My father, who was the grandson of a fishmonger and spent his early years riding all over Islington and the East End on the back of a horse-cart labelled “H. Coren — Edible Oils”, loved nothing more than a nice, hot kipper for breakfast.

Unfortunately, my mother liked nothing less than a house that smelt of kippers.

An uxorious man, my father decided he would do his best to get by on toast and coffee. Until, that is, he came up with a smell-free kipper cooking method.

Every Saturday he would place a kipper on a plate by the back door, then heat up a frying pan as hot as it would go.

When the pan was hot enough he would take it out into the garden, put the kipper in it, cover it with a lid, and then leave it sitting on the patio for as long as it took to smoke a Silk Cut.

When the fag was smoked, the kipper was ready. And back it came into the kitchen, to be eaten with The News Quiz on at full volume.

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