THE mood of anarchy is catching. And it is infecting the least likely revolutionaries. It began with the hauliers, those mild-mannered knights of the road who would no more dream of driving aggressively than of cancelling their subscription to New Internationalist magazine.

They held Britain to ransom with a flask of tea and some picnic chairs. "If the Government wants a fight," their spokesman said, "then we've got the stomachs for it."

The protest struck a nerve at one exquisitely-appointed home in the greater Norwich area. Watching the news on television, Delia Smith threw her ivory-handled melon baller at the screen in sheer exuberance. "Too right," she screamed, dislodging one of her heated rollers and dropping her fag. "It's about time we underdogs fought back."

The next moment she was dialling the Daily Telegraph, demanding they send round a hack so she could spill the blanched butter beans on her so-called rivals. Thus it was that Middle Englanders woke up on Monday to discover the prim guardian of all things tasteful flinging insults around like a bar-room banshee.

Every one hit the mark, mind you. Delia described the awful Jilly Goolden as, well, awful. Antony Worrall Thomp-son was repulsive. Michael Barry, a man who glistens like pond slime, was summed up as "all sweaty palms".

This was first-class stirring from someone who knows how to spin the spoons. Unsurprisingly it blew the lid off the pressure cooker of foodie fame.

First Worrall Thompson returned fire by suggesting Delia had gone to the Gordon Ramsay school of charm; Ramsay is the notoriously ill-tempered London restaurateur. Ramsay then suggested Worrall Thompson had prostituted himself in commenting on other chefs. (He added: "Delia Smith is the only thing I buy my wife for Christ-mas." Mrs Ramsay has all the luck.)

By this time everyone was getting stuck in. North Yorkshire's Matthew Benson-Smith and Jennie Cook lined up behind Delia, while Royal York Hotel head chef Stuart Nabbs called Gary Rhodes top class.

Surprisingly that mincing ham Ainsley Harriott and Naked Chef Jamie Oliver - a man with all the charm of a student fridge judging by his joke about a "spastic" told to a lads magazine - have escaped abuse, apart from this bit.

In her comments to the Evening Press, Jennie Cook suggested that too many of these shows are about entertainment rather than cookery. That echoes the sentiments of Stefan Buczacki, the gardener and broadcaster in York last week, who said that shows such as Ground Force "use their subjects as entertainment".

No wonder they are furious. TV? Entertaining? Not in my day...

Tony Blair said yesterday that Britain faced some hard choices. He rambled on about fringe issues such as pensions and fuel tax but, amateurishly, did not mention the food and gardening TV debate.

Unless the Prime Minister takes decisive decisions decisively, we can imagine the chaos. Delia's army will picket the olive oil refinery, to the chagrin of Worrall Thompson. He'll respond by restricting nutmeg and caper supplies to soup kitchens only, bringing her devotees' lunch plans to a standstill.

Meanwhile, Stefan and Alan 'Tedious' Titchmarsh are lobbing manure at one another in the Blue Peter sunken garden. In an ugly incident, militant Stefan supporters kidnap Charlie Dimmock and force feed her into a bra.

Soon the country has degenerated into civil war. England's lawns go to seed; homes are in flames after desperate cooks are forced to flamb with diesel.

To prevent this, Mr Blair has to make one of those hard choices he so enjoys. He must create a law allowing only Delia and Stefan to broadcast in their respective fields. The English can't cope with all that fancy stuff: we just want pleasant banality. Why else would we have elected New Labour?