Last week in the Kingdom of Fife we rejoiced in four consecutive days of fine weather. I took my sunglasses out of storage so I wouldn’t be blinded by bare midriffs on the high street. But judging from the long queues at the Tan Stand, they’ll all be orange soon.

Sunshine lends a wholesome air to the toun. I saw a girl walking to the park with a frisbee in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

Then I saw a peacock stop to pick up an abandonded chip. He fanned out his tail and tilted his head back, chip clenched in his tiny beak. I fumbled for my camera but the posing bastard gulped it down before I could focus.

Speaking of chips, we went out to Anstruther the other night. Nothing says summer like hot grease by the sea! I also wanted photographic evidence of a chip butty for my Dietgirl blog. I’d mentioned recently that Gareth was a devotee and some people were baffled and/or intrigued by the idea of carb on carb action.

Five years ago I would have been horrified, but now I see poetry in the bland, fluffy white roll, lubed up with butter and stuffed with flaccid fries.

Ask for a chip butty at the Anstruther chippie and your butty shall runneth over:

Gareth likes to eat the overflow first, building anticipation for the main event.

I went for the fish supper as usual. I had brought along my special Australianising Kit: chicken salt and a lemon. Back home you get lemon with fish by default, but over here you have to ask for it and they think you’re a freak. The chicken salt, which doesn’t contain actual chickens, was purchased for a ludicrous sum at the Australia Shop in Covent Garden a few years ago. I could take it or leave the stuff when I actually lived in Oz, but now flavoured sodium is a tasty, pathetic way of clinging to my roots.

On Sunday I went down to Leith to see my friend Lainey run in her first half marathon. Thirteen miles is a truly grueling endeavour, but luckily there was plenty of sustenance around - all the essential carbohydrate, protein, lard and gristle an athlete needs.

I don't know what it is about running events that make me want to bawl like a baby. I don't care much for the sinewy professionals; it's the ordinary folk that tug at my heartstrings. I watch out for the really old, the really slow, the really wobbly and just let the tears stream behind my sunglasses. I wonder about all those different lives and stories, how they came to run in such a long race, what it means to them. You can't help feeling good about humanity.

Lainey finished in fine style and we were so bloody proud. I didn't cry all over her as she was salty enough already!

All that armchair athletics had me totally bursting for the loo so we went over to the Ocean Terminal shopping centre. All three levels of retail paradise were clogged with proud runners and their shiny medals.

In the ladies, I was washing my hands and reflecting on that touching sporting spectacle when a woman staggered out of a stall. She had very pink cheeks and was wearing a tracksuit and trainers.

I beamed at her, my eyes still glistening with tears from before. "Well DONE!" I said cheerily.

She shot me a bewildered, what the fuck, you freak look and quickly made her exit. That's when I noticed all the shopping bags. Oh. She was not a runner. She was just a lady doing her shopping, who happened to have pink cheeks and a casual sporty style.

Anyway, I forgot my embarrassment when I spotted the most genius contraption on the wall.

A hair straightener for hire! Just insert a £1 coin!

This has to be the most marvellous innovation in public toiletry since those chew-able balls of toothpaste. Straight hair is very important to chicks in this country. It needs to be straight, it needs to be flat, it needs to be scorched into submission. Which is easy enough to achieve at home, but there's always the danger your work will come undone the minute you step out into the weather. But thanks to the Straight 'N' Go, no girls-night-out needs to be tragically cut short by frizzy locks.

LASS 1:  Omigod, I've got a kink!
LASS 2:  Dinnae worry doll, I've got a pound!

Yesterday I finally tried a deep-fried Mars Bar, that notorious Scottish snack that no actual Scots seem to eat.

Friends have sung their artery-clogging praises and I've read their history on Wikipedia, yet they've always looked too turd-ish for my liking. But yesterday we met up with Jillian and Greg, our lovely friends from San Francisco, and they were keen to give them a whirl.

