JUST AS MY CARES were being eased by the twin discoveries that earth won't be demolished by a comet until after I'm dead and that news from Palm Beach County was finally finding its burial plot back among the want ads, along comes Britain's National Chip Week, complete with Elvis lookalikes.

The human race, alas, still has much to worry about. Its sanity, for a start.

For those still laboring under the delusion that America and Britain speak the same language, be advised that the "chips" herein referred to are made of potatoes but are not potato chips. They are, in fact, French fries.

Britain does have potato chips, but they are called "crisps." This follows the same logic of calling the hood on a car a "bonnet" and a head of hair a "barnet," and a telephone a "dog and bone," or just "bone," if you are double-parked and in a hurry.

But I digress. French fries, or chips, are not the national dish in Britain, and the natives certainly know zilch about cooking them, drenching each batch as they do with enough cooking fat to turn a 97-pound weakling into a 337-pound sumo wrestler with round eyes.

The result is something that resembles an advanced case of alcoholic droop. Thankfully, there is what is referred to hereabouts as the "American solution," and that is to dump a couple of inches of ketchup atop the whole mess (which the average Brit has already mistreated by dousing it with a gallon or three of vinegar).

Anyway, the question is why in the first place anyone would want to devote a special week to this humble dish. Then I learned that the whole thing is being organized and sponsored by the British Potato Council. Well, they would, wouldn't they?

Whatever, I could live with that. What I find rather baffling is the Potato Council's announcement that National Chip Week "will see hundreds of shop owners dress up as Elvis - the king of rock and roll - to get into the spirit of the week."

Whoever dreamed that one up has been out somewhere dancing with the fairies. What a set of swivel-hips that popped its clogs a quarter of a century ago has to do with today's modern Britain and its curious culinary habits is a question that belongs right up there with querying the philosophy of creeping meatballism.

Continuing its sojourn into the realm of the truly outre, the Potato Council says it has a theme song for its chip promo: the late Kirsty McCall's "There's a Guy Works Down the Chip Shop Swears He's Elvis."

This little ditty is described as a "hit." Maybe so, but I've never heard it. Perhaps just as well, since in my little book of favorite things Elvis Presley ranks two notches below a pre-frontal lobotomy (although one place above taking my tabby cat Bear to the vet, which itself is a notch above taking him there twice in the same lifetime).

Presley is one of the more unpleasant memories of my teens. The arrival of this talentless cretin may not have been the day the music died, but it certainly signaled the start of its long decline into the atonal, drum-pounding racket that characterizes today's pop scene full of spotty faces, navels and greasy-looking hair.

Besides which, I am an unreconstructed Doris Day fan.

As far as Elvis is concerned, I do admit to being in a global minority of approximately four. Even Perry White, editor of the Daily Planet in the "Superman" flicks, is forever going faint and feverish over "The King." There's no escape, not even into fantasy.

Back in the alleged real world, there is Anthea Robinson, who holds down a job as the British Potato Council's promotions manager. She does work at it.

"So far, we've had a fantastic response, with 500 chip shops across the country registering to be involved, and this is going to be the biggest Chip Week promotion of its kind," she waxes lyrically, suggesting there have been "Chip Weeks" before and, more horrifyingly, there may be more to come.

Anthea warbles on: "I've been overwhelmed to discover how many chip shop owners are prepared to support the industry and Chip Week." Then, remembering the Presley theme: "I have also been surprised at the number of Elvis fans who wanted to get involved."

"We're expecting Elvis sightings all over the country ..."

The prospect of walking into an eatery populated by aging wannabes clad in spangled suits and toting guitars that haven't been tuned since Methuselah was on his see-saw and belting out atonal renditions of "Blue Suede Shoes" is about as welcome as news that my cat just got run over.

The Potato Council figures National Chip Week will see 5,000,000 portions of French fries/chips consumed. Actually, the correct figure should be more like 4,999,999 portions.

Because I'll be down at the local Indian, having a vindaloo. Probably getting serenaded by musicians whose sitars haven't been tuned since Shiva and Vishnu played hopscotch in the gardens of the Taj Mahal.

Anyway, it'll beat hell out of listening to "You Ain't Nothin' But a Hound Dawg" down at the local chip shop.

Thought for the Week: Hard work has a future. Laziness pays off now.

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