The children of rock stars and monarchs have a point when they describe their childhoods as normal. It isn't for them to judge how unusual their upbringing is, because they don't know any different. You can apply the same logic to chip shops. It doesn't occur to you that the kids in your class don't have constant access to hot pies or a huge stainless-steel container of chips. If I cast my mind back now, it was Paul Blunn that first made me conscious of the difference. One July day in 1977, Paul ambled up to me and said, 'Is it true that you come from Greece?'

'Yes,' I said. 'Eeeeurrgh! Did you hear that, everyone? He comes from grease! He's a big greasy chip! Big greasy chip! Big greasy chip!'

It would be easy at this point to claim that the incident scarred me for life. After all, Tears For Fears have made entire albums about less. But I dealt with the slur in the most appropriate manner possible. I waited for him after school and battered him. I was only seven, but if I remember the episode clearly, it's probably because of the effect it had. Up until that point, I had tried to keep my home environment a secret. Everyone else had houses with carpets and front rooms where you watched telly. We had the Great Western fish bar in the Acocks Green suburb of Birmingham. Admittedly, there was a front room with a telly in it - but it was located inconveniently between the shop and the potato shed. Memories of trying to watch Playschool feature my dad pacing back and forth carrying buckets of uncooked chips. Paul Blunn was right - as upbringings go, it was far closer to grease than Greece - but his timing couldn't have been worse.

With my eighth birthday approaching, my mother had asked me if I fancied having a party during the afternoon hours when the shop was normally closed. The following day I went to school and issued invites to a list of names that still rings out clearly - Richard Stainton, Yeshpall Singh, Keith Smith, many more, but not poor Paul Blunn. In a pre-Happy Meals era of green formica and batter bits - free if you asked politely - you can imagine the thrill of having an entire chip shop kept open especially for you. And because they were thrilled, my entire concept of living in a chippy was turned upside down. In the back room - where a row of pinball machines resided - my dad opened up the front panels and notched up a load of credits. If you'd walked past you'd have seen a dozen or so infants standing on chairs flipping their flippers with a zeal only attainable through vast quantities of tartrazine and fried potatoes.

That teatime, everyone's mum came to take them home, but with the summer holidays about to begin, I saw no reason not to continue with that afternoon's revels. While all the other kids had to content themselves with watching Why Don't You? and old Robinson Crusoes, I spent every morning notching up ever higher scores on the Six Million Dollar Man machine. Hunger was easily assuaged by chips, but after a while, I developed a taste for more illicit pleasures. When my parents weren't looking I'd clamber up on the counter, reach up for a jar of Driver's Pickled Cockles and leg it round the back of the potato shed where - with Keith Smith waiting for me - we'd devour them together. After we'd finished them, I'd drink up the vinegar.

These days, you can go into a chip shop and get almost anything you fancy fried in hot vegetable oil. Regional variations apply of course. The availability of deep-fried Mars bars and battered pizzas across the chippies of Glasgow may be connected with the city's proud position at number one in Europe's heart disease chart. Early recollections of the menu at the Great Western reveal a small board on the back wall. The staples of the Seventies chippy were fish, tinned and fresh roe, fishcakes, pies and pasties. In much the same way as chicken tikka masala suddenly appeared on every Indian takeaway menu, so it was with certain items in fish and chip shops. One shop would add something to their menu, and within a week the rest had heard about it and followed suit.

I remember my mother setting aside some quality time to fold a sheet of chip paper in half and applying to it her finest calligraphy. 'Look!' said the sign. The 'O's in 'Look!' were depicted as a pair of eyes. 'Mushy peas!' That was 1977. In a short space of time, Acocks Green went mushy peas crazy. Huge plastic tubs of dried marrowfat peas would have to be left to soak overnight before being steamed in the morning. Their vivid green hue, so redolent of the first peas of summer, was achieved with the help of half a dozen green pellets, a bit like the stuff you sprinkle in the garden to stop cats shitting on your parsnips. A year later, steamed faggots arrived, ushering in the golden age of faggots, chips and peas in a tray.

In the space of a year, I had come to the realisation that living above a chip shop was something to really brag about. At the same time, for my mother - who longed desperately to live the kind of net-curtained existence enjoyed by the bourgeois Greek housewife - it was an increasing source of ignominy. The smell of raw potatoes sitting in water was constant, with nowhere to entertain or escape. They had paid off enough debts to countenance buying a separate house and shop. In 1979, I flipped my last flipper and said goodbye to the Great Western.

The next shop wasn't nearly as much fun. Set amid the middle-class residential suburb of Olton with its name illuminated in chunky italicised Seventies lettering, the King Fisher was undoubtedly a step up. And yet, it was hard to get excited about it. As my big brother Aki advanced towards adolescence and I entered double figures, the shop changed from being a source of recreation to a potential threat. There were no 'amusements' here. No more walking in from the living room to grab some chip paper out of which to make my own comics. Had the Turkish invasion not stopped us moving to Cyprus, I'd have been facing the call-up at 16.

