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Frittering time in Rochdale; Goldman exposed; Vince's pious wish-list; Sarkozy swerves.
Spam spam spam spam, spaaam, wonderful spam. I haven't thought about spam since I tried to explain to a rather solemn Norwegian (a tautology?) why a group of Vikings singing an ode to processed meat in a transport cafe was one of the funniest things ever to appear on British television. You try it. The whole gruesome experience came back to me as I sat in the Wine Press, a sophisticated hostelry on the edge of Hollingworth Lake, which, as readers will know, is one of the most visited beauty spots in the whole of Rochdale.
In the list of starters, nestling among the insalatas tricolores and the spicy chicken wings were 'Black pudding and spam fritters with curry dip'. I tried to persuade my mum to order them, as my cholesterol count did not need topping up, …