Andy Richardson: Love knows no bounds, but this man won’t eat fish pie

In a word: Yes. In two words: Yes and Yes. Though I concede some may turn their thoughts to other issues. And no, I don’t mean reports that Coronation Street legend Julie Goodyear may make a return to the Weatherfield cobbles. Nor do I pass comment on the fact that Twitter is chronicling the development of Prince’s career by belatedly comparing him to bargain basement Easter Eggs – yes, Dairy Milk matches up with his Purple Rain era. I’m tempted to talk about the Tik Tok eploits of 87-year-old Lichfield grandfather Joe Allington, who became a social media star by donning washing up gloves, moaning about bulk buying at supermarkets and covering his nose with a mask.

But these are dangerous times and if ever a subject deserved newspaper column inches, it is a fish pie – a dish that the French call tarte au poisson.

I’ll level with you. Things could so easily have been different across the next 600 words. With the world spinning at a slower pace, people finally have time to develop the interests that they’ve never previously had time for. Like woodturning. Who knew that a five-minute YouTube video of a carpenter making a coffee mug could be so compelling? 36 million people have watched Matt Jordan create a coffee mug from a small apple log in a video that is more riveting than Blossoms’s version of The Beatles’ Paper Back Writer and more dramatic than Andrea Bocelli’s free concert at Milan’s Duomo.

All that wood. All those spins. All that sanding. And all those pieces of sawdust flying around and getting trapped in Matt’s nasal hairs. Man, what a mug.

But I digress. We were talking fish pie. Eugh. Fish pie. The very thought of it.

I realise I am not in the majority. To most, fish pie is a hug in a bowl, one of the world’s great comfort foods, an opportunity to luxuriate in the bountiful delights of the ocean. After all, who doesn’t feel a flutter for flouder or a passion for pollock? As comforting as a log fire in winter, the fishy tang of salmon, delicious richness of double cream and aromatic hint of Noilly Prat make it a national favourite. Not. For. Me.

One man’s pleasure is another man’s poison and fish pie is all the things I hate distilled into one Satanic dish. It is mushy and rubbery, wet and indistinct. It is one whizz in a blender away from baby food. Bleurgh. Bleurgh. Bleurgh. Give me meat. Give me vegetables. Give me anything but bloomin’ fish pie.

If I were ever to be signed up to I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here – and if there are any ITV booking agents reading, I’ll do it for a tenner just to enjoy the Business Class Flights and complimentary stay in the Versace Hotel – I’d tell them my greatest fear wasn’t spiders, kangaroo testicles or parachute jumps, it’s fish pie.

I’ve studiously avoided it throughout my life, though I was confronted with my biggest fear while visiting relatives. Having invited us for lunch, they showed their affection through food. From the oven, a proud aunt fetched a groaning bowl of mash, cod and haddock. There was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. I pushed it around the plate, tried to conceal those moments when the food made me gag and drank around 17 pints of water as I swilled away the gastronomic trauma.

More recently, we visited chef friends. They pulled a similar vessel from the oven with a beautifully golden top. Was lightning about to strike twice?

The dish was laid on the table and a spoonful scooped out. My partner groaned without making a sound. It was not fish pie – but pork and apple pie with lashings of black pudding; her worst nightmare. From across the table, I empathised as she tried to separate the black pudding from the rest of the ingredients. She internalised her pain; a grown woman being under a social obligation to eat food that made her feel sick.

Love knows no bounds and earlier this week I treated my partner to a luxury fish pie. It has all the whistles and bells, a touch of chopped parsley, a swish of white wine sauce, a dash of cream and a high-rise block of fluffy, buttery mash. I’ve labelled it carefully so that I don’t cook it for myself in error. Though if I do, I’ll be rushing straight to the bathroom.

These are trying times – but that doesn’t mean I’ll turn to fish pie.