GAMMON STAKEOUT

There is a dark cloud hanging over Fyne Place, our rural abode. To call it dark is a bit too dramatic as it only really has a greyish tint to it. Nonetheless, under the cloud I have a sense of gloom that afflicts me twice a year, in June and December, although its arrival was delayed by a few months this time. Many things can give me a feeling of gloom, of course, such as my bank balance; bathroom scales; being banished to the spare room; country music; weeding; the reappearance of Strictly on TV, and Mrs F’s consistent cruelty to gammon steaks.

She isn’t a bad cook really, but the art of grilling a gammon steak has somehow escaped her. Routinely they are overdone to a point where I fully expect Gucci or Louboutin to be in touch to sign them up as miracle nonslip fashion soles for their exotic shoes. They would never wear out.

Imagine the success Scotland’s footballers could have if their shooting boots were fitted with her super-strong gammon-steak soles for November’s qualifying tie with slippery Serbia. The world could be at our feet, literally.

Still, back in the real world of the Fyne Place kitchen table, I used my knife as part scalpel, part saw and part angle-grinder to abrade the dehydrated disasters into slices that I could have chewed for the next fortnight, all while maintaining a contented smile of thanks.

Long experience has shown it’s unwise to show any open dissatisfaction with her efforts. I still have the mental scars, and others, to prove it.

This all added to my sense of gloom that began last weekend when I discovered that, yet again, I was overlooked in the Honours List. How can it be that many fine folk across the north and north-east were recognised with gongs for their efforts during the pandemic while my incredible courage, skill and patience for surviving a three-month lockdown, and more, in the 24-hour company of Mrs F went unnoticed?

OK, so 90-year-old Margaret Payne, of Lochinver, richly deserved her BEM for climbing her stairs 282 times, raising more than £435,000 for Highland charities, and Bertie Armstrong, former head of the Scottish Fishermen’s Federation in Aberdeen, certainly earned his OBE for commitment to ensuring that Scottish-caught fish remained on our menus, but I still feel left out.

With fish in mind, I briefly considered driving to the nearest chip shop and buying a large battered haddock supper to cheer myself up.

Sadly, in my current dietary regime, a sort of culinary Colditz with Mrs F as commandant, had she detected salt and vinegar about my person, it might not only have been the haddock that was battered. She might even have been more reasonable had it instead been another woman’s Coco Chanel she sensed on my jacket. Highly unlikely, yes, unless the chippie’s head fryer was a scented siren and inadvertently breached social distancing while wrapping my order.

One thing I wouldn’t do, however, is to order a deep-fried Mars Bar. It’s 25 years since a cheeky Mackie Academy schoolboy asked for one from the Haven in Stonehaven, now the Carron, and overnight an international food sensation was born, reaching dizzy heights of digestive delight and despair, generating adoration and angst in equal measure.

I’m fortunate not to have a sweet tooth, which is probably why I still have all my own teeth, so the prospect of cooked confectionary does nothing for me. If I were to bite into one, I could imagine my teeth cavorting crazily round my head like an Ed Balls Gangnamstyle dance, and just about as unappealing. I’ve never tried one, though, so I shouldn’t really comment.

Earlier in the week, Mrs F had seen me looking wistfully at the story of the deepfried Mars Bar in the paper and sensed I was pining for a white pudding, mock chop, steak pie, sausage or fish supper, or all five, as I struggled with my burnt offering of low-fat gammon. She told me sympathetically to stick with the diet and I might receive a coveted honour next year. My gloomy mood rose, only to plummet like a shot pigeon seconds later. “You might win my prestigious Nobelly Piece Prize for those who can have their lunchtime piece without it being slathered in butter and unhealthy fillings,” she said, walking away laughing.

I’ll show her. I’ll have salad tonight. Even she can’t cremate that, can she?

STEP TO IT: Stair-climbing Margaret Payne and Strictly dance dunce Ed Balls.