Wednesday, 10 December 2014


Great to see Krusty back on our telly-box last night, after what seemed like an interminable amount of time away.
Ms. FullSock decided to give the FREE STUFF a rest for a bit

( and concentrate on getting crafty, ahead of the two-week long Waitrose Wobble in South Ken, that the rest of us know as ‘the festive period’.
In setting-up her grotto, Location Location Location star Krusty opted for Blenheim Palace as a venue.
As a keen whittler & car-boot man myself, I tried to book a pitch at Blenheim this very morning, and here’s how the telephone conversation went;

“Good Morning, Blenheim Palace Office Enquiries.  How can I help?”

“Hi. I saw Krusty FullSock on TV last night and wondered how I went about setting up my own grotto?”

“I beg your pardon sir?”

“I’d like to book a pitch at your next car boot sale please?”

“I’m sorry sir. That was a one-orf.  For Channel 4. For our Christmas Fire. ”

“So there’s no way of setting up another grotto at Blenheim?  In the future?  For free.”

“No sir. Not for the foreseeable future.”

“Oh. Ok. Thanks. Bye.”

“Thank you sir. Goodbye.”

To be honest, I was feeling a bit cheated.
If Pinter were still alive he’d have a field-day with that bit of dialogue, but I’m no playwright, and Harold’s long since gone; so I set about trying to create a Santa-Style grotto of my own, using some of Krusty’s ‘fregan’ tricks from her last money-spinning venture.

In last night’s show, FullSock made almost all of her Cath Kidston chintz in her ‘home studio’.

Living in a standard two up/two down, I don’t have room for a studio (nor a coffee table, nor a washing machine, nor a double bed) so I decided to get to work with my hammer & tongs in the bathroom.

How to burn your tree instead of recycling it.

Krusty also visited Norway.

I don’t have the money to buy even a coffee in Oslo, let alone jump on a flight to get Scandi-Inspired, so I visited Lowestoft, the further point east in the UK.
Lowestoft has loads of shops.
Lowestoft also has loads of grottos, ranging from the half-hearted, to the half-arsed.
But it wasn’t enough.

It was like Krusty had shown us a world where dreams really could come true, but we weren’t really invited (although we were allowed to watch).
Fullsock famously once said in the Hull Daily Mail;
"I didn't go to university, didn't do well at school, I didn't have an easy 20s, I never perceived myself - and certainly no-one else has - as cool……..

I bought my first flat when I was 21, and from a very early age I was the one at home fussing about”.


It was at this point that I realised how I was going to have a Christmas just like hers!
I needed to buy my own flat.

But first, I needed inspiration.
I went back to my video-taped recording of last night’s visual cornucopia, and this time I watched all of the adverts (and the funny little bit at the end, where the hard-working editorial assistants get their names squeezed into the corner, so that the ‘book accompanying this programme/series’ can be advertised).

And there it was!
The book.
And not just one.
Krusty’s Handmade Christmas, AND Krusty’s Homemade Home, AND Krusty’s Christmas Crafts AND Krusty FullSock’s Crafts!

All available through Amazon (negating the need for trying to find a book-shop in Lowestoft) and all over a TENNER, thus ensuring FREE DELIVERY, as long as I paid £70 for Prime next year.

Not only did I not have to get a mortgage, move to Oxon, flirt with horses, holiday in the Arctic and invest in a home-studio, but I could do the whole thing from my bed!

God bless you Krusty FullSock, and your endless multi-talented ways.
I hope Baby Jesus brings you all you could ever ask for this year
(or at least keeps the poor people from your door).

Merry Xmas Everyone & Happy Buying Lots of Stuff (instead of making it yourself).

Tuesday, 8 July 2014


Inspired by Krusty Allsopp's attempts at creating a 'man-cave' for absolutely no expenditure, at all, whatsoever, and completely for free, I've decided to concentrate on one of the grittier aspects of austerity-chic this month.
Hopefully in this blog, I'll tell you how to source stuff, without spending too much (or any!) money, and how you can fill your house with it, occasionally to the brim.
Of course, in Krusty's world, you need to do this before university, but after having several children and buying a flat (obvs).

