You are what you eat – but please don’t tell me what that is

How do you know someone is vegan? Give them five minutes. So goes the old joke. And now it seems the leader of the opposition may be joining their number.

When Jeremy Corbyn, a vegetarian for 50 years, was quizzed this week by workers at eco-cosmetics company, Lush, on whether he was going to go the whole hold-the-hog-andpass-the-tofu, he gave a rather “some of my best friends are vegan” response before explaining: “I am going through the process.”

Oh, please. In the words of the great Jedi Master, Yoda: “Do. Or do not. There is no try.”

But we live in times when we use the sort of language that we once reserved for the contemplation of holy orders to describe how and why, and what we eat.

For many, it seems true bonding is no longer achieved by climbing a mountain together or exploring a shared love of the early novels of Iris Murdoch. Rather, it is by trading food-based horror stories with some acquaintance on the bus, or through long discussion of the difference between allergy and intolerance with those unfortunate enough to be seated next to you at dinner. The truth is, what you do or don’t eat is probably the most boring thing about you. Or at least it should be.

Painfully often, modern dinner party conversation makes me long for the heady days when the most tedious thing an acquaintance could subject you to was their holiday snaps, or indeed a time when it was considered intensely vulgar to talk about food at all.

Let’s face it, it’s got positively yawnsome trying to keep up. Vegetarians are absolutely mainstream now. There can’t be a family in the land that doesn’t have to rustle up something delicious with mushrooms at Christmas for those who faint at the sight of the turkey. But now there are ovo-vegetarians (eat eggs), lacto-ovo-vegetarians (eat dairy and eggs), pollotarians (no red meat but, yes please, pass the chicken burger), pescitarians (phone for the fish knives, Norman).

Me, it seems I am an unwitting reductarian, which means I can be accidentally vegetarian for weeks at a time. And then there are, of course, vegans, who eschew all animal products, including honey, beeswax, silk, leather and wool, so are presumably powered through life by cashew cheese and static.

All of which is fine, but spare us all the (inevitably, bloated) navel gazing. Sharing the details of your digestive tract as though it’s an epic tale worthy of Jules Verne, or boring endlessly on about why you eat what you do, shows such a crashing level of self-absorption that it makes me want to trepan my own head for a little light relief.

I think of my late grandmother who, when any of us expressed the merest hint of affectation or complaint, would utter a withering: “It’s a pity about you.” I can’t imagine what she would make of an age when perfect strangers think it appropriate to strike up conversations about bloating. Or why you should or shouldn’t eat cheese?

We live in sanctimonious times, where getting together for a bit of virtue signalling is the new backgammon, and hand wringing has replaced bell ringing as an acceptably wholesome hobby. Me, I like a little needlework, so please excuse me for a moment while I appliqué “More pies, less piety!” on to this banner.