My fool-proof guide to getting a violent case of food poisoning
Autumn has kicked the doors in with a bang. Well, the windows technically, but you know what I mean. On 2 September, the rain was coming down as if God was hurling buckets of water at any south-facing window in Brighton; if the Hove-l had windscreen wipers they’d have been set to “fast”. Thankfully the bedroom window faces north and so is protected by the bulk of the house, which allows for a gap of ventilation; but then the wind starts whining and whistling and if you are confined to bed, then it can all get a little bit too much.
I was confined to bed, for once not out of idleness or disinclination to get out of it, but from illness, due to food poisoning. I will spare you the details because we all know what food poisoning entails, but I concede that it actually means you have to get out of bed pretty often, and when you’re in bed you’re not exactly comfy.
The day began inauspiciously, after burning my breakfast bacon. Shortly after that, I felt something sharp digging into my upper right gum: after a bit of probing, this turned out to be part of a molar, which had made a Unilateral Declaration of Independence from the rest of the tooth, and then fell out into the sink with a tinkle. I retrieved it: it looked like something that might have been dug up by Time Team. After that, the day kind of went downhill. In fact, it went so far downhill that I looked back to the time of the dental collapse as memory of happier, more innocent days. Palping the new contours of the tooth with the tip of the tongue provides diversion and even amusement; the area is – so far – pain-free.
Not so much, gut-wise, the rest of the day, the day after, and, so far, the day after that. Now, young people starting out in life often ask me the best way to get food poisoning. I would say that the whole process, like charity, really begins at home. I love reading local newspaper reports about restaurants that have been awarded the lowest possible food hygiene ratings; the more these reports go into the grisly details the happier I am. Give me lurid tales of cockroaches and mice in the cabinets and back rooms of McGhastly’s Snack Bar and Grill and I am a happy man. The unfortunate thing is that these establishments are usually in Worthing, but one cannot have everything. Worthing, for me, is a bit of a shlep away and not, as the Michelin Guides have it, vaut le détour – even if it has a restaurant that made health inspectors blench and flee with their hands over their mouths. Also, there is a certain amount of luck involved as to whether you’re going to get sick eating at one of these places; and then you might only get a little bit sick. Remember: food poisoning only counts as such if you spend at least six hours wishing you were dead.
As so often is the case, if you want something done properly, you have to do it yourself. It’s the only way you can get a guaranteed result. Like all good recipes, it involves a certain amount of prep. Also, a certain amount of perseverance. But don’t worry! You don’t have to put your back into it. Like marinading, your main ingredient is time. And warm weather.
First, cultivate a craving for devilled kidneys. Dredge these in seasoned flour which has been in your cupboard for three years. Cook these in the usual way. (I cook these extraordinarily well, by the way, and have converted die-hard offal haters.) Leave them a little pink in the middle. Now, the day after eating these, you may not notice anything wrong, except for the first faint signs that something is not well Down There. Nothing, though, to write home about. Do not despair! Your journey has only just begun.
Here comes the important bit. That evening, go round to a friend’s house for dinner, or get a takeaway. Do not under any circumstances eat your leftover devilled kidneys (you will have leftovers: they’re cheap) the day after you’ve cooked them; do not under any circumstances put them in the fridge. Only 48 hours after cooking should you reheat them – and, for even better results, thin out the sauce with some chicken stock which you have also left out, unrefrigerated, for 48 hours. Now you may find that, that evening, you have no symptoms. Patience, patience. For I promise you that, by 11am the next morning, you will be suffering the agonies of the damned – or would be, if Dante had thought to put food poisoning in one of the circles of Hell.
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Of course, I can’t be entirely sure that my illness has been down to my sloppiness. I have a friend who, I have just learned, has been ill in exactly the same way – but she is tidy and fastidious in her diet. There may just be something going round. But this is what has been happening here, I merely present you with the facts. Now, if you will excuse me, I think I shall go back to bed and do a little writhing.
[See also: Everything is better in Sweden]
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This article appears in the 10 Sep 2025 issue of the New Statesman, The Fight Back
