A Cantonese favourite with a solid Google rating (4) and another branch in Bayswater.

Location: China Town

Price: £24.80 for half roast duck (no rice)

Pros: perfectly rendered fat and lots of it - sweet sauce complemented the duck perfectly

Cons: the sauce on the side didn’t offer a lot (this is being majorly fussy!)

Score: 9/10

2. Wong Kei

3.3 on Tripadvisor, 3.5 on Google, fined £40k for mice in the kitchen, famous for short-tempered service, but still a London legend.

Location: China Town

Price: £23.90 for half roast duck (no rice)

Pros: tender meat, crispy skin, great value

Cons: not a huge amount of aromats or spices coming through

Score: 8/10

3.Gerrard’s Corner

Imaginatively named Cantonese spot. Much better than the Google rating (a flat 3) would suggest.

Location: China Town

Price: £20 for a portion of duck on rice

Pros: Duck had a sweet flavour and stayed moist

Cons: Sauce to rice ratio totally off; overpowering Lao Gan Mar on the side; bok choy practically raw

Score: 6.5/10

4. Cafe TPT

Cosy Hong Kong style cafe known for its roast meats.

Location: China Town

Price: £14.50 for quarter roast duck (no rice)

Pros: soft meat, sauce’s moreish soy flavour

Cons: sauce being poured over the meat left a soggy skin

Score: 6/10

More to come….

White was as quotable as ever: “When I open up menus now, I can smell the accountant’s fingers.” He laid into set menus, tasting menus and small plates, “They’re canapés on a plate. It’s conveyor-belt cuisine. It’s void of emotion, void of romance.

These staccato flurries evoke images of a boxer peppering his target, and even in print, you can feel the force of White’s attacks: “Food is all about emotional impact. When something is minuscule, how can you have retention of heat? It’s a masterclass in an individual’s technical ability and ego.”

A man who used to work 100 hours a week, believes chefs aren’t tough today: “There’s no intensity any more… A lot of those young cooks can’t cook à la carte… It’s cooking by numbers. ABC. It’s soulless.”

Let’s start with the easy parts. He’s right about the hideousness of cold food. Nothing frustrates me more than seeing my food perched on the pass, getting colder by the second. The best food gives you comfort, it gives your insides a cuddle: it has to be hot.

The only tasting menus worth having are the very best, most are joyless imitations, teases, finger food that always leaves you wanting more. Small plates are a fun, sociable way to eat, but too often the menus are all the same: a man can only stomach so much hummus, torched mackerel and burrata.

Elsewhere, I’m conflicted. Accountants’ fingerprints are all over menus, but that is not the chefs’ fault, it’s the reality of running a business in 2026. A tsunami of rising costs has left us with a choice: support restaurants that cook by numbers or be left with no restaurants at all. I know which side I am on.

White’s remedy of gritted teeth, longer hours, and thicker skins appeals to nothing more than my base instincts. Everyone at a good restaurant already works a damn sight harder than me - who am I to tell them they need to make even more sacrifices so I can save £5 on my steak?

With a return to Europe and a cheap supply of foreign labour still off the cards, the industry has no choice but to make careers attractive to British workers. If that means shorter menus, it’s okay with me.

No matter how much White wants to, we cannot turn back the clock to 1987. Society has moved on, people expect to be treated better, to have a life outside of work. As trainees at Le Gavroche, my dad and his colleagues often finished work in the early hours and grabbed a couple of hours of kip on the kitchen floor before they started prepping for lunch. This would never happen today and that’s something to celebrate.

But none of this is an excuse for sliding standards. White is right that certain types of restaurants have become egotistical and up themselves - finished with polished concrete and cool beats, they scream “you’re lucky to be here”. Good press and fawning influencers give these places momentary hype, yet precious few achieve longevity.

The Waterside Inn, the place White believes is the best restaurant in Britain, has endured for fifty years because it takes the opposite approach: you are their guest, they make you believe they are lucky to have you. An illusion? Quite possibly. But it’s a jolly effective one.

If you boil it down to its bare bones, that’s all hospitality is: being made to feel welcomed, to feel wanted. This is the standard the industry should defend above all others. Of course, we can admire a restaurant’s coolness, the chef’s imagination, the genius of a good wine pairing, but feeling relaxed and having a good time must always come first.

Because when Marco talks about hospitality being “like stepping into a warm bath after a cold day in the woods” he is describing the feeling that takes us back to our favourite restaurants again and again.

It was now 6:15. I was hotfooting from the GB News studio, where I’d sipped green tea, promoted my charity fundraiser, and bonded with the presenter over our shared love of hot yoga - your average culture warrior stuff. The only problem was they’d had me 30 minutes later than planned.