This is one occasion where I'd unusually recommend that you DON'T go to Tesco.
Their Bogofs do suggest that there is a 'free' aspect to the transaction; but did you know that you're not actually getting anything free, but just two things at half-price?!?
No. I recommend going to garage-sales, jumble-sales or carboot-sales, just as the vendors are packing away.
The wife recently got a free electric piano that takes up the whole of our dining-room, despite the fact that neither of us can play the piano!
We now use it as a sideboard for storing all the free stuff we have got from other garage sales.

Don't be afraid to scour lay-bys.
A good splash of catering-sized cooking oil and the odd slice of broken white goods, can jolly-up a shed or garage, and can often put spice back into your convoluted storage systems.
I know some of my regular readers are keen on attracting birds, and the added bonus of bringing home drums of used oil, is the amount of fat-balls one can create from just a 20 litre tin.
Birds love fat balls, and who am I to judge?

Pre-Loved, Ebay and Freecycle are ok I suppose.

Once you've filled your house with loads of unwanted stuff, why not do as Krusty does, and go out and spend all the money you've saved on a new house?
Then you can fill up your new house with loads more stuff, keeping Britain ever so tidy, and 'the economy' buoyant, bouncy, bubbly and twee.

Everything everyone else thought they wanted, but then threw away.
Internet subscription (for Freecycle et al)
Broadband/Telephone Line
Car (or Van will do)
Free Time ( Optional - may be a little expensive)

For the source: Turn off the television.

Wednesday, 25 June 2014

REMEMBRANCE WEEKEND (A rant from the Noughties)

REMEMBRANCE WEEKEND  (A rant from the Noughties)

I can’t remember where it was, or even when?
Just a green hill faraway
where holy-grails and lay-lines lay.
Summer solstice, summer bank holiday
sometime in summertime?
It was raining, we were wet, there was mud.
(Not the 1970’s glam-pop band that did ‘Tiger Feet’,  
but who knows?  They might have been).

I can’t remember who was there
but the Stone Roses weren’t because I read about it later.
Jarvis Cocker asked us if we remembered our ‘first time’
and we all pretended that we did, and I told the girl that I was with
that I remembered Pulp in ’93, but I doubt she remembered me.

I can’t remember why we went?  Why we always went.
But I do recall throwing-up noodles after ‘shrooms in the Cider Bus
and carving ‘the Beatles were shit’ on a tree.
A tree that was actually growing, right in front of us!
Yeah. Twat.
Then I don’t remember much after that.
Except too much oestrogen, not enough oxygen
and the overwhelming stench of shite and doughnuts.
And the Levellers.

And somehow the cow field morphed into Club Trippy-Caner
where the drugs were more expensive, but the hugs were free.
A serotonin-stinking place, where ownership’s a smiley face, and dealers take you by the hand and welcome you to dumb-dumb land, and total ecstasy.

I can’t remember what it was, or who it was that sold it to me?
It wasn’t the bloke who blagged my ticket,
nor the crusty with the ladder and the androgynous girlfriend,
and it definitely wasn’t the space-cake in the portaloo
or the ever so legal-highs.
But perhaps it was the tiny bit of mysticism
oozing from the zit-like Tor
or the filthy naked hippies, bearded and beaded
with sweat and fuzzy-felt bindis 
or the thoughtless wanker that stole my tent?
I really couldn’t remember. 

Then; in ‘the Year of the Storm’
(not to be confused with ‘the year of Floodstock’, or ‘the year of Mudstock  ‘I’ or ‘II’),
I began to remember everything.

Every last detail (whilst standing in a never ending queue for a totally empty cashpoint).
The odour. The dry barren daytime
Re-fuelling with overpriced pear-shaped ‘cider’,
square pies, and a serious dearth of entertainment.
The fake stone circle, the endless hum of the generators,
and the in-cess-ant fuck-ing drum-ming
punctuated sporadically by shouts of  ‘Bollox’ & ‘Yer Mum’ at 4am in the morning.
The cold damp evenings. The prison fence.
The rubbish and the waste.
The techno-techno-techno muzak.
Beyonce’, semi-naked but chaste.
Bono. Sky TV. Acres & acres, but nowhere to roam.
Rows & rows of neatly stacked tepee’s, reminiscent of rabbit-hutches we like to call ‘home’.
Contempt bred through familiarity,
and the dawning realization that I no longer belonged here,
fused together in a synapse of clarities,
and drenched in piss weak Budweiser beer.
Here amongst the festival virgins;
smelly, sex-hungry, sunburnt and bum-funky.
Here amongst the Dunlop wellies, “that’ll cost ya guvnor!
Let’s say……..a monkey?”

