LIFE tasted different when I was growing up. In many ways, the flavours were infinitely worse. The mash slopped out by the school dinner ladies shared not a strand of DNA with the potato, I'm convinced of that. And garlic was only ever mentioned as an abusive term for the French - although I had yet to meet a resident of France, sweet-breathed or otherwise.

Childhood grub was cheap and tasty. We'd not heard of pasta, although Heinz Spaghetti on toast was always popular.

For a proper family meal you needed three basic components: spuds, veg and a chop. Gravy was thickened with cornflower to the exact same constituency as the Bird's custard poured upon a sticky pudding.

It was, I imagine, a similar story in households across the land. Every night my brothers and I tucked into wholesome food that filled us up, at a speed that makes The Simpsons' dining habits look leisurely. The spread was washed down by a glass of water, or perhaps orange squash.

This was not so long ago. But it could be a scene from another age. What would have been considered ridiculously exotic a generation ago is bog standard today. The mums of Millennium Britain are more likely to knock together a spag bol than slap a pork chop under the grill, a Meat Commission survey has confirmed.

Youngsters now have a sophisticated palate that can distinguish a korma from a balti, Thai from Chinese, tapas from tortillas. Reassuringly, they still choose chips.

This explosion in flavours is something to savour. It's as if British food went from black and white to colour like our television sets.

Unfortunately, this TV analogy can be taken further. We now have a huge number of channels to choose from, serving up more guff than ever. Similarly, we have access to more and fresher ingredients than ever, yet eat ever-increasing amounts of processed rubbish. Usually in front of the TV.

This has much to do with the daft lifestyle we now lead. As everyone works longer hours, the time to shop for ingredients and lovingly prepare the evening meal is reduced. If we had lots of neighbourhood greengrocers, butchers and fishmongers that might not be such a problem, but often the only option is to travel several miles to the nearest supermarket.

Meanwhile, we are all dropping like flies from eating the industrialised, reconstituted, plastic-packed gubbins that we melt in the microwave every night. We have become irritable of bowel and intolerant of food.

Monday's health page revealed the consequences of this folly: a cookbook which shuns wheat, gluten and dairy products. No bread, butter, beer, sausages, pasta, cake, cheese, yoghurt or ice cream. No fun.

If the improbably-named Antoinette Savill, author of said cookbook, believes that muffins made with rice flour, polenta and soya yoghurt taste nice, I'm not going to argue. But you won't catch me within a bus ride of one of her coffee mornings.

Neither will I be taking a food intolerance test at the York Nutritional Laboratory, for the same reason that I would never ask a psychic for a palm reading. I'm too afraid of what they might tell me. Life may be worth living without beer and bread, but I don't intend having to find out.

Every day we get new advice on what to spoon into our cakeholes. The boffins used to insist that we avoided chocolate and didn't touch fats with an organic bargepole. This week they changed their minds. Chocolate can be good for your heart and a new brand of margarine cuts "bad" cholesterol (I didn't even realise that cholesterol could be good).

It's all too much for this man of simple tastes. That's why I'm going home tonight to spuds, veg and a chop.