Both chicken bricks and knighthoods were on my mind as cleaned out the fire this morning. The former have all but disappeared from our lives and the latter are as common as ASBO’s in Peckham and, seemingly, as easily earned. Had King Arthur been as free and easy with his dubbing, he would have needed a Round Table the size of Wembley Stadium for a sitdown roast chicken lunch with his ennobled, charitable chums. He would also have been well advised to have invested in a lorry load of chicken bricks. You might be sensing at this conjuncture that I have a lot more time for chicken bricks than I do for Knights. There are a couple of Knights amongst my acquaintances whose worthiness for a K would rest entirely on the significance of that letter being the last in a well known four letter word, at which they were masters owing to the amount of time they consecrated to honing their skills at that art. And charity, of course. The humble chicken brick, on the other hand, can produce delicious, life sustaining food in the simplest way whereas Knighthoods produce egos as inflated as the bubbling, crisp skin that covers the succulent breasts of a bird prepared in such a way. The rich and successful, who give so generously and painlessly, could be rewarded with a KCB (Kiss my Chicken Brick). My intention was to tell about the chicken brick but, as is so often the way, I got waylaid.