How do you educate an entire continent?
As a kid I once ate Heinz Macaroni Cheese for my xmas dinner, because it was one of only three things I would eat, and my mum decided that fuck it, it was xmas day and she couldn't be bothered to argue with me.

Never really been picky since then, in fact my steadily expanding thirty-something bloke's waistline is testament to the fact there's not much I won't eat. Egg mayonnaise, but surely that doesn't mark me out as odd in any way since it's essentially Satan's toe cheese, although my extreme distaste apparently and inexplicably pisses off the Gods of travel, because every time I board a National Express coach going anywhere, I always end up sharing a tiny seat with some monstrously overweight social misfit who, without fail, will crack open a tuppaware of nicely fermented egg mayo sandwiches about 2 hours into the journey, leaving me pressed against the glass, sobbing like a child.

So I didn't think I was a fussy eater, until I arrived in Australia. Don't get me wrong, for the most part the food in Oz is excellent, prices are cheap and portions are massive. But there are a few traditions here that I just can't seem to get my head or my gastric system to contemplate:

1) Ketchup on meat pies. An Aussie institution, apparently, although nobody seems able to tell me why. I mean, they're full of gravy for Christ's sake. No further saucing is required.

2) Beetroot on burgers. I don't have enough time left in this life to list all the reasons why this is just plain wrong. But they love it.

3) Carlton Draught. It's like mixing one part Carling to three parts badger piss. I never thought it previously possible, but I've discovered a worse beer than Bud Light. Do I get a Blue Peter badge?

So now an entire continent thinks I'm a fussy eater, despite ever-mounting evidence to the contrary in the form of my escalating girth, and despite the fact that over here you can make an entire room go green just by describing the varying delights of steak & kidney pies, black pudding and room-temperature beer.

Peasants, the lot of 'em.
(Monkey Tennis isn't Spartacus, Mon 5 Mar 2007, 13:29, Reply)