A picture is worth 1000 calories.

Mental illness isn’t funny.

But that said, people are funny – and many of them are definitely mentally ill.

Ergo; stuff.

I was at a ‘restaurant’ the other day and I ordered myself a fat dinner on a plate, standard behaviour I assume. But somehow as the hot,  flat crockery of mouth hope appeared before me, I felt compelled to take a photograph.

And it’s not just me.

People are openly photographing their foods all over the place, like furtive hoards of perverted gob-obsessed tabloids.


They’re eagerly Instagramming the life out of dinners like there’s no tomorrow.

What the hell is happening?

Why have we become so anally retentive that we suddenly cannot bear to ‘lose’ the glory of our soon-to-be-orally-consumed delights, without desperately trying to record them for some deeply misplaced posterity?

Who do we think we are going to show?

In the old days, the technologically primitive world around us used to implicitly add effort to things; we didn’t have camera phones and magic apps that apply forty seven anus-filters to everything in the world so that you can pretend you have some kind of innate, magical talent.

Because of this, if you wanted to bizarrely photograph food at an alarming rate, you’d need a camera and film, and you’d get your Kodak 36 exposure developed at a chemist, before aggressively gluing your photos into a special laminated meal scrapbook that you would keep under your pillow and perform sexual acts on that involved salad cream and a rubber duck.

You see it was simpler then.

Back then, everyone would know you were a deeply troubled phoodtographer.

Now it’s like some kind of infectious mental illness.

And we’ve all caught it.