have. Almost every one of those consumers would be very…