Golden wonder

Hurrah! An article in praise of God's own foodstuff, the humble - and spectacularly delicious - packet of crisps. They're identified as being an almost uniquely British delicacy and passion, and rightly so - the best Americans can muster are huge sacks of tasteless cardboardy crap that they insist on calling "potato chips", while our European near-neighbours seem to think paprika is the most exotic flavour imaginable. "Crisps are our olives", claims food critic Matthew Fort - well, Johnny Foreigner, you can stick your olives, I'd plump for a nice packet of prawn cocktail any time.

It's worth noting, though, (as the article's author doesn't, really) that even the mouthwatering array that greets you in British supermarkets today is a relatively recent thing - as I happened to be discussing with others at the weekend, it's not that long ago that the range of both flavours and varieties was very much more limited. Now if you asked me what my favourite is, I wouldn't even know where to start. The flame-grilled steak Ridge Kettle Chips in the cupboard, perhaps...

Incidentally, the Guardian wisely saw an opportunity to plug a Charlie Brooker column about crisps, and so I'll follow suit. "They taste precisely like a tiny cat piping hot farts through a pot-pourri pouch into your mouth"? Clearly unimpressed by Walkers' limited edition Cajun Squirrel flavour, then...

(Thanks to Emma for the link.)