Memories of a time when money didn’t matter were dismissed.
Memories of the agro, the drugged and the pissed.  
Mobile phone dementia in a sea of Prada handbags
Memories of a vale called Avalon.
Mecca market mania for pills and booze and fags.

Yes! It all came back to me!
(A flashback they say).

I remembered that sense of ‘having to be there’
That rite-of-passage, the Home County diaspora, the must-see event.
Blur at dusk, Radiohead at bedtime,
badgers on the periphery, and strange looking creatures in my tent.

The tent that was stolen
and never replaced.

Consumed,  then forgotten.

Then erased.

Wednesday, 23 April 2014


I'm often asked by desperate people in these austere times, who I think should manage England?
And my reply is always "Kevin Keegan".

With the average weekly wage for a Premiership football player at around £30k + bonuses, it's easy to see why so many of them opt for a career in management, in order to provide at least one meal a day for their families.
In terms of revenue, the Premiership brings little to 'the economy'.
It's financial impact is akin to one of a small supermarket chain like Fine Fare or Gateways.

It's therefore essential that everyone in the UK (including immigrants and foreigny-looking students) get behind our national sport, and support at least two or three top flight teams.
Season tickets can be had for as little as £900;
but if the thought of hanging out with your boss or your local MP doesn't thrill you, a Sky TV package can be had for just a little bit more.
Replica shirts are essential at a little over £50, so it's easy to see why undergraduates would rather get a job than waste their valuable cash on tuition fees.
(More about getting a Ten Minute Job next month).

Bob Shankly once said that football was about believing in life after death, and as a neo-socialist like me, I think he deserves more praise than he gets.
We can't all be Antony Worrall Thompson, so here is my recipe for a short career in football management.

I call this quick-fix special 'Get Your Benefits Out For The Moyes'.

1. Don't let the poor salaries put you off.
Australians eat fruit and salary more than SEVEN times a day, and they are all rich, and very beautiful.
(see Tim Cahill).

2. Try to have a continental sounding name.
Ancelloti, Mourinho, Plopp and Salami are all very exotic, and make you sound a lot posher than you really are.
(David and Ron are quite boring).

3. Add lots of ginger, some oak-aged Fellaini and lashings of Irn Bru.

4. Wear shoes that don't fit you.
Simmer gently.

5. Serve, way above your means, but way below your potential.


Multi-Billion Dollar US Holding Corporation (essential in 'Soccer' recipes!)
Russian Oligarchs
Media Moguls
Sheep (lots of)
Under-ripe management skills (optional)
Over-ripe players (optional)
A huge dollop of arrogance to serve.

Monday, 21 April 2014


Late into Wimbledon Fortnight.
A storm imminent, and with several strawberries trampled into the carpet
Arnold shuffles to the sofa, clutching Rizla paper and lighter.
He prises open the sticky window before the inevitable body-slump,
and catches the faint whiff of an incoming storm.
The gusset-pong of a damp sandy swimsuit
atop dead cockles
and draped in fluorescent slime,
on the rope handles of a salty basket.
Fruit juice, rotting fish and a nagging desire for sleep.
He uncurls his gnarled fingers, and clutches at his stick.

"There's the fucker!" He shouts from his cushion.
Through the nicotine-stained curtains, and out into the empty streets.

But no-one is listening.


To get my stats up
I do concede
I have to tease with tags that lead
A desperate person
To click on this one
But only in their hour of need.

**When you've finished, perhaps you'd like to read my stuff about 'austerity chic' (YANNY MAC'S TEN MINUTE SUPPERS) or my insightful pieces into the way the BBC ignores its policies on advertising, in order to get better ratings (TOP NON-PREMIERSHIP ADVERTISING HOARDINGS).
Or my essays on why the modern pop festival has become more of a right-of-passage involving huge commercial interest, and less of an aesthetic cultural experience (VARIOUS), or my little vignettes on how Julian Assange put my home town on the map (VARIOUS).

***For those of you who prefer political satire, try YANNY MAC - DWILE FLONKER.
A hilarious spoof of those people who just don't get it!

**** Please enjoy the photo of a topless Ellie Harrison, but remember;
it's not real - none of this is real..............

Sunday, 20 April 2014


On long cold Bank Holiday Weekends, I often find it's very easy to forget that real people exist.

