Banana flavoured foods are horrible.

There are some flavours that simply cannot be replicated, and banana is one of them - think about it, banana milkshake, banana yoghurt, banana angel delight, and - my personal favourite - banana medicine.

Imagine the scene - I, a seven year old boy, with a mild illness am being treated by an elderly male doctor:

Doctor: We’re going to give you some medicine.

Child: OK.

Doctor: Obviously, you’ll want the banana flavour, what with being a young boy and all.

Child: Erm, no thanks Doc, I’d rather have plain old medicine or, if possible, tablets.

Doctor: But banana flavour medicine is just like banana milkeshake - its loverly!

Child: Doc, not to put too fine a point on it, banana milkshake is god-awful, and banana flavour medicine is medicine flavoured banana milkeshake - it’s Lucifer’s elixir.

Doctor: Okay, banana flavour medicine it is (writes out prescription)

Child: Thanks Doctor

The conversation may not actually have played out like that, but it proves my point: there is no banana flavoured product in the world that tastes at all nice.

The only banana flavoured thing that does taste good, is a banana.

Sporks: those half spoon, half fork monstrosities.

No reasoned arguments for and against here, I just don’t like them.

Some things in life rub us up the wrong way. Some things really grate at us, for no apparent reason. Then there is Jamie Oliver.

Jamie Oliver’s constant attempts to be a ‘cheeky chappie’ would be irritating, but forgivable, were it not for the fact that I feel seasick, because his cameraman is waving his lens around again. Is that food? I can’t tell, it looks like you’re filming it with a microscope, you’re so close.

Another thing with old Jamie, which makes him far from pukka, is his absolute overuse of olive oil. We get it Jamie. You like extra virgin olive oil. Now stop pouring it into all your recipes, and again over the finished meal. I’m pretty sure Jamie Oliver drinks olive oil instead of water.

Jamie Oliver has also got a huge hangup. Rustic. Everything must be “ruthtic”. What rustic means to Jamie, though, is that it is not chopped properly. Or washed. If it is cooked by throwing it into some ash, all the better.

I long for the day when a nice meal can again be just that: a nice meal. Not some grubby baby carrots which have been char grilled on a barbecue by a try-hard mockney pot-washer with a speech impediment.