In a blind panic, I’d sent my order through the WhatsApp group - we’d just have time to stuff three courses down. As I marched through Soho Square, a message flashed up: “standing outside”. Mixed feelings: I wasn’t the only one running late, but two courses might have to do.

Although there was a slight glitch. My pal was nowhere to be seen. A breathless phone call revealed he was at the Duke of Sussex, 20 minutes away in Waterloo. What a bunch of clowns we are.

If the staff at Sussex had stuck to their policy, we wouldn’t have had any dinner at all. For this dear friend went to the wrong place not once, but twice. Eventually reaching us an hour later after a detour to the SUSSEX ARMS in Paddington. Proof, if you needed it, that WhatsApp’s live location feature is as much use as a sommelier with a blocked nose.

Thankfully, our charming waiter Zoltan made sure we had an absolutely rip-roaring time while we waited. The Duke of Sussex was his local pub, he could very much understand why someone would want to call in for a drink there first; he agreed that maps are tricky to follow on our phones, this could have happened to Sir Ranulph Fiennes himself. He kept the drinks coming and the mood light.

When we eventually had it, the food was great - and all surprise, surprise sourced from on or around the owner’s farm in Sussex. The beetroot carpaccio and trout starters were light and uplifting, perfect food for a day where we were drinking out on the streets until after dark. My lamb rump was perfectly pink, and matched by a dreamily buttery celeriac purée and a punchy jus. A zesty lemon sorbet was the perfect pick me up before heading into Soho.

Pleasurable as this all was, it was an irrelevance. If Zoltan had presented me with a Big Mac, I’d have acted like it was Koffmann’s pig’s trotter. This is what good hospitality is about: being welcomed, being fed, and having a great time whilst you’re doing it.

Years of eating out with my father - once a Michelin-starred chef - made me believe it was all about food. He’d prod and poke every dish, obsessing over how it was cooked, what gadgets had created the magic. No matter how perfect a dish was, he always wondered how it could have been better - he’d even peer under the plates to see who made them. RAK was his favourite brand, and I catch myself doing it too.

This obsessiveness makes a great chef, but it doesn’t make a great dining companion. It took me a long time - and a lot of pissed off friends - to learn that. Arthur will you stop complaining about the food was a constant refrain. Guys, I’ve got the message.

It’s more fun to enjoy what you can and not worry about what you don’t. But that only works if the service is good, if someone like Zoltan is looking after you properly. Only culinary obsessives, fusspots of the highest order, return to restaurants with red hot food and chilly service.

Sussex wasn’t perfect and I don’t care. I’ll go back to see Zoltan and you should too.

I’d last seen it 15 years ago, on a blurry DVD above my parents’ gastropub. Shouty chefs were the soundtrack to my childhood. So Ramsay’s ranting and raving seemed natural to me, funny even. He belittled waiters and squared up to chefs because he wanted to be the best. They probably deserved it.

Kitchen culture has come a long way since Ramsay was chasing his third Michelin star. Open kitchens now create cool, almost staged, atmospheres. I’m never comfortable in that tranquillity, nor with the implication that chefs are performers diners are paying to watch. The kitchens I knew were not theatres. They were places of hissing pans, sweating brows and cries of “service” - places that rightly remained hidden from view.

I’m amazed Ramsay let the cameras in. After he became the first pub chef to win a Michelin star, my father turned a similar documentary down, knowing exactly how ugly a working kitchen could look from the outside.

On second watching, I found Ramsay’s behaviour excruciating. When a certain kind of chef smells weakness, they latch on to it and don’t let go - this is not unique to Ramsay. Like all good bullies, they perform for an audience, relish a rhetorical question, and keep niggling until another target appears.

On the day of his Michelin inspection, Ramsay demotes two of his chefs on the spot:

“You, as from now on, are a commis (the lowest rung on the kitchen ladder). And you are a fucking commis. Don’t like that? Give me your notice and fuck off. Commis. Commis.

“Feel Happy now? Less stressed? Want to have a little cry?

“I don’t give a fuck if you go, I won’t miss dickheads, never ever, ever, ever.”

Repetitive and cruel. But what’s more remarkable is how quickly Ramsay shifts from blind rage to reflective zen.

Later that night he muses to the camera: “The whole 47 covers tonight was a total dream, everything went to perfection…And it all filtered through my hands, it was perfect.”

It all went through his hands. The people who actually cooked the food were supporting actors, almost irrelevant. Ramsay was the top dog. And how do top dogs stay there? By putting everyone else down.

