Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic, who thinks if Luis Rubiales had known he’d be getting all this shit he may as well have tried tongues.

I BLOODY loved the 1970s. I was in my prime, the music was brilliant, and we had entertainment like Carry On films and Love Thy Neighbour before the wokerati banned you from laughing at good-natured banter like ‘spear-chucker’.

The food was shit, mind you. There was fondue, which was like eating warm cheesy snot. Findus Crispy Pancakes, which left third degree burns in your mouth. And whoever invented ‘Green Goddess Dressing’ needed shooting. Bright green evaporated milk and anchovies? It looked like someone with a heavy head cold had sneezed on your salad.

But a couple in one of the neighbouring flats is holding a 70s-themed birthday party and it’d be rude not to go. And when I arrive 20 minutes early to get some free drinks in before the  scrounging masses show up, they’re surprisingly pleased to see me.

‘It was good of you to get in the spirit,’ my hosts say. ‘How do you mean?’ I ask. ‘Coming in 70s fancy dress!’ Cheeky f**kers.

Wondering if it is maybe time to update my wardrobe, I head for the drinks table. Which is when I remember how godawful booze was back then. There’s Babycham for a start. Babyshite more like. Back in the 70s it was a ‘ladies’ drink’ so I don’t want to look like a raging poofter.

The cocktails aren’t much better. Tequila Sunrise, disgusting. Blue Lagoon, which looks and tastes like decongestant. I notice other guests are arriving now, so I move onto the buffet. When there’s free food it’s a case of ‘you snooze, you lose’.

It’s hardly The Ritz, mind you. For one, there’s pineapple bloody everywhere. On sticks with cheese, on pizzas where it has no right to be, and worst of all chicken and pineapple pie. 

There’s the dreaded fondue and devilled eggs, which will have everyone pumping out more methane than a herd of Aberdeen Angus. I have to pinch myself to believe this was the decade that brought us sublime grub like Monster Munch and Yorkie bars.

Thank God there’s chicken in a basket. I grab a few pieces and a handful of chips before Miss La-Di-Da hostess curtly points out there are serving spoons. I don’t recall there being woke hygiene police in 1974. You ate a dodgy Wimpy Bender in a Bun, you died. End of.

Unfortunately I’m becoming increasingly aware through my drunken haze that there are quite a few people giving me funny looks, so decide to make a discreet exit.

I ask the hostess for my coat – yes, the one with the massive lapels – and if I can take a slice of the Black Forest Gateau away with me for later. She declines. Can’t think what I’ve done to offend them. Maybe it was all those classic Bernard Manning jokes.

Returning to the flat, I muse on whether the 70s were really as great as I remember them. 

The answer is a resounding ‘yes’. Long, hot summers, Division One football that wasn’t full of overpaid foreigners, Farrah Fawcett’s tits. You could enjoy The Black and White Minstrel Show in peace and pinch a barmaid’s arse without people raising an eyebrow. A golden age indeed.