This Week in Food Porn: Sandwiches and Smoked Salmon

“The time has come,” the Walrus said, “To talk of many things: Of choux and crisps and oat flapjacks, of cabbages and kings. And why my tea is boiling hot, And whether skate have wings.”

As another week slides into the dinners and drinks of a winter weekend, why not warm your cockles with a scroll through some of the most delicious food photographs uploaded to Instagram this week? Bring a bottle, bring a plate. Hell, bring an all-you-can-eat buffet if you like—we’ll be here for a while.

This is precisely how I like to forage for my dinner. Sweating through the urban wilderness to try and find just a morsel, a scrap to keep me running, keep me sharp.

You call it a smørrebrød, I call it a topless sandwich. You call it an open face sandwich, and I’ll call it a topless lunch break. Or a tits-out dinner. My Auntie Steve (sure, deal with it) used to recommend to me that when I finally settled down with a man, it should be with a “fella with a lovely open face.” I never quite understood what that meant, but am proud to announce that my current boyfriend does have a face approximately 7 metres wide, so fingers crossed.

If I’m going to get lost in the Hampton Court Maze for 16 hours with nowhere to piss and nothing to read, you better believe that it’s going to take more than a slice of green tea cake to cheer me up. Probably a ladder. And a Thermos. And, what the hell, a hand job.

I’d happily eat deep fried dust if it came with enough salt, grease, and a glass of wine on the side. Honestly, just tip the contents of a hoover bag, ashtray, your gym bag, a pillowcase, your coat pockets, and a drainpipe into some batter, add a glass of £3.99 wine and I’m livin’ la vida loca.

Either that’s two different people’s hands or the model in question had to hang, from a lighting rig, by their toes, to hover a giant carving knife above an innocent veggie burger. Please God, let it be the second.

In the words of our dearly beloved, tragically departed heir to the purple throne Prince, there are 21 positions in a one night stand. And one of them is trying to subtly take one sock off with your other toe, while sliding under the duvet.

Now this is a game of Trivial Pursuit I can get behind. Give me a purple question Carol, and let’s see what I might win.

Eating a large slab of smoked fish off a tea towel is only a few timid steps away from that scene in Trading Places where a very drunk Dan Ackroyd pulls an entire salmon out of his Santa suit and starts munching it, through the greying fibres of his false beard, right there on the bus. Delicious.

Talking of fish, lime a huge fan. (Get it? Lime? As in “I’m?” As in “I am?” Oh forgeddit).

And tonight, ladies and gentleman, the creased face carnivore himself, Mr Gordon Ramsay, will be serving up a hard square of lawn trimmings, a single Quaver, a spot of pistachio-flavoured toothpaste, and some figs. Thank you Gordon. Thanks a lot.

Breakfast on Christmas day is, in my experience, like pulling out a single stray eyebrow before ripping your entire bikini line off with a large strip of parcel tape. It’s just the beginning, a precursor, a warning of things to come.

I see that deep clean of the cupboard under the sink is going well.

I’m not absolutely sure if this is a cake or one of those revolting Royal Dalton figurines virgin aunts keep in their faux mahogany corner cupboards to collect dust, right next to the brass effect carriage clock and ceramic restoration lady on a swing scenes.