But staying put promised a different kind of call-up. If we weren't prepared to entertain the idea of moving back to Cyprus en famille, then surely me or Aki would be interested in taking over the chip shop? I was under no immediate pressure. But Aki was crashing headlong into adolescence on the back of a huge Echo & the Bunnymen fixation. Sixteen with a freshly sculpted Ian McCulloch haircut, his familial duties presented a troubling question. Did the Bunnymen's enigmatic frontman get to where he was today by foraging through the deep freeze to gather all the bits of scampi that had fallen out of the bag? In the spirit of compromise, he agreed to do Friday and Saturday teatimes as long as he could bring his tape of the Bunnymen's Heaven Up Here album into the shop. A war of attrition was played out while people waited for their cod to fry. If my dad went to the back room, via the tape player, to refill the chip bucket, the volume went down. Next time, when Aki made the journey, the volume went back up again.

My dad's problem was that over the years he'd done such a bad job of selling the chip-shop lifestyle that no amount of enticements were going to change our mind and commit to a life of 15-hour working days. A trait common to so many immigrants in Britain is that enjoyment isn't something actively sought out in this life. Your primary role is to provide your children with comforts that actually - if you asked them - they'd happily swap if it meant seeing you less miserable. I put this to my dad on several occasions.

'Nonsense!' he protested, 'When you leave college and find an entire property and business waiting for you, you'll realise how lucky you are.'

He'd unwittingly planted unacceptable aspirations in us. At 11, all my money was going into buying records from local vinyl mecca Easy Listening. Prolonged immersion in my brother's stack of Melody Maker, NME and Record Mirror had, in my mind, revealed a possible career path - that of a music journalist. One morning as my mother left for the shop, I asked her to bring back some chip paper for me. Upon her return, I folded four sheets of chip paper in half, ran a knife through the crease and folded them over again to create a 16- page magazine called Pop Scene.

There was a certain symmetry in the idea of attempting to create a music publication out of chip paper. As it happens, being a music journalist and running a chip shop have quite a lot in common. Just as you get sent promo copies of all the latest albums, reps from food manufacturers would ply us with products we might be interested in adding to the King Fisher menu. They all got passed on to me: microwaveable shepherds pies, vacuum-packed heat-and-serve kebabs; extrusions of processed turkey on a stick. Everything was rejected, but for spring rolls (nee crispy pancake rolls) and something called a Dandy Burger. So called, presumably, because its contents were some distant relative of Korky the Cat, the Dandy Burger came in a box that depicted a Union Jack coloured bun. With McDonald's yet to shatter Wimpy's stronghold in Birmingham, Dandy Burgers flew out of the shop.

I was 13 when the convenient excuse of A-levels removed my brother from the frame and turned the spotlight of familial obligation on to me. Initially, the idea was that I would wrap chips. But a terminal inability to remember to ask people if they wanted salt and vinegar meant that every other portion had to be unwrapped and rewrapped - by which time the paper was rendered useless. Paul Blunn's words returned to haunt me one last time. The excess of grease played havoc with my adolescent pores. I was duly demoted to the job of potato-fetcher-cum-curry-sauceladler. In fact, my parents' attempts to train me in the ways of running a chippy were doomed. Not only was I trying to subvert their efforts by being as crap as possible at it - but I was just entering the most docile phase of adolescence where half your brain cells go to sleep and if your parents point this out to you, you remind them that you didn't ask to be born. In fact, I took ingratitude to new heights. I stormed out one evening after my dad had the temerity to tell me that I was getting more curry sauce around the sides of the tub than in the actual interior. Three hours later, at 11.30pm, I phoned him from the house with the news that I was peckish and would be needing him to bring me back a portion of chicken and chips.

One thing that seemed apparent, even from the rut of surliness into which I had long descended, was that they ran a topnotch chippy. My father, especially, cut a paradoxical figure. On one hand, he hated his job so much that the entire family avoided him in the half hour before he was due to leave the house. On the other, he was fanatical about quality control. All the other chip shops in the area would get Icelandic fish delivered to their doors. My dad insisted on going to the market at dawn and choosing it himself. With the money saved on delivery he could get the slightly more expensive fish freighted overnight from Aberdeen which, being a day fresher, tasted better. He fried fresh chickens, not frozen ones. The demand for breasts exceeded that for legs to such a degree that we added chicken curry to the menu as a way of getting rid of all the legs. Where possible he fried Maris Piper potatoes, not whites. The outlay was greater, but at teatime the queues backed onto the pavement.

