Back to the '80s; Viennetta at CHEZ BRUCE

Miner striker. Margaret Thatcher.

Berlin Wall. Maradona’s handball.

Kylie and Jason. Rampant inflation.

Postman Pat. Roland Rat.

Virgin Atlantic. Water that's volcanic.

HP sauce. Inspector Morse.

Wall Street traders. Space Invaders.

Arcade dreams. Custard creams.

Moscow Olympics. Falklands conflict.

Indiana Jones. Very large phones.

Del Boy and Rodney. Deirdre on Corrie.

Marty McFly. Michael Fish.

Band Aid. Live Aid. Cherry-ade. Kwik Save.

HIV, MTV, TUC, SDP.

Dangermouse. Dogtanian. Dungeons & Dragons.

Baywatch beach. Papa Don't Preach.

Big hair. Polo necks. BHS. VHS.

ET. BT. Mr T. Ford Capri.

Donkey Kong and Pac Man. Now it's Captain Caveman!

Scooby Dooby Doo, Where are you?

Masterchef Poem, aka ‘Ode to Torode’ (feat. NANBAN Epilogue)

Masterchef Poem - aka ‘Ode to Torode’

In a deeply secret red-and-silver kitchen,

Somewhere in London or possibly in Hitchin

( - in spite of sweeping skyscraper shots,

I’m guessing it's filmed somewhere in Herts.)

The contestants listen with a sense of forebode

To cheeky-chappy Gregg and his mate John Torode.

“It's The Market Challenge!” they boldly disclose,

That's a pimped-up version of (the Hitchin) Waitrose.

The clock starts ticking, contestants are aflutter.

It's Supermarket Sweep with organically-made butter

That's been churned from a cow, who’s been pampered to the hilt

With a daily massage on Egyptian-cotton quilt.

Lamb-heart agnotelli at 108 GARAGE; Travels in Tonga, Time & Space (pt 2)

The year was 1773; Captain Cook, the esteemed explorer of yore, stepped ashore the fabled Tongan island of Lifuka. So enamoured was he with the locals and their exuberant entertainments, copious feasting and general revelry - the like of which he'd ne’er seen before back in Blighty - that he graciously bestowed on them the title ‘Friendly Islanders’.

Somewhat ironic - for his hosts were actually planning to chop him into bite-sized portions and serve him up as pre-dinner canapés. Luckily for Cook, the scheme foundered when they couldn't agree on the finer details, such as whether Englishmen go well with ketchup, or whether they're best served as a small-plates sharing concept.

Nevertheless, the term ‘Friendly Islanders’ has stuck forevermore. And indeed, it's been gratuitously appropriated by the most unlikely local services (like Friendly Islander Vasectomies - ‘we snip with a smile..’) But despite their panache for canny marketing slogans, underneath lies an irrefutable generosity, something I increasingly discovered during my med-student placement on these fair isles.

Ceviche at CEVICHE; Travels in Tonga, Time & Space (pt 1)

Let's cut to the chase. Ceviche. Raw fish dish. From Peru. At a renown London venue, also called Ceviche. Ah ceviche! My dish for the road. Cue tangential preambles to travels in Peru. Such a beautiful country! Such amazing adventures!

Like the time when I inadvertently became a marauding alpaca herder on the High Andes. That was so fun! And of course the time when I went to the airport with a consignment of coca-leaf tea for grandma - she loved a nice cuppa, bless her - only to discover that it's apparently highly illegal, and two burly Customs officers and one cavity search later, suddenly found myself in a dank Peruvian jail for a period of several months, rescued only after I grassed up a fellow inmate, a notorious gangster by the name of El Diablo, whose fierce henchmen still continue to track me down, which is why I now live incognito as a food-blogger. Well, what a lark that was!

And then the time when.. oh, you know what, just screw it. I've never been to Peru, okay? I can't keep this pretence up any longer. So here's the thing - instead of Peru, I'm gonna write about somewhere else, a country that also does ceviche, a place I've actually been to..

Confessions of a [Rookie] Food-Blogger

Okay, so ‘confessions’ might be a tad misleading. There aren't any sordid stories of wild food-related debauchery; no tantalising tales of matcha-foam parties; and no erotic fantasies involving salacious scoops of Gelupo’s sorbet, a smothering of butterscotch sauce and a coconut-encrusted sugar cone. This article is nowhere near that pulse-racing.

If nothing else, I usually write my blog at 7 o’clock on a weekend morning, and there's nothing less sexy than this hour [..wait a sec while I just dislodge a Cheerio from my 6 year old’s nose, as he and his big brother ecstatically engage themselves in a world-record fart-off.]

Instead, this is an honest reflection on how I got into food-blogging and my early impressions of this strange new world. I'm just a rookie really, still close to those early heady days of excitement, anticipation and confusion. Even now, my heart pounds every time I post; my senses startle whenever the phone buzzes; and I still beat myself each time I've messed up. Yep, starting a blog is a bit like falling in love.

Lambchops at GUNPOWDER, A Dangerous Encounter in India

Many things are said about what it’s like landing in India for the first time. People say it’s an assault on the senses. People warn you about the heart-breaking poverty. And of course there’s the sweltering heat.

Stepping out of Delhi airport as a young backpacker in the 90’s, it was of course all of these things. But first things first: I had to deal with a more unnerving, if revealing, introduction to this incredible, if often unfathomable, country. Collapsing onto the hot sticky seats of the airport bus, an array of alarming signs accosted my tired jet-lagged eyes:

Ode to Charoseth

Jewish cuisine. To some, an oxymoron. To others, the warmest cosiest hug your stomach could ever have.

Either way, laden with heavy carbs and cloying fat, regular consumption guarantees a lifetime of Gaviscon dependency, with the very real possibility of major cardiovascular surgery by the time you're 60. Or even 50.

But not all Jewish cuisine is the same, there being a rough division between Ashkenazi (communities originating from Eastern Europe) and Sephardi influences (from Spain, Portugal, North Africa and the Middle East).

My family’s origins are Ashkenazi, coming from Latvia and Belarus, amongst others. I do wonder what led my ancestors - back in the day - to settle in these bleaker lands in lieu of warmer, gentler Southern climes...

Mutton at APOLLO BANANA LEAF, Scores On The Doors WTF?

Some restaurants aspire to three-Michelin stars. Others set their sights on glowing press reviews, perhaps a Fay, Jay, Grace or Giles. A TripAdvisor Certificate or perhaps a Time Out award.

However, in the bustling saturated world of restaurant evaluation – what with all those annoyingly excitable bloggers armed with camera phones [eh humm cough]– there is still one code of merit which rises above them all. What is this cherished accolade, you may wonder, that make countless eateries across the land festoon their frontages with its myriad shiny green labels.

Scores on the F**king Doors. What is that about?

Peas at THE DAIRY, Spring Is In The Air

Spring. The season of rebirth. Revered by world religions with festivals of joy, hope and redemption: Easter, Passover, Spring Equinox. Even Jedi-ism marks the sacred season with holidays such as Ewok Monday and Luke-I-Am-Your-Father’s Day. And if ever there was a season where the Force reveals, surely it is Spring. Life erupting from the Earth’s very crust, green shoots exploding from the ground to greet the sun’s rays.

London. This city of brick and bustle. Once plagued by the putrid stench of medieval road-side sewerage and smothered blind by blankets of thick tarry smog. But in this century, Spring’s tendrils emerge across London’s parks and squares, heaths and commons, gardens and window-boxes, blossoming into fields of resplendent colour. Daffodils so copious in number that one wonders how local councils prioritised floral park embellishment against such fiscal austerity...