Although tempted by the Easter offering, we decided to share the original. Just 80p and we were on our way to deep-fried heaven.

Now you may think this looks bogging, but compared to the murky pictures on Wikipedia, this is Michelin material. Perhaps it was because we were in St Andrews and it's all bit posh up there, but our specimen was neat and handsome, cooked in clean oil with no black clumps of last weeks chips. The batter was light and crackly like the finest tempura. The Mars Bar was frozen, so its dip in the fryer made the innards hot and gooey while still retaining its shape.

The kind chippie man chopped it into four pieces and we dove in.

"Very nice!" said Greg.

"Very nice, but faintly fishy!" said Gareth.

"Very nice, but I couldn't eat a whole one!" said Jillian.

"Very nice, but I could do with a whole one. With a big scoop of vanilla ice cream on the side," said fatty-fatty fat guts Shauna.

FRIDAY LAST, 12:10 AM:  We were trudging home from the train station after seeing Demetri Martin at the Fringe. As is the usual fashion for a night out in this town, someone intoxicated clod had bought a box of hot chips then chucked them away after a few bites. These babies had been abandoned outside a hair salon.

As an experiment, I took a picture of said chips with my wee cameraphone with intention of following up on their fate in the morning.

FRIDAY LAST, 7:00 AM:  This time I was going to the train station. But definitely still trudging, since I was off to work.

Unsurprisingly, the chips were gone! If you peer closely you can see the outlines of their greasy corpses on the footpath.

So who scranned them all? The answer was in the chip box, which now lay in the middle of the road.

SEAGULLS! Check out those beak holes. Don't ever try to come between a bird and its fried potatoes.

I really need to move on from all this deep-fried stuff. I still have to do Wedding Part III from seven months ago, and there's a post from Lithuania 2004 to finish. But it's this bloody Mobile Chip Van! It keeps coming back every Saturday night and further endearing itself to me. Like instead of playing Greensleeves like Mr Whippy, this dude just drives up and down the streets honking the horn over and over until the customers come forth.

At the first toot last night, Gareth and I ran to the window to observe.

"Ohhh yes," he sighed as they opened up the serving hatch. "Go and get us a single fish?"

"You're not really wanting a single fish?"

"No. Not really."

"Why do you call it a single fish, anyway? Why don't you just say, Can I have a piece of fish?"

"Because it's a Single Fish. That's just how it is."

There is still much to learn about the way of the world here. You don't ask for "fish and chips" either. Fish and chips is called a Fish Supper. Deep-fried black pudding and chips is a Black Pudding Supper. If you asked for a Sausage Supper And A Tin Of Juice Thanks Pal, you'd get a deep-fried battered sausage of questionable origin, chips and a can of Irn-Bru.

"So is it only fish that comes in a single format?"

"Oh no. You can get a single sausage or a single pudding. Don't think you get a single pie though. You'd just ask for a pie."

"And if I wanted two bits of fish, I'd say Double Fish?"

Gareth snorted. "Don't be preposterous! There's no such thing as a Double Fish!"

"Why not?"

"Because there isn't! You'd ask for two Single Fish!"

"That makes no sense at all."

"It makes sense if you're Scottish."

"I don't see why all these bloody fish have to be Single. Don't get they lonely?"

"Some hook up with the chips. That's your Fish Supper!"

Just so you know, the last entry was intended as a Harmless Bit of Fun. It was not a malicious attack on Scotland and/or the Scottish way of life, as my anonymous correspondents seem to believe.

Crikey, people! Nowhere do I suggest that this is the only food available in Scottish supermarkets. Nor am I saying Scotland has the Worst Food In The World. Every country has its share of crap food, it's just that Scotland's crap food is the most endearingly entertaining I've ever encountered.

