In the days before inverted snobbery was fashionable I was, I suppose, a determined inverted snob, proud of my prowess at darts, scorning saloon bars and genuinely at home with sawdust underfoot, preferring the fairground and circus to the theatre stalls, travelling with gypsies and for three years out of six of war service obstinately remaining in the ranks. But I did not, I’m glad to say now, carry this to the length of frequenting fish-and-chip shops, whose stench has always seemed to me an offence to human dignity. Winkles with a pin in seaside lodgings by all means, shrimps bought by the pints from the man who has pushed his net for them of course, mussels and cockles any way you like, kippers at a penny a pair toasted before the fire, but to eat the carcases of dog-fish from much-handled copies of newspapers, this is going to far.
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