Bored and famished he looked down at the table. One of the bowls contained misshapen purple objects he recalled as some kind of crisp. Jim picked one up and munched: it was like shaking hands with God. The tomato ones were even more delicious. How had they evaded him for so long? Who needed tzatziki, bloody sun-dried tomato and – most offensive of all – that fishy pink monstrosity that proved beyond doubt that if God did exist he was a malevolent psychopath - taramasalata? On their wedding day he would serve huge buckets of ‘Monster Munch’, frozen prawn rings and lashings of pot noodle.