Observe how Ramsay dresses down the unfailingly loyal Sergeant when he fails to order enough salad:

“Hey you, as a 25 year old junior sous chef, yeah, there’ no fucking salad in the place…

You reckon you’re the same as I was at 25? You’re fucking ten miles away, big boy.”

I’m embarrassed to admit I used to think treating people that way was acceptable. And I suspect Ramsay is too - he’s never watched Boiling Point from beginning to end. But the truth is that without it, there would have been no Kitchen Nightmares, no Hell’s Kitchen, no restaurants in every corner of the globe, no Netflix documentaries, no celebrity love-ins with the Beckhams, no easy gigs and power couple marriages for his kids.

The bullying wasn’t a blemish on the brand; it was the brand, 90s cheekiness and putting two fingers up to polite society on steroids. It made Ramsay his multi-million-pound fortune, money that we chose to give him. We went to his restaurants, watched his TV shows, read his books, bought the pots and pans he endorsed. We made him the face of British food. That says as much about us as it does about him.

In the Boiling Point era Ramsay was striving for something. His passion, drive, and standards were extraordinary. Royal Hospital Road was one of the most exciting restaurants in the world, and his only other restaurant, Pétrus, also held a Michelin star. I know that I shouldn’t, but I still respect him for achieving that. Too few people born on Britain’s council estates become the best in the world at anything.

Drunk on this cocktail of disgust and admiration, I decided to do something I’d never done before: eat Ramsay’s food. Yes, I am part of the problem.

Freshly unemployed, the budget wouldn’t stretch to a £125 a head lunch at Royal Hospital Road. So we hopped up the Northern Line to the Charing Cross outpost of Gordon Ramsay Street Burger.

What I walked into wasn’t a restaurant; it was the arse end of a corporate machine that’s been built purely to make profit. Every expense was spared. The merest hint of hospitality was absent.

Having refused to commune with the QR codes on the menus, a waiter with an iPad begrudgingly bustles over to take our order. Could I swap the chips with my burger for salad? “The system won’t allow it.” In honour of Ramsay: FUCK your system. Fuck your tablet. And while you’re here, fuck trying to make me order on an app.

What does our country’s most famous chef sell on draft? Peroni, that renowned British lager. A Pepsi? That’ll be £4.95, thank you very much. Perhaps you fancy washing down your burger with a £69 bottle of Chablis? Not even the Chinese tourists were gullible enough to fall for that.

Could I have some mayonnaise to dip my chips in? Yes, as long you pay £2 for the privilege. But rejoice, the knockoff ketchup is free.

The gluten free was more like a Warburton’s bap. My O.G.R burger was cremated; the other half’s Chilli Cheese Smash swam in its own grease. If Ramsay had been served either on Kitchen Nightmares, they would have ended up back on the plate.

The only palatable bit was the chips - perhaps the system knew best after all.

This isn’t anti-burger bias. For just a couple of quid more, you can get your hands on Black Bear’s orgasmic Miso Bacon Burger. Trust me, it’s addictive. And I don’t want to denigrate Ramsay’s staff - they’re not responsible for this mess, he is.

A man who was once Britain’s greatest chef has been reduced to copying Pizza Hut’s bottomless ice cream. He even tried to sell me a £10 pair of ‘Street Burger’ branded socks on the way out. No thanks, big boy.

The grim irony is that the old Ramsay at least bullied people in pursuit of something. It was ugly, indefensible and cruel, but attached to standards. Street Burger offers the worst of both worlds: the aggression of the brand without the excellence that gave it cover.

Great restaurants require pressure, stamina, discipline, standards, and hours most people would consider unreasonable. But they do not require a chef that turns every mistake into a public humiliation. And they certainly do not require a £2 pot of mayonnaise.

Ramsay’s genius was making us believe bullying was the price of brilliance. The sadness, all these years later, is seeing how little brilliance is left.

Today, his words read like a prophecy: we are all prisoners to the 200g supercomputers that shape our relationships, politics, and identities.

Even amongst my tote-bag-sporting male friends, conversation goes down the road of “did you see Rachel’s Instagram post - when will she learn to stop doing landscape?”

This might appear to be the harmless gossip that’s always gone on. But our screens, not our surroundings, are increasingly becoming our shared reference points.

We pick restaurants not by their Google ratings, not the menus outside; our conversations are sparked by deranged tweets by American billionaires, not what we see with our own eyes.

Next time you’re at the pub, look at how many blokes scroll whilst sipping their pint. Even at football matches, we mindlessly message, snap and bet.