With the culling of the garden centres, the wanton expulsion of money-lenders such as Wonga and the pharisees, and the oh-so British obsession with disposable barbecues and gazebos, Baby Jesus has had to play second fiddle to our whims in recent times, in part, due to his inability to obtain a quick resurrection.
Had the cheeky little rebel risen up to Heaven within a 24hr period, the whole concept of a 4 day break for politicians, bankers and Her Majesty Clare Balding would be anathema.
Hot & cross bun dough rises with a good knead, not need.

The best way to gain temporary notoriety over the Easter Weekend is to mix a soupcon of peril, with a large dollop of ignorance.
I like to lock my children in a room full of bees.
Others like to ply their offspring with six bags of sugar and a bucket of unethically-sourced cocoa.
However, if you really want to usurp the headlines, and knock Ukraine or Louis Hamilton into a cocked hat, you should always use caged animals and carbon monoxide.


Take an unserviced car full of children to an over-populated, over-subscribed stately home in Wiltshire.
(I find you can get one adult & two teenagers into a safari park for little more than £94-50.
This leaves a fiver change from four ponies, guaranteeing a fun time for all in the gift shop).

Make sure the caged animals are unhappy.
(British weather and high fencing make great misery if you're running short of ideas).

Put the car nose-to-tail with several thousand other cars, and make sure they simmer gently.
(I prefer extra wide 4x4's for that dash of 'added sense of security').

Add a YouTube recorded telephone conversation from the car behind, some very grainy mobile phone footage, and a large measure of hyperbole.

Flambe' for several minutes.

And Noli Me Tangere!
The perfect ten minute Easter news story, for less than several hundred pounds!

Parental Desperation
One large disposable income.
Lashings of petrol.
Blind faith.

Gift shop merchandise (optional).

Wednesday, 2 April 2014


Once again, I find myself writing on behalf of a minority of the population, who feel excluded and unjustly ignored when it comes to national events or occurrences.

And once again, I can't help thinking that London, Manchester and Birmingham get all the fun stuff, whilst East Anglia pumps out the sugar beet for their lattes, the rapeseed oil for their humvees, and the second homes for their parties.
London has hipsters and the London Eye, Manchester has the BBC and all of the footballs, and Birmingham has The Archers; but not one of them has the beautiful white sands of Great Yarmouth.
And where else would you find a KFC adjacent to a McDonalds, and directly opposite a Wetherspoons?

As the wealthier parts of the UK bask in a glorious cloud of air pollution and exotic sands brought in from Samsara, I am going to show you how to make your own air pollution, in less than ten minutes, and at a cost that wouldn't even get you a replacement smart phone.

The main ingredients for air pollution are ozone and sand.

According to Wikipedia
"Air pollution is the introduction of chemicals, particulate matter, or biological materials that cause harm or discomfort to humans"
So this must be true.

I use builder's sand because most sand is the same.

For chemically biological matter, I have stuffed lots of baby wipes and sanitary products down the toilet in order to cause a back-up in my Victorian plumbing system, and the resulting funk is making my eyes water and the cats cough.

For presentation, I will listen to endless Radio4 interviews with people explaining why the planet is suffocating, why we are not just part of the problem, but why we are the actual problem, and what we can do about it, but let's be honest, we won't.
Garnish with plenty of apathy.

And Bingo!
A soupcon of air pollution that would look good hovering over an overpriced back garden in any major city south of Doncaster.

Polluted Air
Asthma (Optional)

Monday, 24 March 2014


As a big fan of Jack Monroe, and his Sainsbury's adverts and his blog, and his recipes in the newspapers, I've found myself reading The Guardian a lot more, to see how 'real people' create 'real food'.

Inspired by the latest recipe for 'Make Your Own Gnocchi'
I've decided to concentrate on pasta this month, and more importantly, what it is?

Pasta is made out of wheat.
But sometimes it is made out of wholewheat (which is better for your children if they never leave their room).
And sometimes it is made out of eggs.

One of my favourite websites Fit Chick Tricks .com says this:
"Whether it is angle hair, fettuccini, elbow, or macaroni, white or wheat has become one of the great debates, right along with boxers or briefs, and chocolate or vanilla".

I'm going to use Tesco Value Spaghetti because it is currently only 20p.
(Up yours Aldi! With your so-called 'cheap' 29p pastas!)
I'm also going to use Smash mash because there is little chance of it going green, sprouting triffids or making my veg box dirty.

