Topping and tailing gooseberries while my thicc bitch twerks.

For me, summer wouldn’t be summer without a blush of sunburn and a plump spliff pinched between thumb and finger.

On the anniversary of Xxxtentacion's death, I've been wondering: is there really a beef that can't be settled with, well, beef?

When ambling through the opp block I always carry a punnet of berries.

Knees weak? Arms heavy? Then try this earthily sustaining whole garlic and mushroom spaghetti.

I’m perfectly aware of the perils of getting high off one’s own supply, but in July - when the summer sun slowly fattens and sweetens the cherries in my garden - I can scarcely help myself.

The echo of blunts being sparked and booties being smacked is surely the essence of an English summer.

I'm more heathen than saint, but I love the rituals of Christmas. The tree decked with baubles and ribbons. Clove-studded oranges bobbing in wine. And, after the feast, a trickle of liquor on the patio for my fallen homies. Keith, Anthony, this one's for you, my Gs.

I can hardly pretend my mother, were she still alive, would approve of a face tattoo, but I can think of no better way to honour the artichoke, a monarch among veg.

All blushing cheeks and acid tongue, rhubarb is the biggest flirt of the summer. I love to wrench the pink stem from the earth, hold it to the light and whisper, softly, “daaaaamn shawty u a fiiine ass bitch”.

OK, i'll admit it. Lil Pump is whack. But is he as whack as brie, stifled and stiffened by a cold fridge?

A peach, when perfectly ripe, is less fruit than drug. Back in the day my boy Yotam used to cut them up and sell them for huge profits up in Islington.

An anxious cook rarely selects the right ingredients. That’s why, when I go to the farmers market, I always bring at least 15 of my boys. Some are friends, sure, but others, well, I guess you could say I just like having them around.

Get rich or die trying. A maxim for life, and for gravy-making.

The mesmerising ripple of a recently smacked booty

The best cooks aren’t motivated by competitiveness but by joy, generosity and love. That said, my banana trifle is the best damn trifle you motherfuckers will ever taste.

One should always endeavour to hate the game rather than the player. Still, if the game is venison stew, I could no more hate it than hate my own pillow, so warmly delicious and comforting is it on a soggy autumn day.