There was a news article this week about certain restaurants wanting to ban customers from taking photographs of their meals. My initial thoughts were “pretentious nobs”, but thinking about things a little more objectively, I now think, “pretentious nobs”.

You go to a Michelin starred restaurant to experience something utterly wonderful. You take the time to select dishes that have been created and executed by the best culinary minds, in an atmosphere that I’d assume to be welcoming and helpful. This is something special to you and you want to share your experience, excitement, love of and amazement at the creativity of the chef with those who you know will also appreciate the work of those who are the absolute pinnacle of their profession. Plus, you’re paying for it, so it’s yours. So why do these stuck-up twats take such an affront to people wanting to share their experiences and, at the same time, advertising their food?

Because they are arseholes. They are “artists” and taking photographs of their creations is no different to somebody taking a photo of a concert. Yeah? And their point is?

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I digress to point out that I am still in love with my electric blanket
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I’d be really flattered if somebody took a photo or screenshot of one of my most impressive spreadsheets, avec table des pivots, and shared them amongst the wider public. I spend hours creating these things and analysing bits of data so that it’s presentable to colleagues. They give me a great sense of pride.

But I’m a scientist at heart. I am objective and pragmatic. Chefs, artists, performers, they lie amongst a merry band of creative people who would otherwise be known as sociopaths if they hadn’t found a calling in life. Or, in other words, “twats”.

I’ve heard rumour that Instagram automatically deletes any images that its software algorithms recognise as “food”. I’m going to Instagram a variety of images of the stuff that’s served up at the snack bar at work. I have every confidence that none will be deleted, especially the dire sandwiches of mayo and compost.

Le sandwich
What is it with the obsession that catering companies have with mayonnaise? My existence had been very happily mayo-free until I was introduced to the vile greasy muck at university. My flatmates had cupboards full of the stuff and I was like Harry Potter when he first entered Hogwarts; it was like entering an entirely new world: I had become exposed to Middle Class. Of course when I was young, I knew that people ate salad cream and I’d even tried it, it was disgusting, but mayonnaise was like a posh version of salad cream, yet equally awful. I just didn’t see the point of it and still can’t to this day.

The snack bar at work stocks all sorts of sandwiches and just about every one is plastered with greasy mayonnaise. Why do they do this? Why can’t they just make a chicken salad sandwich? What is so difficult to conceptualise about this? It’s easy: a bit of chicken breast, some salad leaves. But no, they have to smother the bread with butter, then layer it with mayo, which then turns the green stuff into nothing better than compost and the bread into a millimetre thick, soggy disaster.

There are some things that will change when I’m in charge, one of them being licensing of mayonnaise and banning all exposure to minors. People will need to fill out a 43 page application form that makes them justify why they need it. They’ll then be interviewed and assessed for further processing. Following a week of counselling, they might be allowed to purchase the eggy/oily crap if they sign up to an intensive course of therapy to help them kick the habit and identify much nicer things to use, such as nothing, on their bread-based lunchtime snacks.

The hunger games
Now I’m hungry and could murder a bedtime snack, however because I know that I’d eat them, I don’t buy snacks so I have nothing in the house to satiate me. The little dog seems to really like his chewy sticks, maybe I should give one a go.

Like Battle Royale, The Hunger Games pitted youngsters against each other in a fight to the death. It was a bit like the Duke of Edinburgh awards scheme with killings. I really enjoyed it. I can feel a letter to Prince Philip coming on.

Caveat emptor infuckingdeed
An update on the new-old car: it needed a new exhaust fitting today: £200. There goes any chance of me buying an Hermes scarf to hide my post-op neck wound. I’d wear a polo neck, but my ears are in the wrong place.