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It's Friday evening. You get in from work pissed off with Steve in accounts. You're famished. You've nothing in the cupboard. Sighing, you put on your Wranglers. Your hand goes in the pocket to stop them being all inside-outy. You feel a wrinkly tenner. Result! Chippy tea it is. When in proper fat bastard mode I go for haddock - so much more interesting and tasty than cod, and doesn't fall to bits - plus a battered sausage which is the perfect marriage of crispy and squidgy. Seasoned so strong you can't even taste the minced-up eyelids. And chips of course, sweaty and sticking to the pap