Being constantly half-ignored can feel like a kick in the teeth. But the consequences are far more profound than hurt feelings. Phones give us an easy out and take away our capacity for thought. How many meaningful conversations have you had with one eye on the latest clip from The Rest is Football?

This impacts more than just friendships, it shapes how we see the country, and Nigel Farage is the prime beneficiary. He boasts 1.4 million followers on TikTok, almost three times more than his nearest challenger Zarah Sultana.

The algorithms are doing Farage’s work for him. When I meet men outside London, I’m shocked by how fearful some have become of our capital, believing the moment you step out of your front door, an asylum seeker will leap out and snatch your phone.

David Cameron’s refrain that Twitter isn’t Britain doesn’t ring true in the short-form video era. Britain sees itself through sensationalist clips and they’re broadcast to living rooms, pubs, and football grounds across the country.

A smartphone is now a requirement for modern life - I even need mine to get into my flat - and digital ID would make owning one all but mandatory. So it’s too late to turn back the clock.

It’s worth saying, we shouldn’t want to. Smartphones help us maintain friendships and meet people who share our interests. I‘ve learned about how to live well with an autoimmune disease from niche influencers in a way that would have been unheard of 15 years ago.

But a phone should be a tool for living, not a substitute for it. When conversation dries up, resist the itch of the hand - the scores can wait. When a video fuels the culture wars, ask whether it really represents the Britain you know.

Do I have any faith this will happen? Nope. Most blokes probably read a paragraph and buggered off to TikTok.

At my parent’s place, I saw staff turn to drugs or alcohol for relief. The effects ranged from the comical to the downright destructive. One chef would slug cooking wine when they thought no one was looking, another developed a heroin addiction that nearly cost them their life.

I’d love to write this off as anecdotal evidence, but the stats tell the same story. Hospitality workers are almost three times more likely than average to be heavy drinkers and eight in ten report witnessing drug use at work.

I suspect high rates of undiagnosed neurodiversity play a part. The instant decision-making that comes with ADHD is a strength when orders pile up and the heat is on. Yet in a different context, that same impulsivity leads to saying yes when a colleague offers you something to get through the shift, or just one beer after work turning into six. One of the reasons I quit drinking for good was one pint never being enough. No matter how hard I chased the buzz of that first drink, it always got away.

In hospitality, when the pressure rises, so too does the need to escape it. With taxes rising, costs increasing, and four businesses closing every day, this problem is only going to get worse.

As I wrote about last week, Tom Kerridge has been hitting the airwaves campaigning for a cut in VAT. He needs to succeed - it could help thousands of businesses survive this nightmare of rising costs and taxes. But in the long-run, Kerridge could do his industry a greater service by changing his tune on alcohol.

He’s talked openly about how after a difficult service he would drink two pints of negroni and six pints of lager, before washing it down with a few gin and tonics. It makes my dad’s post-work bottle of red look like ribena.

Kerridge quit drinking more than 12 years ago and was recently diagnosed with ADHD. Today, he follows a low-carb “dopamine diet” to maintain “a happy space” in his head, confessing to the Times, “I’d never order a portion of chips. I might pinch one off Beth’s plate, but I don’t order a portion of chips. I’d rather just have the steak and some salad”.

Clearly, this is a man who understands the need to control his impulses, perhaps too much. He even avoids alcohol-free beer, because it takes him back to the “zone of chaos”.

So presumably, Kerridge regrets his drinking? After all, at one point he weighed upwards of 40 stone and has admitted he feared he would have been “dead by 50” if he’d carried on.

Not a bit of it. Earlier this year, he told the Telegraph, “I don’t regret the drinking at all… If you’re driven and pushing 100 per cent, you need an escape route so you don’t crash and burn.”

We all know there are healthier ways to manage stress. Kerridge has talked eloquently about taking up exercise, spending more time with his wife and “trying to be a bit more connected to the world”. He says he’s healthier and happier living this way, which rather suggests the drinking wasn’t doing him any favours.

But this isn’t just a matter for Kerridge’s conscience; he’s a role model. Every time he defends his drinking, he gives others permission to do the same. Chefs are a stubborn bunch. Many will hear it and think: if it worked for him, it’ll work for me.

Kerridge feeds this logic. In 2024 he said, “our achievements were amazing because I was drinking, I’m convinced of that.” I’m not. Like all top chefs, his achievements are a product of talent, a mammoth work ethic, and a slice of luck along the way. Drinking isn’t a necessary condition for any of the three.