His bugbear was the popularity of cod, which, to him, became a symbol of conservatism which afflicted the British palate. When a customer came in and ordered haddock or plaice he was visibly nicer to them. Certain traits triggered acts of mischief. One particularly pompous customer, with the manner and deportment of a Dickensian mill-owner, had a habit of coming in and declaring, 'Chris! I'd like you to sort me out with a piece of your very best fish.' Short of tapping his cane on the counter, he couldn't have been more annoying. After a while, my dad made a point of keeping a reheated piece that hadn't sold from lunchtime. When the time came, he'd direct his tongs towards that piece. By the late 1980s, my father's pescatorial puritanism was out of sync with the demands of his customers. Hardly anyone ordered fresh roe any more, but he always kept some because he thought such a delicacy ought to be on display. When most of your waking hours are spent in a chip shop, everything assumes a distorted sense of proportion. Inevitably, the arrival of kebabs assumed a political significance in my father's universe. At the beginning of the 80s, the kebab had made no impact on the West Midlands. Even in 1985, when Harry Enfield launched Stavros upon the world, the sight of a lukewarm elephant's foot rotating behind the window of your local chippy was a relatively rare one. Within a few months though, the slurred requests of the closing-time throng were getting too persistent to ignore.

'Whennuyugonnagerrakebabmachine, Chris?'

'If we do kebabs, would you buy them?' he asked.'

'F***ing right I would. All the chippies in town are doing them!'

'I don't know...'

'But you're Greek. You can't not have a kebab machine!'

'Actually, the kebabs you're referring to are Turkish. The Greek version of the kebab is called a souvlaki.'

'What about kebabs? What are they called?'

'Well, they're just called kebabs. That's their name.'

'Right! Kebabs! Get one of them!'

At school, I was constantly being asked about kebabs in the same way, I would guess, that Stella McCartney - wherever she was at that time - was having to field questions about the Frog Chorus. I could neither confirm or deny that we would be getting a kebab machine in the near future. All the same, my dad asked me to canvas my friends to see if they would buy kebabs if we did them. My findings were conclusive. Olton was ready for kebabs.

If we were to do kebabs, my parents decided, it would have to be on our own terms. Those rotating elephant's feet were like a Club 18-30 for bacteria, and God knows what was in them. We owed it to all the lame elephants of the world to find another way. Showing the kind of self-sacrifice that runs through Greek matriarchs like a stick of rock, my mother decided to make them herself, to her own recipe. Between 2pm and 4.30pm when the shop was closed, she mixed together two loaves of minced lamb with bread, finely-chopped onions, parsley, pepper, a pinch of cinnamon and ground cumin. Then she left them in the oven for two hours. I got the first taste. They were sensational. She wrapped them in silver foil and put them in the steamer to stay warm throughout the day. Deploying tried and trusted marketing practices, she then she folded over a sheet of chip paper and wrote 'Look!' with a green marker, with eyes and everything. 'Kebabs! £2!!'

It was a disaster. Our customers simply couldn't reconcile the promise of kebabs to the visible absence of the revolving rotunda that spawned them. As far as they were concerned, if it wasn't shaved off the side of a warm dribbling edifice, the thing bulging out of their pitta bread wasn't a kebab.

I would have had far more sympathy for my parents' unrelenting working regime had I not been expected to take it over. As I advanced towards 17, I was signed up for a full course of driving lessons. A year later, when I passed I was congratulated with the news that I could now do two extra jobs. I could go to the cash and carry and buy supplies for the shop - and then on the way back I could stop o_ at a remote industrial estate where the saveloy factory was located. As it happens, saveloys had long been a source of intrigue to me. Why were they called saveloys? Did they have to come up with a new word because the EEC didn't deem them sufficiently sausage-like? Our clientele seemed untroubled by the semantic issues brought up by saveloys. As I discovered when sent off to buy them, we used to get through huge numbers of them. Next to chips, saveloys were the most popular item on our menu. As result, a weekly re-stock was an absolute necessity. Kostas, who ran the saveloy factory was also Greek-Cypriot. His wig was cheap but he boasted the presidential handshake of a self-made businessman. Saveloys had been good to Kostas. The first time I pulled in to the estate, he was standing outside the entrance waiting for me.

'Heyyyy! Aki! I haven't seen you since you were a baby!' he said. 'And now you're ready to run a chip shop!'

'Um... actually, I've just finished my A-levels.'

'A-levels? What are you going to study? Frying fish?'

'Well, philosophy actually.'

'Philosophy, eh? Well, let me tell you Kostas's philosophy! You'll earn a lot more money running your dad's business than being a philosopher.'

As if to formally commence what was to be a long and fruitful business relationship, he took me on a tour of the shop floor: a dense network of machinery which spat out a ceaseless succession of saveloys. Little mounds of pink sludge littered the floor. I can't say I've ever fancied a saveloy since that morning. Our long and fruitful relationship extended to just two more visits. My exam results came through and it was time for me to go.