Let me reassure any would-be tourists, we actually have plenty of tasty things for you to eat. I have sung the praises of Scottish cuisine in previous entries. There's an abundance of brilliant tucker in this country. Where to begin? The haggis, the oatcakes, the Cream o Galloway Ice Cream, the fish, the cheese, the Tea Cakes, the liquid goodies from Demijohn, the summer berries, phwoaaaaaaaar!

However this is not a food blog and people don't come here for gourmet news. They want deep-fried gristle, guts and gore!

Here's one comment:

"I think your opening sentence is misleading, it suggests that all Scottish supermarkets sell the poor excuse for food that you've listed which simply isn't true. If you insist on shopping in Asda then of course you're going to find low quality food, they cater for low quality people and low quality taste."

I could edit the first sentence to say, "Today we explore some of the dazzling delights on offer in the vast majority of Scottish supermarkets", but that sounds a bit clunky. Besides, pies in tins and Heinz Filler are not exclusive to Asda. I've seen 'em in Sainsburys, Tesco, Morrisons, Somerfield and even the wee Co-Op down the street. The only place you won't find them would perhaps be Waitrose or Marks & Spencer, the domain of more discerning High Quality People with High Quality Taste.

(For the record, we buy our groceries online at Tesco, then top up at Somerfield or M&S. I guess that makes us a bewildering mix of High-Medium-Low.)

Today we explore some of the dazzling delights on offer in Scottish supermarkets...

Just when I thought I'd discovered all the delightful things there was to discover about Scottish cuisine, this purple chariot appeared in our driveway on Saturday night.

"Is this some sort of Mr Whippy van?" I asked Gareth, peering out the window in confusion.

"Aye! Except everything's deep fried!"

They weren't playing Greensleeves, but the pungent scent of shrivelled chunks of potato was enough to lure the neighbours out onto the street clutching fivers, their mouths shiny with Pavlovian drool.

Gareth was all misty-eyed and nostalgic as we watched the spectacle. He hadn't seen a chip van in years. Back in the day, before he turned vegetarian, he would buy a cheeseburger. Not your fancy McDonalds ones with the dainty onions and smoothy, shiny buns, but a hardcore Scottish cheeseburger - a lump of mysterious manufactured flesh and gristle with the highly processed cheese already inside!

"Like a chicken Kiev!" he explained, "Except shite!"

As soon as the hoardes were served they closed the shutters. This little delinquent came running down the street as they pulled away, throwing himself onto the back of the van. He whooped and cheered as they sped off into the sunset. Some people will do anything for a bag of chips.

I'd assumed going to see a bike race in Australia would be pretty much the same as seeing a bike race in Scotland. Same speedy bikes, same clouds of dust, same hairy bikers, same skanky lassies in lycra shorts. However, there was one major difference: the food.

Last summer at the British Superbikes at Knockhill we had agonised over our options:

- burgers of questionable origin
- chips and curry sauce
- chips and brown sauce
- chips and red sauce

If you choose curry sauce they slap it onto the chips for you, scooping it up from a metal tray, all yellowy brown like toxic waste, the surface stiff and puckered from hours under a heat lamp. If you want Red or Brown it's DIY from plastic bottles with crusty nozzles. And don't ever call it ketchup or tomato sauce. That has to be one of my favourite things about Scotland. It's either Red or Brown sauce. Just like when you're a kid and your Mum asks what flavour milkshake you want, and you say, "PINK!".

When we arrived at Phillip Island a few months later for the Australian MotoGP, I saw the same white vans plonked all round the circuit. My stomach purred in anticipation of being dished up the same greasy slop by the same sweaty-browed ladies.

But while a few served traditional burgers and chips, the majority of the vans were rather... cosmopolitan. There were fresh salad wraps, turkish kebabs, german sausages on fat white rolls, meat pies, baked potatoes, samosas, noodles, wood-fired pizzas and a freaking gelato stand.

