Sticky Teriyaki, and other vile crisp flavours brought to us by so-called progress

THERE are but three true flavours of crisp: ready salted, salt & vinegar and cheese & onion. Yet capitalism has foisted these monstrosities upon us: 

Sticky Teriyaki

Like Gary Lineker, the virtuous facade of Walkers Crisps conceals warped, sadistic minds who loathe the world. Yes, Teriyaki goes great on pork ribs, but dusting it in powdered form on greasy potato slices? Vile. A single taste of these justifies Kim Jong-Un keeping North Korea isolated from the hateful, decadent West.

Hot Honey

Burn-your-mouth spicy while simultaneously sickly sweet, a chalk-cheese combination to turn the stomach of the broad-minded and make God turn in revulsion from His creation. Anyone, for decades, could have dipped a crisp in honey. Nobody did.

Worcester Sauce

Every household has a bottle of Worcester sauce at the back of a cupboard, years out of date. Presumably a flavour scientist at Walkers saw one, flinched at the memory of how foul it tastes then slowly began grinning at the revenge he would now unleash. It’s made of molasses and anchovies. That’s by definition disgusting.

Chip Shop Curry

Executives emerged from a boardroom blue-sky-thinking session trying to find truly regrettable eating experiences, tastes which summon an almost Proustian shame, and chose this over 2am Kebab. Best eaten pissed next to a woman carrying her heels and a man who has recently had his nose broken but is unbothered, then best vomited over a garden wall.

Prawn Cocktail

Just because they’re an established variety doesn’t mean crisps that taste like crustaceans are a viable concept. You’re eating a snack flavoured like something that has ten legs, for f**k’s sake. Not that they actually taste like that. It’s more like the unpleasantly spiced tomato broth they’d serve on a commune.

Marmite

There is but one true place for Marmite to dwell: in a sealed, unopened jar, as far away from kitchens and food as is possible, ideally in a skip. Taking this salty, overpowering excuse for a flavour and adding it to crisps can only have been the manifestation of a deranged lunatic with a grudge against humanity.

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My one-woman Edinburgh show really sticks it to my middle-class childhood

THEATRE is about speaking the truth, however raw or unpalatable it may be. And I believe I have done that with my Fringe show No Daddy, I’m Not Going to the Gymkhana.

I surveyed the theatrical landscape and asked myself, why is nobody writing plays about niche personal issues told from a upper-middle perspective? Then I realised: be the change you want to see. Bring the hard truth about private school to the people.

So I wrote about the hardships of growing up in Surrey. The arguments about getting a nose stud. The pressure to ride dressage. Repeated refusals to give me a lift to Annabelle’s.

It’s all there, psychological wounds as fresh as the day I was told, aged 14, I was not getting a sleeve tattoo. I honestly feel it could be the next Fleabag.

Then the real work of rehearsals and finding a venue began. Not easy, because it turns out there are actually loads of plays about niche personal issues told from a upper-middle perspective up here, adding to my oppression.

But, surmounting obstacles like an Afghan refugee, I made it and here I am performing in Edinburgh for friends, family and sometimes up to four other people? The two-and-a-half hours just fly by.

Despite it clearly striking a chord, the critics have been less kind. Unable to look beyond their own class prejudices, some of them not even trying to hide their Scotchness, they condemned it. ‘Thinks it’s the next Fleabag but falls woefully short,’ the Times wrote.

Well, the real triumph here is that I’ve confronted the traumas of my past and emerged a stronger person. The secondary one is I’ve printed up 2,000 posters and 5,000 leaflets with ‘the next Fleabag – The Times’ on.

That should ensure sell-outs, nominations for Fringe awards, a West End run and a TV deal. See? Sometimes it is worth leaving London.