Gnocchi is essentially pasta stuffed with mash.
If like me, you have only tried it at middle-class students' houses, you'll know that there is always a great chance they will overcook it, and it will taste a bit like wallpaper paste.
My recipe deals with this issue by TIMING the pasta as it boils.

I'm going to use Tesco instant potato instead of Smash because these blogs are about cooking on a budget.
It's essentially the same thing, although if you read the ingredients you'll notice there are a lot less adverts for other Cadbury's products on the packet, thus reducing the overall net unit cost.

1. Boil a kettle
2. Add HALF of the water to a saucepan (any pan will do - it doesn't have to be specifically for sauce)
3. Put the saucepan on a heat source ('source' not 'sauce') and when boiling again, add the spaghetti, stir it about a bit, get it boiling again, and then look at your mobile phone to see what time it is?
Add ten minutes to that number (i.e. 6-45pm + 10 = 6-55 or 18-45 + 10 = 18-55) and remove from heat when cooked.
4. Use the other HALF of the kettle water to make a paste with the potato.
(Be careful. Too much will make it gloopy. Too little will make it crusty.)
5. Mix the potato with the pasta.

E ecco!
Gnocchi Inglesi-style, and all for under a pound!

Instant Mashed Potato

Tuesday, 4 March 2014


Pancake Day or Shrove Tuesday is celebrated all over Europe, not just in developed countries like England or America.
Shrove literally means 'use up all the eggs and butter quick' and is often celebrated  40 days before Easter, so that the supermarkets have time to take down the Jif and McDougalls displays, and replace them with larger items, such as Yorkie Easter Eggs and disposable barbecues.
A lot of people forget that Baby Jesus nearly died of malnutrition in the desert, before having himself crucified so that we could make (or buy) hot cross buns and mini eggs.
In France they call Pancake Day 'Mardi Gras' which literally means 'Fat Tuesday', and shows that the French have no respect for Baby Jesus or any of the Big 3 supermarkets.
The Swedes also call Pancake Day 'Fettisdagen' which literally also means 'Fat Tuesday', but as they are significantly wealthier than us, and very nearly invented Lego, my recipe today will ignore them completely, and focus on the slightly more accessible ingredients used by those cuddly Vikings, the people of Iceland.
'Sprengidadur' literally means 'a day for bursting your stomach open', and in my experience, the frozen food from Iceland is very capable of doing just that, if eaten in great quantities.

Ten Minute Sprengidadur Supper

If, like me, you struggle to make your ends meet, living off benefits and generally being feckless, you may find this recipe a little challenging, and decide to get a takeaway pizza from say Pizza Hut or The Dominoes.
If you do, try asking for a maple syrup, or lemon & sugar topping, in order to be festive and show respect for the Lent stuff.

1. Get your ingredients from Iceland

2. The Icelandic people celebrate with salted meat and peas.

3. Carefully sprinkle salt onto your meat (I use Tesco Value Free Running Table Salt, but I once had a lodger who got hers from the sea! I think it was a quirky hipster thing, but it tasted ok, even though it was very lumpy).

4. Open your bag of peas from Iceland carefully, and add them to a boiling pan of water.
(If, like me, you've had your gas cut off, try melting the peas with a lighter from Gary's Discounts, or putting them out in the sunshine for a bit).

5. Serve with Findus Crispy Pancakes from Iceland (optional - mince beef may contain bits of animals).

Meat (animal meat is best)
Crispy Pancakes (optional)

Og Lita' Par!
A ten minute recipe that'll have you fit for bursting, and won't have you taking out a crisis loan in order to pay for the kids Easter eggs

This is a photo of an experiment I did earlier. 
Call it 'Yanny-Fusion' if you like, but I combined pancakes from Iceland with waffles from the more developed & civilised country America (Untied States of, NOT South America!)

Sunday, 9 February 2014


I’m not one for massive shows of affection, and at this time of the year I think we should focus on the death of baby Jesus more, and Rudolph Valentine a lot less.
The supermarkets and petrol stations are full of sexy toys and cards and flowers and coal around mid-February every year, and it’s a little cynical of them to ‘casually forget’ that if baby Jesus & the Holy Spirit hadn’t teamed-up to make Jesus fly into the air, then chocolate eggs, filled eggs, novelty eggs and even mini-eggs would not have been invented.