They even had Real Coffee. It was bizarre, hearing the familiar schhhhhhh of the coffee machine right next to screaming motorbikes. Baristas fished out Melting Moments and chocolate cookies from glass jars with those dainty little tongs. Biker Types balanced their helmets in one hand while stirring their cappucinos with the other. This was no styrofoam and watery Nescafe stirred with a Paddlepop stick operation. They even had plastic lids! And two kinds of sugar!

"Look at those big Aussie guys there, they're just sooo tough with their leathers and lattes!"

"It's all a bit poncy, isn't?"

"Damn right it is!"

"You want a hot chocolate?"

"Yes please."

I won't bore you with the details of the race, because I know most people aren't terribly interested in MotoGP. But let me tell you it's one of the greatest ways a girl can spend two days, and not just because for once the queue for the Ladies loo is heaps shorter than the Mens. MotoGP is also noise, smells, adrenaline, engines, crashes and slutty chicks holding umbrellas over tiny men in leather suits.

On Saturday we watched the qualifying from opposite the pit lane, peering into the garages through my zoom lens at the mad buzz of mechanics and riders. On Sunday we perched in Bass Strait Grandstand, the race right in front of us and the ocean at our back, as Valentino Rossi cruised to yet another victory.

After the race came the grand palaver of getting back to Melbourne. With tens of thousands of bikes, cars and coaches all trying to escape at once, it took over an hour to crawl off the tiny island. This provided great entertainment for those staying behind. Every house we passed had people sitting in front yards and verandahs, hanging from the balconies with beers, watching the passing parade. Even when we finally reached the turn-off for Melbourne, more people appeared from out of the hills, jumping up and down beside the highway, waving flags and beers.

This strange spectacle continued for almost the entire two hours back to the city. Just people bloody everywhere, grinning and leering and waving; turning the side of the highway into one big living room. The roads were flanked by rows of folding chairs, occupied by beer-bellied blokes, knitting grannies and bikinied teens with mirrored sunglasses. There were dogs and babies and cartwheeling kids. People picnicked on car roofs, in the back of utes and in the middle of roundabouts. Two guys had even brought along a sofa. Life can be pretty quiet in small Aussie towns, so a few thousand motorbikes swarming by all at once could be the most glittering day of the year. At least it's a great opportunity to drink beer and jump up and down like a dickhead.

"What the hell are you Australian people about?" Gareth asked, gawking out the window in amazement.

"I don't know. We're a bunch of idiots!"

And I'd never been so proud.

Tea People used to piss me off. It was the smug clank of their spoons in china mugs, the dinga-dinga-dinga as they stirred in the sugar, the AHHHHH after their first slurp. As a non-teadrinker they annoyed me no end.

It probably all stems from growing up with a Mothership obsessed with tea. She must have downed a dozen cups a day. "Ooh I'm dying for a cuppa," was her number one phrase, even on the hottest summer day. It seemed the only reason she brought Rhi and I into the world was to have two handy tea-making slaves. Our pantry was choked with boxes of Earl Grey bought on special, so if the apocalypse came at least our rations would be aromatic.

Once I'd left the nest I vowed my tea-making days were over, but whenever I arrived home for a visit Mum would greet me with, "Oh great timing, I could do with a fresh cup." One time before Christmas break Mum was perched in her armchair, a trashy paperback in one hand and the TV remote in the other, in full relaxation mode after completing another hectic school year.

MOTHERSHIP: Hey Shauna.
SHAUNA:  What?
M:  Shauna!
S:  What?
M:  Shauna.
S:  What!?
M:  Are you going to make The Mother a cup of tea?
S:  No.
M:  Why not?
S:  Coz I don't wanna.
M:  Oh.

[Five minutes pass.]

MOTHERSHIP:  Shauna!
SHAUNA:  What!?
M:  Hey Shauna.
S:  WHAT?!
M:  Are you going to The Mother a cup of tea?
S:  Nope.
M:  Why not?
S:  Because, that's why!

[Mothership purses lips, turns back to Oprah , then mutters poutily...]

MOTHERSHIP:  Shauna's being a bitch!

