Ah, the joy of fish. Last night we ate turbot at a ridiculous price, but turbot so fresh, its next of kin had not yet been notified. Therefore the price was justified.

I love that programme on Sky TV about the most dangerous jobs in the world. I can leave the lumberjacks and ice road drivers to their tasks, but when it comes to fishermen, I am in awe. Men who go out in small boats in the most treacherous conditions to bring us back small fish, if they are lucky.

I don’t eat meat. Well, I don’t eat slices, roasts or chops. But I do enjoy liver, kidneys, mince, brain and trotters. Strange, a bit Hannibal the Cannibal isn’t it?

I love things from the sea, or our lake.

Fishing, no matter how big the boat or net, is still “The Hunt”. Not much in our food pile is hunted anymore. Cattle, pigs, sheep and poultry are raised in horrendous conditions. But fish, apart from the anaemic, farmed varieties, are hunted down by robust and hearty fishermen who work in the most awful weather to catch noble cod, hake, skate, haddock, sole and a whole family of white fish that has lived the wild life that a fish should, and flake beautifully from the bone – if properly cooked. I adore the sardine and herring too as I feel they oil my joints. A two-day bash on a diet of nothing but oysters, whelks, mussels, winkles and clams I find rejuvenating. But they must be consumed close to the sea for the sake of freshness and economy.

I live 700 kilometers from the sea, and the likelihood of getting a fresh piece of turbot is rare. But yesterday we found it. I won’t tell you where, because it may not be the same quality next time, and I don’t want to disappoint you.

If you live in this area, the Saturday market in Ferney or the Sunday market in Divonne have excellent fresh fish and shellfish. And if you are not sure about the cooking, just ask the fishmonger. If you are nice to him, he’ll cut your head off and throw in a lemon too, and a bunch of parsley.

It was exactly twenty five years ago today that I was sitting at the long bar in the Marbella Club wondering what to do with myself. The sun was shining and it was quite warm, but the hotel was eerily quiet. I was on forced rest while shooting a couple of commercials for SEAT cars. The previous evening the wardrobe mistress had overheard, during a drunken dinner at one of Puerto Banus’ flashier eateries, how much we were spending on models, directors, cameramen etc and had decided that what she was getting was not enough. She was right, it wasn’t enough and I could double the sum as she demanded, immediately. But too late, she had legged it in the night. These were the days before mobile ‘phones and Pilar had taken off into the hills with all the flat brimmed hats, bolero jackets, grey stripped pants, chaps and boots. She had even taken the authentic Andalusian saddles. Search parties were sent out and she was finally found agreeing to come back the next morning – for cash. Shooting would recommence on Stewart Granger’s beautiful estate. Stewart had just been run out of Spain for dubious property dealing and his concierge was not against putting a few pesetas in his back pocket by renting out the guvnors property. He and his wife also provided the twenty strong crew with a sumptuous lunch around the pool looking out over the valley to the sea. During my short siesta, I drifted off and thought of all those little starlets that had decorated the place in happier times.

But back to the Marbella Club bar.

“Telephone for Senor G” cried the bellboy as he passed through the almost empty bar ringing his little bell and carrying the blackboard high. “Call from Hollywood for Senor G”. I discretely called him over and pushed a coin into his green waistcoat pocket. The call was of no importance, but what was, was the reaction of my barstool neighbour. Omar Sharif, who was looking rather forlorn and had spent the afternoon alone shuffling cards and flipping beer mats. He looked me up and down, as you do; possibly wondering why this berk was getting calls from Tinsel Town when he wasn’t.

I felt a bit sorry for him with his hang-dog eyes and moved a few barstools closer.

“Cheer up Omar ol’mate” I said. “Give us that Funny Girl smile, or at least that Lawrence frown”. As he had his deck of cards with him, and was always a betting man, I suggested a hand or two with the loser paying the afternoon’s bar bill. He agreed, cut the cards and dealt the hand.

“Mrs. Bunn the Bakers Wife” he shouted excitedly and proudly snapped the card on the bar.

Fatter, granted, but I can see the changes. I’d always fancied myself in dark chocolate suede brogues, grey flannels and a blazer. But I drew the line at yellow cardigans with football buttons, Tatersall shirts and cravats with riding crops or golf club motifs. He wore these with cavalry twill trousers and Hush Puppy suede desert boots. And so did his mates, all of them, Fred, Tom, Dave, Alex, Big Dave, Irish Dave, Ted, Little Dave and Dave’s mate Dave from the other pub. To go for a Sunday pint with my Dad was like going to a casting session for a Daks catalogue or an audition for Last of the Summer Wine.

When I was six or seven I’d come home from school and swing on the gate for hours waiting for him to turn the corner in to our street. A tall man, always well dressed in a double-breasted suit and snap-brim Trilby. He wore shirts with starched collars and gold collar studs as befitted an accountant. He walked well; erect and proud, swinging his rolled copy of the Evening News as if it were a swagger stick.

Tonight I find myself pirating music from the Internet – he would never approve of that, even though the computer and the internet would have beguiled and amazed him. And I’m listening to his favourite songs. He wouldn’t mind that it was Rod Stewart* singing, he would enjoy each and every number, and he would have sung along annoyingly loudly, just as I’m doing. Thanks Dad.

*Rod Stewart: An American Songbook. 4 albums.

Dad. 1951

Actually, it was lunch, and I wasn’t really condemned although death would have brought relief.

I’ve lived away from England for forty years and there are very few things I miss. Arsenal, pints of real ale and cricket for sure, and The Great British Breakfast Sausage.

Across the border in Divonne, France, just a 2 minute drive from home, is a Casino supermarket which has discovered that Brits abound in the region and no matter how well they have assimilated, nothing can replace Branston pickle, Marmite, Bird’s custard and the sausage. The sausages in the deep freeze are Westaways Honey Roast Pork.

Now, I’m a single man and I don’t know much about freezers and defrosting, but I do know how to cook a sausage. I took the last pack from the supermarket freezer and scampered off looking forward to lunch.

Something was strange, the pack and produce looked as though they were frosted, inside and out, but it was too late to stop and think, my appetite had been whet.

Two hours and three sausages later I was sweating, belching, vomiting and experiencing some of the more unfortunate bodily functions. That night I was hallucinating. This has been going on for four days and I’m now on antibiotics. Apparently the frosty pack was a sign that the sausages had been partially defrosted, just enough to sweat, and re-frozen.

I can’t blame Mr. and Mrs. Westaways for my condition, I’m sure their product is first class as the pack has the recommendation “The Champion Butcher’s Sausage” and was stamped “Use by 02JUL09”.  I can’t blame the supermarket as they are at the end of a long chain of packers, shippers, distributors and warehouses. I can’t blame anyone – just bad luck I suppose.

With stomach still churning, I emptied the contents of my fridge, all those things I’d scoff on lonely nights. Pâté, bacon, frankfurters, corned beef…

I even threw out the eggs. I can no longer look at an egg since I read somewhere that the word “egg” comes from the Icelandic “oeigg”, meaning sausage.