When times were great, I had my first paid job as third hand on a barge punching sand up the Thames, and it was a matter of pride to blow the week's pay on Friday night. I would stagger home, 'bout 3am, and have a monster fry-up. This one time, there was no ammo in the larder, so I settled for favourite standby. Cheese and pickle sandwich. Only I was pickled, and the cheese turned out to be a block of marzipan, and all that expensive rented beer was instantly evacuated into the sink.

Still can't look marzipan in the eye, Jon