However, I’m back on the blog for a one-off Valentino Special that I hope some of you can use to impress that special person in your life, without costing the earth, or impinging on valuable 'you-time'.

Ham & Eggs
Ham is a cheap alternative to crisps or chocolate, and can be tasty.
I use tinned ham because the animals it came from had longer lives, and this way it doesn’t go off as quick.
Ham generally comes from either a turkey, a chicken or a pig.
If it is called Bernard or Matthew, it tends to be made from our feathered friends.
Tinned ham is nearly 40 per cent pig.

Eggs are also made of chicken, but look so different, they could be from entirely different countries.
(See the link below for more eggy recipes).

The contrast between the ham and the egg can be further enhanced by keeping a distance between them on the plate.
(If you haven’t got plates, try using books or something solid like a picture frame).

Take the ham and put it on the plate.
Cook the eggs in your particular favourite way. And be brave!
Serve them on their own.
Or with peas.

Why not add some mustard to spice things up in the bedroom later?

Peas (Optional)
Mustard (Essential!)

A simple, sassy, sexy meal, for that very special someone;  prepared in minutes, and won’t break the bank (but might break the bed!) lol

Thursday, 6 February 2014



Always try to put some shoes & socks on before you leave the house.
The walk to the shops can often be littered with chewing gum, dog poo and other unsavoury items, and I find that a good pair of shoes (nothing fancy mind) can alleviate some of the yeuch-inducing nastiness of stepping into something not very nice.


Try to use your eyes a bit.
Many shops have stuff for sale that needs to be seen, rather than grabbed blindly, or sucked up into your pouch.
SEE if there any offers on things YOU ACTUALLY WANT, rather than picking up a ten-pack of kitchen roll, when you don't even have a kitchen.
Look around and see what other people are buying.
If there's a queue (and you're not in a Tesco) then it's probably for some short-dated 'reduced' products.
Here you can find cheap Billy Bear ham, bits of broken quiche from the deli, or dented cans of hairspray.

(See my next Ten Minute Suppers blog for what to do with Billy Bear ham & hairspray, and how to feed a party of ten, and still have lots of washing-up to do).


If like me, you enjoy talking to yourself whilst shopping, always look at your list in doing so. That way people think you're only a bit mad, and they are less likely to throw things at you.


Take an alarm clock with you, and set it to go off after only NINE minutes. This gives you an extra minute.

And finally CASH

Pay for things with cash. This can avoid those embarrassing moments when you get to the checkouts, and no-one wants to barter with you, despite the fact you have ten copies of the Big Issue and a head full of nits.

Tuesday, 4 February 2014


My original aim, to provide monthly, nutritious-yet-simple, cheap and easy to assemble suppers, has somewhat been usurped by a young fella with his own baby, and a lucrative contract with a national newspaper and the UK's most successful supermarket chain.

However; never one to be daunted by competition, I've now decided to publish ANNUALLY, continuing from where we left off last February   

CUP-A-SOUP (avec pain)

I hear a lot of people going on about benefits, the food banking crisis and immigrantisation, and I can assure you that you don't need ANY of these, to create this ten minute dish.
It's simple and versatile, being suitable for both supper and lunches.

There are a lot of high-end, luxury instant soups on the market at present, such as Heinz 'Squeeze & Stir' and tins that just need warming through.
Don't be fooled!
The soup contained within these tins or tubes is EXACTLY the same sort of soup you'll find in a packet, but at nearly TWICE the price!
Juggling a busy writing career and a horse can often lead to what I like to call convenience purchasing. But if you prepare your ingredients in advance, and add a little 'je ne sais pas', you can be serving up cup-a-soups  to-die-for  in next-to-no-time!

Be careful when choosing your crockery.
Tesco's 'Soup In A Mug' does NOT have to be served in a mug.
It can be served in a cup, or a bowl, or any handy receptacle not made of soft plastic or straw.

Don't worry if you don't own a spoon. A pen will do.

The bread (or 'pain' in France) is optional, but I like to think it offers something more cosmopolitan to the dish.

1. Tear open packet using your fingers or teeth.

2. Boil the kettle, making sure you have enough water to fill a mug (or cup).

3. Add water, stir, season if affordable.

4. Garnish with bread (or 'pain' which is French for bread) and serve.

Packet Soup (various flavours and themes)
Water (preferably hot)
Bread or 'pain' (optional)

                                         And here's one I prepared earlier!