But recently I've gained an appreciation for Mum's obsession. It happened the fateful night before the day Gareth and I got together. He asked me did I want a cup of tea and I replied, "Oh no thanks! I don't like tea!". It reminded me of a time many years before when a guy asked me did I want to come in for coffee. It was just like that Seinfeld episode where George turns down a late-night cuppa and it sparks a lengthy whole "Does coffee mean sex" debate. Except I didn't think of that at the time, even though it was 1AM. I just said, "Oh no thanks! I don't like coffee!" and drove away into the moonlight.

Anyway, Gareth's question was perfectly innocent - tea really did mean tea. We were still too shy to even make eye contact, let alone sweet love down by the fire. But he was astounded that I was tea-less at 26 years old. Eager to establish myself as a wild adventurer, I agreed to try it. As he rattled cups and spoons and kettles, I examined the box of teabags and tried to think of something charming to say.

"So... it says here this tea is Scottish Blend tea. Is there such a thing?"

"Oh yeah," He smiled. "It's genuine Scottish tea from the Scottish tea plantations."

"Tea plantations? In Scotland?"

"Yeah! It's special cold climate tea. They grow it down in the Borders!"

Gareth loves to tell people how gullible I was that day, but I still insist that I didn't believe him. It was just that I was so keen to get into his pants that he could have told me that the Scottish tea plantation was right next to the haggis fields and across the road from the oatcake orchard that I still would have squealed, "Really, how fascinating!".

I will never forget the first sip. It was scalding hot; I hadn't thought to let it rest for awhile. It burned a path down my throat until POW! It was like a punch in the chest, hot and liquid. It was bloody amazing.

"What do you think?"

"Oh yeah. Not too shabby!"

I proceeded to drink five more cups over the evening as we chatted away. When I told my sister later how I didn't get to sleep til dawn, she cackled "Ooh! Saucy!" but I explained that there'd been no hanky panky -- it was just the effects of tea on a body that had been a complete stranger to caffeine for the previous two and a half decades. At 6am I was still staring at the ceiling and squeaking, "I can't sleep! I can't sleep! Hee hee!"

After that I was a dedicated Tea Person. It was a strange and wonderful new world. Now when I went to friend's houses I didn't have to ask meekly, "Umm, can I get a drink of water? From the tap is fine!". Now I could have a collection of mugs on my desk at work and a jumble of teabags in the drawer. But the biggest revelation was how tea transformed eating. The most humble foods become something special when taken with tea. That is, if you define humble foods as those laden with sugar and/or fat.

There's something so magical about crumbs and butter and sugar and hot liquid rolling round in your mouth like socks in a tumble dryer. Let's start with toast. Buttery Vegemite toast, peanut butter toast, avocado with fresh ground pepper toast, grilled cheese on toast; white bread, brown bread, multigrain; they're all elevated from tasty to gobsmackingly superb when taken with a fresh cuppa.

Then there's the great Scottish Bacon Roll - hot crispy bacon and runny egg on limp white roll - the perfect hangover cure. Or a buttered scone with strawberry jam. Oatcakes topped with mature cheddar. Or my favourite - fish and chips by the sea with scalding tea in a polystyrene cup.

Then there's the wonderful world of biscuits. Tim Tams and Mint Slices rule, and even mangled Anzacs get better with a brew. I love taking a bikkie bite then a gulp of tea - unladylike but delicious. The chocolate Hob Nob, my favourite British biscuit, becomes a floaty oaty chocolatey mess. Even the cheapest, crappiest Custard Creams explode beautifully leaving crumbs trapped in your teeth.

And let's not forget the melty pleasure of chocolate bars, all their careful manufacturing coming undone with a good gulp of tea. Kit Kat layers crumble, Mars Bars turn to mush. My favourite indulgence is a Twix, there's nothing better than dissolving chocolate salty caramel with soggy biscuit chaser.

