Stuff your cordon bleu – just try a Monster Munch sandwich

Have we reached peak foodie interest? Is it just me who feels thoroughly gorged on a diet rich in TV food competitions, social meeja pictures of random dinners and bloggers going on about clean eating or whatever the latest fad is? I am sick of it now. I am also unafraid to confess to all these “experts” that I have a fairly regular craving for a fish finger sangwidge and as far as I am concerned, that is up there with any culinary masterpiece.

I am not coy about sharing the recipe: The fish fingers must be grilled. The bread should really be thick-sliced sourdough and ketchup should be lightly blended with tartare, to taste.

There. You’re welcome. Enough now.

I once called my sister when I knew her husband was away. We chatted and she said how nice it was not having to make a proper dinner as it was just her. I asked what she’d had for dinner. “A Monster Munch sangwidge”.

I thought this must be some kind of Nigella-type recipe and inquired further, to be told: “You open a packet of pickled onion flavoured Monster Munch crisps and put them between two slices of buttered bread.”

She was in her forties at the time, not a student or anything. Perhaps this is dirty eating? Who knows? Who cares? It makes my fish finger option sound positively cordon bleu.

All those programmes featuring sweaty people dashing around professional kitchens, putting blobs of foam on plates alongside edible flowers, just make me anxious and upset.

As my regular reader knows, I make an exception for the Great British Bake Off, which makes me feel everything’s right with the world.

It’s enough to give you indigestion.