There are a few advantages to being famous. In increasing order of importance: free Monster Munch; permission to talk to other famous people; tables at Scott's at short notice; and you get a VAT number.

I've come to realise that the VAT number is actually the most glamorous and lasting endowment of fame because it is the code that unlocks the door of the food wholesaler. If you can demonstrate your dealer digits, then once you've filled in a form you are free to enter the exquisite realms of mega shopping. I'm so over retail.

Wholesalers are literally one step up the food chain: Gigashops built on galactic proportions with tonka magnificence that make supermarkets look like a pointlessly frilly, lesser Legoland.

You have to be 12 to go to a food wholesaler. I know this because the day I turned 12, instead of having a birthday party I went with my mum to Nurdin and Peacock. It was what I wanted to do most then and it still is now, usually. Somehow, my mum had a card and always bought all the bog rolls and washing powder in bulk. It's absolutely the only way to get all the boring stuff. Life is too short to buy toilet paper. Wholesale, you're not so much buying it as investing in it, which introduces a stimulating element of risk to the banality of the aisles.

The outsize trolleys at Booker are of a strange springy, flatbed design and have to be pulled along rather than pushed (much cooler). Stacking the trolley is an art and you can usually tell the legitimate traders by what they're packing and how. Anyone with an oddly balanced box of crisps or a big smile on their face is just messing around.

My wife and I kicked off our biannual bonanza with biblical quantities of part-baked bread rolls. They last for ages and they're a really good back up. Fair to say, wholesalers are not great from an organic point of view. It's all about economy. The meat is preposterously cheap; so preposterously cheap it's actually irresistible. I couldn't resist an entire fillet of beef for £35.

For anything that comes in a jar, a can, a bottle or anything branded, though, wholesale shopping for domestic purposes is unarguably brilliant. We racked up a gallon of balsamic vinegar, a keg of extra pre-pubescent virgin olive oil, a sack of PG Tips, a crate of crackers, a drum of mustard; with escalating glee. Everything about the place says 'Go nuts! Have a party!' They've got everything you need for parties from banquet rolls to barrels of booze. Suddenly catering for a crowd is easy.

We were doing well - a sack of spuds, a sack of onions and still we hadn't had a row yet. Trade rows tend to be that much bigger because there is more at stake. It's shopping in extremis. There was a slight scuffle in the condiments sector. I was sure we had enough peppercorns to last until 2010 from our last visit, but Claire insisted on buying another hundredweight or whatever that many peppercorns is called. We hit our stride again in the chiller: Sleepers of cheese, slabs of butter. We marvelled at the wagon-wheel sized quiches and buckets of guacamole, but resisted. They never get finished, even if you have a party. They look good, though, really professional. That's what a wholesaler is ultimately, a shop for professionals. I always feel like a proper man when we get home from cash and carry. A house never feels so homely as when it's crammed to the rafters with food. Wholesale really is the only way to shop.

·To see the first video instalment of Alex's cheese diaries, go to our Word of Mouth blog