Eighteen months on, I wonder what I did all day before I had tea. What did I do with conversation lulls before I could say 'Shall I put the kettle on?'. How did I waste valuable minutes at work? How did I deal with a crisis without a fresh cup? Best of all, Gareth still makes a great cup and you don't have to call him a bitch to get one!

Perhaps you've been admiring the Breakfast Pack and thinking, "Why yes that does look delicious, but how can I experience Scottish Cuisine if I'm not much of a cook?"

Thankfully there's an abundance of outlets in Scotland offering deep-fried delights. One of my favourites is Serena, located in the Takeaway Quarter of Dunfermline, Fife. It's two blocks of pure temptation with Chinese, Indian, Mexican and traditional Fish And Chips establishments all competing for your pound. Strolling past is an assault of the senses, the air thick with heady aromas of lard, spice and MSG. But Serena, touting itself as a purveyor of "Exotic and Indian Cuisine", is a standout least not for the sheer ambitiousness of its menu. Where else can you get tandoori AND baked potatoes?

On one particular evening I fancied something Italian. According to the Serena's menu, the Mixed Calzone came "Highly Recommended". You can't get a much better endorsement than that! I've had calzone before, you know, the folded-over pizza. But this turned out to be The Mother of All Calzones, a horrifying moment where Scottish and Italian cuisines collided!

It began with a giant circle of pizza dough. Then on one half of the circle went a groundcover of Scottish cheddar. Next comes a heavy scattering of tandoori chicken pieces, followed by hulking handfuls of greasy doner kebab meat and great globs of onions marinated in a mysterious radioactive-red sauce. Finally, the empty half of the dough circle is stretched over the festering pile of diced animals, sealed tight and topped with yet more cheese before being popped into the oven.

When we finally dragged the hulking thing home, all we could do was saw it in half and just stand in awe, gawking at the horror within. I thought I'd seen it all after that Breakfast Pack, but this was a whole new level. I did manage to eat a few mouthfuls purely as an experiment. But even though four inches of solid protein might be okay with Doctor Atkins, the tightening in the chest area told me it was time to stop!

As always, you can see the greasy goodness for yourself over at Flickr.

The Scottish supermarket is a veritable chamber of horrors. There are all kinds of mechanically-seperated meats in tins and innocent vegetables drowning in vats of mayonnaise. But the most terrifying and strangely fascinating of all is Breakfast Pack. It is truly all things good and bad about Scotland shrink-wrapped and presented on a sky blue polystyrene tray. If you want to recreate the goodness of a full Scottish B&B brekkie in your home without even a cursory nod to style or nutrition, then this is for you. For just £1.98, you will receive:

—  black pudding (aka blood sausage, featuring dried ox blood)
—  fruit pudding (sultanas and beef fat)
—  sliced sausage (rusk and flavour enhancers ahoy)
—  pork sausage (with the tantalising promise of 55% minimum meat).

Way back on Easter Sunday, I decided I could no longer ignore the cry of the blue tray and made the purchase in the name of cross-cultural research. I fired up the frypan and waited for the religious experience to begin.

It's taken eight months to recover, but now you can finally relive the magic with me, step by lardy step, over at Flickr. To navigate, use the 'Next in set' links on the right hand side of the page. Huzzah!

When Australians living in Scotland congregate, the conversation will inevitably swing to Is The Food Here Shit Or What!? at some point.

We all know there's actually an abundance of deliciousness, but when you meet your fellow countrymen there's a strange compulsion to get misty-eyed about vegetables that don't come shrink-wrapped from Kenya and checkout chicks that don't ask "What the hell is this?" when you buy some passionfruit. That cost £1.20 each.

Sometime last year Rhiannon, Jane, Rory and I were pining for Mint Slices. They are a true classic of the Arnotts family - a delicious chocolate biscuit with a layer of peppermint cream, elegantly coated in smooth dark chocolate. They marry the adultness of an after dinner mint with the dunkability of a biscuit.

