I have a confession to make. Yes, another one. I love, beyond rhyme or reason, terrible terrible party food. I acknowledge that they are crimes against both decency and the palate, but I adore awful party platters.
For me there’s little finer in the world than a flimsy paper plate, bedecked with a jolly napkin, and adorned with cucumber sandwiches, the edges curling in the afternoon warmth, or a plate of slightly soft crisps, perhaps teamed with a cocktail sausage skewered on a stick.
Every time I throw a party I insist on putting on a “good spread” and every single time the desire to cook-up kitsch and often entirely beige food overwhelms me.
In the picture taken – held during one of my famed Eurovision parties – I insisted on making a hedgehog with pineapple-and-cheese sticks as the spikes. At my last birthday party I just had to buy Blue Nun and cheap mini scotch-eggs. They were dire. But I loved them. There have been fondus and terrible punch. Home-made bunting and natty table-cloths oh and disconcertingly soggy mini-pizzas. So there, I admit it. I lay my confession bare for you to pour scorn and heap derision.
Or maybe, just maybe. You love naff party-food too? Yeah?