I have found myself beset with hunger pangs all week. Well, since Wednesday, actually. I blame the media, mine included.

If only they hadn't all got so enthusiastic about the humble doner kebab.

Open the page of a newspaper and there was one of these pieces of packed pitta bread staring back at you. Television was the same. Even radio joined in.

The upshot was it just left me drooling every time the dratted things were mentioned. There was an empty corner of my stomach just craving to be packed to capacity by one.

Because as you can see from my picture above (and you don't have to look closely), I am a bit of a sucker for foodstuffs like this. You can move takeaways from hand to mouth without the need of anything so civilised as a knife and fork.

I don't eat them every day. Honestly, I don't. But there are occasions which demand the consumption of such things. There are times when nothing else will do.

At football matches, for example. Here, it's nigh on compulsory to indulge in a spot of fast food.

Ashton, the district which encircles Bristol City's ground at Ashton Gate, is a great hunting ground for those seeking such sustenance on match days.

And I would defy anyone to fight off the temptation of the Chinese takeaway or the mobile hot dog and burger vans. The former is a really good chippie and, in normal everyday circumstances, I would not touch the latter with a greasy bargepole.

It's just different when Saturday comes around. Somehow a minced meat pattie of unknown origin, a still semi-frozen bun, a pile of over-fried onions and sauce masquerading as tomato is an essential food fashion accessory for any football fan worth his salt.

Salt, of course, is what it's all about. There's too much of it in any of this stuff, apparently, though I feel there's something rather exciting, daring even, about taking a munch on the wild side once a fortnight (or twice if there's a midweek game).

Now, because there seems to be a dearth of them around Ashton, I rarely succumb to the delights of a doner kebab. So rarely, in fact, that I can recall (admittedly not too clearly) the last occasion I bought one.

I had spent the evening in town after work celebrating some deserving cause or other. This had necessitated visiting a pub and catching a late train home.

Alighting from the station I made a steady, if slightly swaying, progress along the High Street where I found myself caught rather like a rabbit staring at a set of headlights. For there ahead of me was the local kebab house, a truly wonderful and illuminating vision, especially as the hour approaches midnight.

As soon as I clapped eyes on it I felt hungry. Really hungry. Before I knew what I was doing I found myself at the front of the queue of other like-minded souls ordering my doner kebab.

I slavered as the man sliced away at that revolving mound of meat (I'd always understood it to be lamb, though this week's national food reports suggest that is not always the case) before placing layer after layer of it inside the pitta.

Salad?

"Not too much," actually.

Chilli sauce?

"Just turn on the tap and don't stop."

Back out in the night air I was homeward bound.

Fumbling badly for the keyhole I disturbed the other occupant of my dwelling who appeared (like another vision) at the bottom of the stair just as I was heading to the living room with my sweating, dripping, pitta, savouring the prospect of a food frenzy.

But before I knew it I remember her saying something about me "certainly not eating anything like that", and having my late-night snack forcibly removed.

It was returned a short while later having, effectively, had its heart torn out. All that remained was the pitta bread itself, a paltry bit of salad and a surfeit of chilli sauce.

I snaffled the lot, then, abandoned again by my beloved, fell asleep on the settee, only to wake with a start an hour or two later.

On waking, I made the mistake of rubbing my sleepy eyes with my chilli-stained fingers.

No matter, I'm told the redness will eventually disappear...