"Oh yeah," piped up Gareth, the only Scotsman in the room. "That sounds just like a Viscount!"

We shot him doubtful looks, certain that the country that gave the world the deep-fried pizza would be incapable of producing anything near the standard of a Mint Slice. But he bravely faced the panel of Australian critics, bringing a pack to our next gathering.

I was excited, as I was by anything that combined chocolate and mint. You get to scoff the goodness of chocolate and bonus! -- your mouth is left minty-fresh like you've just brushed your teeth! It's like the calories never happened!

The Viscounts came individually wrapped in green foil. We turned them over in our hands, slowly unwrapping, regarding them suspiciously. After examining from all angles we all took tentative bites.

"It's pretty good," I said diplomatically.

"No. Nooo," said Rhiannon, "It's all wrong."

"It's not quite the same," said Rory, "The biscuit isn't chocolate, for starters."

"And the chocolate coating should be dark. This is low-quality milk."

"The mint isn't evenly distributed across the surface of the biscuit."

"It's basically nothing like a Mint Slice at all."

"Oh," said Gareth.

"Well I think they're alright!" I said brightly, and promptly shovelled down three more. One, because I am a big fat guts and two, because I desperately wanted to get into Gareth's pants.

A few months later I was reading Women's Own on my lunchbreak and came across this disturbing article that confirmed the inferiority of the Viscount once and for all. Can you imagine the horror of the daughter of Mrs Engel-Gilmore of Eastleigh, Hampshire when she found a DEAD BEETLE inside her Viscount?

That would surely never happen to a Mint Slice!

This is the first entry in a special series on Scottish Cuisine, the result of eighteen months of exhaustive research and lard consumption. Stay tuned!

When Audrey Hepburn as Holly Golightly was having a bad day, she went to Tiffanys to calm her down. I go to Marks & Spencer Simply Food.

Instead of a croissant and a Givenchy gown, I belch over a can of Fanta in ill-fitting trackpants, but it has the same soothing effect. Shopping in Princes Street always fills me with an irrational rage. The baffling multi-level shops, the dawdling tourists stopping every five metres to take another photo of Edinburgh Castle, the old folk and prams and beggars cluttering up the pavement like abandoned cars; all conspiring to piss me off.

So I take refuge in M&S. For those unfamiliar with Simply Food, they describe it as a "meals solution store for busy people". They have all manner of ready meals and pre-packaged products so you can pay maximum price for the minimal effort dinner. There's something so relaxing about being there, bathed in fluorescent light, watching wee old ladies select their individual Steak & Kidney pies and singletons frowning at nutrition information panels.

M&S are truly the masters of the ready-meal universe. While their meals are of superior quality to your Iceland Chili Con Carne, they're still trying to flog pre-packaged processed preservative-laden stuff. But they make you want it bad by giving their products the most beautifully overblown names and descriptions. I spend ages wandering up and down the aisles, dreamy and content, just reading the labels. They plump up nouns and roll them in succulent verbs so skillfully that they could make a plate of gravel sound like Michelin-star dining.

Witness how they sex up a humble BLT: Combining the spirit of America and Italy; maple cured bacon with gorgonzola cheese dressing, sliced tomatoes, lettuce leaves, mayonnaise and red onions on pumpkin seed bread.

Let's wash that down with some lemon cordial, your basic nasty cocktail of glucose and E numbers. But no! M&S call it Mediterranean Lemon and Mexican Lime High Juice. Now that's what I call fusion cookin'.

You could spend an hour looking at the yogurts alone. How to decide? The Greek-Style English Strawberry and Cornish Clotted Cream Yogurt made with Channel Island Milk? Or the Champagne Rhubarb and Madagascan Vanilla? I swear I'm not making that up.

(But how I wish I could. Where does one apply to become a copywriter for M&S?)

