A Wetherspoon chicken jalfrezi consumed in Kettering may be the most average meal my digestive system has ever encountered.

There was nothing particularly to commend it, yet also nothing particularly to slag off. It was not bland, but also not flavoursome. It was not hot, but also not cold.

A small bowl of curry, rice, poppadum, naan, mango chutney: these were just components arranged on a plate and plonked on a not-quite clean table, which you could choose to digest, or, perhaps more likely, just shrug towards.

That’s right; we have reached ‘peak AFB’. It’s unlikely we will get more average than this.

If there is no frivolous joy left in the British curry, we might as well voluntarily make Britain the new Atlantis by scraping off our coastal defences and lowering the lie of the land by 200 metres.

For now, though, consider my metaphorical Wetherspoon Curry Club membership card left in an unremembered drawer.



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