Of course, despite the prevalence of generally-available good – and interesting – food in London, there are always places where it feels like food was the last thing on their minds. And one such place is the Sports Cafe in Haymarket, where actually the food is hardly the point. I’d agreed to accompany D to watch the football as we were heading off to the Science Museum afterwards (I know, culture on a Sunday, whatever next). Apparently not many places were showing it but D knew for sure it would be on there. And we could kill two birds with one stone by getting lunch there at the same time! Massive non-whoop of non-joy.

The interior is vast and soulless, with a bar, and booths which either had TVs set into the walls at the end of them, or were surrounded by one of several TVs hanging up around them. The waitresses had the misfortune to have to wear what someone in corporate marketing obviously fondly imagined was a sporty, sexy, American style outfit – short, tight, lycra mini dresses – but neglected to employ the kind of leggy model types who, sadly, are the only kind of women who can get away with this kind of nonsense and not have people like me feeling really, really sorry for them. They looked cold, uncomfortable and dejected.

I could already tell how it was going to go down. I imagined there would be several types of meat in the burgers, none of it cow, and the sides would have been tipped straight out of their freezer bags into a vat of hot, bubbling oil. It was exactly as predicted. It pains me to write that I actually ate most of it (out of sheer hunger). I had a cheeseburger, and we shared some cheesy, curly fries. It’s the kind of food for blokes to shovel mindlessly into their mouths as they gaze obsessively at the TV screen. Let’s just agree never to speak of this again.