As a spur to academic achievement, the chip shop worked wonders. It was there waiting for me if the universities on my UCCA forms didn't like the look of my grades. I made extra sure that I wouldn't return by putting Lampeter at the top of my list. Situated in a remote Welsh market town, Lampeter University was difficult to get to, but very easy to get into. A childhood in chip shops provided excellent preparation for the rigours of academic life.

After I moved my belongings from the back of the Astra to my hall of residence, I went to the common room, made straight for the Star Trek pinball machine and, despite a 10-year absence, notched up the highest score of the day. Four months later, my parents cashed in their chips, retired early and readjusted to a world where evenings could be spent not behind a counter, but on a sofa. The King Fisher - now known as George's Fish Bar - finally got its kebab machine. And we paid for our chips, just like normal people.

The nation's best fish and chip shops

Magpie Cafe, Whitby

This pretty restaurant is at the posher, and therefore not cheap, end of the chippy spectrum, but does cracking cod and chips as well as more unusual dishes like Whitby Monk (monkfish) with tartare sauce.

14 Pier Road, Whitby, North Yorkshire

The Fish and Chip Shop, Aldeburgh

The peak-season queues may be of epic proportions, but the results are definitely worth the wait. Apparently not adding fl our to the batter is the trick - although the hordes at the door couldn't give a monkey's what the secret is.

226 Aldeburgh High Street, Aldeburgh, Suffolk

Stein's Fish and Chips, Padstow

Rick Stein wanted a good chippy he could go to in Padstow, and lo and behold, he created one - underneath his offices, as it happens, which must be very handy. The smell of frying is terribly difficult to resist at lunchtime.

South Quay, Padstow, Cornwall

Senior's, Blackpool

Fish and chips aren't hard to come by in Blackpool, but this is where you'll get the best. Deep-fried fillet of cod, or the scampi and chips will definitely fill a hole and, in thoroughly modern fashion, you can also get baked fish, or even healthier low-carb dishes.

106 Normoss Road, Blackpool

The Sea Shell, London

For 30 years the Sea Shell has been a point of pilgrimage for both tourists and locals alike. The restaurant serves a mixture of traditional favourites, as well as more adventurous offerings like herrings with raddichio. You can't go wrong with a takeaway portion of haddock though.

49-51 Lisson Grove, London

Dom's Fish and Chip Shop, Glenrothes

Three generations of Italians have had great success with this chippy, winning the 2004 Fish and Chip of the Year competition. Yum.

Unit 1, Cadham Neighbourhood Centre, Glenrothes, Kirkcaldy

Pisces, Wirral

If you are a Southerner, you might not quite understand the attraction of dousing your chips in curry sauce - which in this case is made to a Chinese recipe - but once you've tried it here, you will never look back. If you are a Northerner then you probably know about both curry sauce and Pisces already.

37 Millner Road, Heswall, Wirral

Wackers Fish Restaurant, Scarborough

They say it's only cool to eat haddock in Scarborough. So don't order cod if you want to blend in with the locals who congregate in this 250-seater restaurant.

1 Vernon Road, Scarborough

Harlees, Verwood

Top-notch local ingredients equal fantastic fish and chips.

94 Manor Road, Verwood, Dorset

Bardsleys, Brighton
Nowhere near as busy as the numerous chippies on the seafront, and far better quality. They use a lovely light batter so the fish isn't too heavy and they sensibly serve portions that you might actually be able to eat in one sitting. They also do their utmost to ensure that the fish comes from regulated stocks.

22 Baker Street, Brighton

Coxhoe Fish Bar, Durham

Is there really anything better in this life than eating freshly fried fat chips straight out of the paper? Specifically, these fat chips? Didn't think so.

25 Blackgate East, Coxhoe, Durham

The Chip Stop, Plymouth

The oldest chippy in the area does a nice line in tasty fish and chips, with proper, crispy batter and flavoursome fish.

31 Waterloo Street, Plymouth

Andrews, Powys

Given that mushy peas can be truly disgusting in the wrong hands, it is high praise indeed to say that the ones at Andrews are delicious. And the haddock isn't half bad either.

32 High Street, Welshpool, Powys

Our Plaice, West Hagley

Beef dripping. Fresh fish. Hand-made mushy peas. Perfect.

131 Worcester Road, West Hagley

Friar's Tuck, St Merryn

If the weather is good then drag yourself away from the warm, fragrant interior of this chippy and eat your supper on the beach nearby. Mind you, as long as you can stop them blowing away, you could enjoy these chips in anything from a refreshing sea breeze to a force-9 gale.

Harlyn Road, St Merryn, Cornwall

Bibendum, London

All right, all right, it's really not cheap here, but the restaurant is gorgeous and its deep-fried fish and chips is the business.

Michelin House, 81 Fulham Rd, SW3, 020 7581 5817