The produce section drives me wild, because it's really just like any other produce section, but they make me question my fundamental beliefs about fruit. When is an orange not an orange? I stood there one afternoon, frowning at the orange cupped in my hand, thinking it must surely be worth 70p and taste better than every other orange that had previously passed my lips because it had been Bathed In The Florida Sun.

I'm sure we're all being watched. There must be men in white coats behind a two-way mirror, watching the shoppers and making frantic notes. Can the shoppers resist the Irresistable Choc Caramel Mini Bites Oozing With Buttercream? Are they unwrapping the Hoisin Duck wraps with their eyes? Is anyone getting a boner over the Boneless Pork Loin Joints Decorated With Bramley Apple Puree?

Then perhaps the Head of Marketing barges in and screams, "We're not shifting the Scottish Cod Loin Fillets! Not good enough! I want the aisles puddled with drool! I want to get out the DANGER WET FLOOR signs!". The hapless copywriters are handed a thesaurus and a stack of Barbara Cartland novels then chained to their desks until they come up with something sexier.

Meanwhile, back in the shop, after half an hour of label-reading you tend to get whipped up into quite a state. The mind swirls with bloated adjectives and tantalising verbs and your fingers ache to open your wallet. Must buy something, something... but what?

A few months back I found the mother of all magniloquent products: a cereal called Deliciously Nutty Crunch:

Go nuts! A sumptuously sweet blend of delicious toffee-flavoured crunch with almonds, brazils and tasty pecans!

So I spent the equivalent of AU $10 on Deliciously Nutty Crunch, a cereal so lacking in nutritional value I'd be better off eating a tub of lard. But what fun to eat something so ridiculously titled. Remind me to put that on my epitaph:

Some time ago, UK supermarkets and other food retailers recognised that not all Brits were content to live on chips and lager alone. To cater to this sliver of society, they each introduced a house brand of healthier options. Now discerning customers can buy their favourite foods from their most trusted brands, safe in the knowledge that evil fats have been replaced by friendly sugars, artificial flavourings or ground cockroaches. And to make these product ranges even more appealing, they gave them wacky names...

ASDA ‘Good For You!’
It’s the exclamation mark that puts the delightfully sneering tone into this brand. Imagine your neighbour has just leaned over the fence to tell you he won £10 million in the Lotto. Of course you will spit right back, “Well, good for YOU!”

Safeway ‘Eat Smart’
The alternative is to Eat Stupid and pour lard on your cornflakes.

Boots ‘Shapers’
Dear Boots,
I am writing in regards to your ‘Shapers’ range of products. To me the word ‘Shapers’ suggests transformation or sculpting, like control-top pantyhose, corsets or mumsy foundation garments. With this definition in mind, I recently purchased one of your pre-packaged Shapers sandwiches. When I applied said sandwich to my thunderous thighs, I noticed no real difference in their shape, apart from a slight thickening due to congealed mayonnaise. Could you kindly refund me the £2.19 and deduct 2.19 points from my Boots Advantage Card?

Sainsbury's ‘Be Good To Yourself’
‘ ... Go Buy A Vibrator’.

Tesco ‘Healthy Living’
If they can’t be arsed to give it a more imaginative name, then I can’t be arsed to buy it.

Marks & Spencer ‘Count On Us’
Dear Mr. Marks & Mr. Spencer,
I have been an enthusiastic consumer of your Count On Us range of products, including the Voluptous Vanilla Iced Dessert and the Rancher's Chicken Flatbread. After awhile, one comes to think of Count On Us as a name one can trust. However, recently I found myself having a very bad day indeed; I missed the bus and my boss yelled at me. I was disheartened to discover that I could not count on Count On Us in my time of need. Why didn’t the Chargrilled Vegetable Pizza call me a taxi so I wasn’t late? Why didn't a gang of Thai Curry Flavour Curls come round and beat up my boss? If you are going to name your products so boldly, there needs to be some sort of warning label on the packet, Not Suitable For Those With Co-Dependent Tendencies. Otherwise I suggest you rename it to something like We Won’t Be There For You At All.