I was a really picky eater as a child. Because I was obsessed by Popeye, my mum and aunts would put my food in a can to represent spinach and we'd hum the Popeye tune and then I'd happily eat it.
My Auntie Chrissie would knock up apple pies, cakes and scones with the radio on and a fag hanging out the corner of her mouth in a way that seemed effortless.
My primary school teacher once poured a bottle of curdled school milk forcefully down my throat. Then I threw it up all over her suede shoes. I'd rather have drunk from the spittoon in Barney's barber shop.
I've since been to every chippie in the north of England yet I've never tasted fish and chips as good as at Mrs Cunningham's in Birkenhead. Mrs Cunny, as we called her, was a wonderful woman, with a smile and a wink for everyone. Queuing up for my weekly treat I'd say: "Can you put a big one in for me, Mrs Cunny?"
The first caff I ate at when I came to London was the New Piccadilly Cafe on Denman Street. All human life was there. I would sit looking out like an Amsterdam tart.
I make a wonderful cure-all called Four Thieves, just like my mum did. It's cider vinegar, 36 cloves of garlic and four herbs, representing four looters of plague victims' homes in 1665 who had their sentences reduced from burning at the stake to hanging for explaining the recipe that kept them from catching the plague. Maybe it's just a placebo. It's always worked for me.
Every week I have a disaster in my kitchen. The fire alarm goes off repeatedly. But it doesn't stop me being adventurous. Recently I brought home a Viennese cookery book and had a go at a special apple pie, but it came out looking like the Elephant Man.
On the mantelpiece above the Aga there's old chemist's bottles labelled "Poison", "Belladonna" and "Arsenic", which I use to store herbs. It worries people when I sprinkle them in their spaghetti bolognese, and I keep a straight face and let them sweat.
The person I always enjoy having a meal with is Cilla Black. I might not see her for months, but then I'll pick her up at her flat and we'll go to a restaurant and it's like I've seen her that morning. She makes fabulous chips, Cilla. When I'm at her place in Barbados I'll say: "Go and do one of your mean pans of chips, will you, love?"
My idea of food hell is a balut. It's an egg sold as a delicacy on the streets of Manila, where I once worked as a waiter in the brothel Gussie's Bar. A balut's been boiled soon before it hatches, so when you crack it open there's this fetus swimming in grey liquid. You could torture me on the rack and I'd still refuse to eat one.
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