It may feel immoral to talk of simple things like salt and flour, fat and grain, fruit and fish, while the entire political system seems to be swilling down the underside of a U-bend and Europe slides further into chaos. But, then again, we are all mammals and ultimately, it is our common alimentary canal that will knit us back together. I eat as you eat. On that, at least, we can agree.

So grab yourself a giant buffet plate and enjoy the fine selection of food photography uploaded to Instagram this week.

Mwah!

When the revolution comes (and let’s be honest, it can’t be long), by God I hope it involves some red neckerchiefs and a strangely geometrical arrangement of sweaty pink meat tubes.

Mmm. Cottage cheese pastry. Sometimes, even Google translate can’t destroy the intrinsic poetry of a partially curdled cake dessert. Also, is it just me or does every single addition to this plate—peach, walnut, gooseberry—have a clearly visible arse crack?

Why? No, I know. But why? Seriously, I can hear those words you’re saying but actually, why? Why celebrate man’s inhumanity to man, by adding another coastal shelf of misery? Why share photographic evidence that you are afraid of flour? That you’re a grain pussy? That you can’t handle simple roughage?

You know what I like for dinner? A selection of rolled hand towels, swimming in a sea of pond scum and scattered with some loose motorway chippings. Sadly, that is not the recipe we’re dealing with there—this actually sounds delicious.

And they call vegans joyless, puritanical, humourless, self-punishing pricks. Look at this! It’s beautiful! So much pink, so much non-specific scrambled matter. Such shadows, so clean, so simple. Who needs dairy when you can have this much fun at your own dining table, wearing a secondhand oatmeal shirt and a pair of bran clogs?

How do you pronounce it? Samphire? Or samphire? My friend actually pronounces it “samphire” but they’re from Norfolk, so who even knows. I think most people go for “samphire” but everyone will know what you mean if you just say “samphire.”

If I put everything that’s in my fridge on a salad plate it would not look like this. It would look, in fact, like the biohazard bin of a particularly well-incubated bottling-plant-cum-hummus-fertilisation centre. With a splash of nail polish and some long forgotten protein tonic I got given during a particularly bad period.

Eid mubarak, everyone! Finally you can stop being asked by Nigel in accounts if you “really” include water, as he chugs down yet another arse-scented can of Red Bull while you’re trying to get to your seat.

Here’s a tip: never eat a load of beetroot hummus as a drunk snack. Or, if you do, leave yourself a note on the bathroom door. Because if you do eat beetroot hummus as a late night drunk snack—and I am speaking from some experience here—when you piss what looks an awful lot like blood the next morning, you are going to freak the fuck out.

Is this just a bowl full of salt and lavender with a withered crochet hook laid across the top? Mmm. Thanks for your fresh new ideas, lifestyle pal. Thanks a bunch.