Instead, it strains relationships in businesses that feel like families. I find Kerridge’s claims that this never happened to him hard to believe. No one was ever happier when my dad was drinking more. When a live-in waiter relapsed into alcoholism, the damage went far beyond him writing off my mum’s Fiat 500.

There’s still a competitiveness to the way Kerridge talks about his drinking: “Been there, done that, done it better than everyone else.” His machismo extends from drinking harder than everyone else to quitting faster. He went cold turkey, using his head chef’s scepticism as fuel.

That mindset, turning everything into a test of will, isn’t the answer for most chefs. They don’t have Kerridge’s financial security or the luxury of stepping away from the frontline, particularly in this economic climate. For many, it just sets them up to fail.

Proper help exists, therapy and medication can be just a GP appointment away, and organisations like The Burnt Chef Project offer support that’s tailored to the industry. Not everyone can quit on their own, and they shouldn’t have to. Kerridge could say that. Instead, he makes recovery sound like a simple story of mind over matter.

A VAT cut could save thousands of hospitality businesses. Changing the way the industry talks about alcohol could save the people who make them special. Next time he’s tempted to talk about his drinking exploits, Kerridge should remember that.

After three Luton goals, my Stockport supporting chum had seen enough and we fled the stadium, hankering for the safety of central London. As we raced down Wembley way, I searched for a bargain dinner. Splurging nearly £5 on a Pepsi Max had left my budget squeezed. Enter First Table and 50 per cent off food at Jamie’s. 

With discounted meals expectations should always be low. If a place is popular, they don’t need to give the food away. And true to form, our visit didn’t get off to the best start. The hostess at the front desk didn’t have our reservation. Perfectly understandable - I’d only made it an hour before. 

Did she apologise earnestly? No. Did she apologise superficially for keeping us waiting? Not even. She prodded the screen with her nail extensions without looking up. Then came the inevitable “follow me this way”, a phrase that never fails to transport me back to being led to the headmaster’s office. I know no one wants to work on a Sunday night. I know cheapscates are a pain. But a warm smile buys a lot of goodwill.

The restaurant is smaller than I’d imagined, mirroring the shrinking of Jamie’s stature from the nation’s favourite cheeky chappy to one of many celebrity chefs. But the decor is harmless - faux wood beams, white walls, an American style mirrored bar - and we’re getting our food half price. Things can only get better, right? 

Wrong. For £7, my pals are treated to what looks like schooners of Guinness. Just charge more and give people a pint. It’s the perception of being shortchanged, not the reality of paying premium prices that irks. 

Not wanting to take the Michael on discounted food, we skipped starters in favour of nibbles: bread, olives, and the ubiquitous whipped cod’s roe. Here, my softboi food intolerances caused chaos when I enquired as to whether they “might” have some gluten-free bread.

Our waiter was not certain. He’d have to check with his manager and report back: get this man a job in Whitehall. Ten minutes later, he’s before us again. They have gluten-free bread, but they’re not sure where it is. Everyone ordering gluten-free bread expects it to come straight out of the freezer, we are just hungry and in need of carbs. Bring it to us as quickly as you can with as little fuss as possible. 

Sure enough, when it eventually arrives, the sad, thin squares taste like the inside of an ice pack. As our waiter drops off some butter, his colleagues bellows at him and into my ear “OH GREAT is that the parmesan I’m waiting for?” The fridgey white blobs look nothing like grated cheese.

The cod’s roe packs a punch of lemon, but the fried sage leaves accompanying it have been lying around in the kitchen. Batter turning soggy is one of my biggest culinary icks. I want it fresh out of the fryer and stinging my fingertips.

The mains are no better. The ribeye steaks are adequately cooked, yet our knives are blunt, leaving us sawing away like sixteenth century surgeons. 

The chips and Béarnaise sauce are stone cold. Dipping a steaming chip into oozy Béarnaise should be one of life’s great pleasures. Next time I’ll bring my new portable air fryer.

Having been in the building for close to two hours, we skip puds and it’s time for the moment of truth. Would we face every discount diner’s worst nightmare? 

The bill arrives, and surprise, surprise, it demands payment in full. A lump rises up my throat. It takes an age to catch our waiter's eye. I eventually fix him with a stare, put on my best smile, and utter the words: “I hate to be a cheapskate, but we booked on First Table...” It’s not his fault, the poor bloke. Our ‘hostess’ won’t have bothered to put a note on the computer system.

Discount applied, the damage comes to about £45 each. That’s acceptable. But if I’d parted with more than £50 for a middling steak with frigid sauce and chips, I’d have been spitting feathers. Flat Iron does a better job, and charges less than £20 for the privilege.

I’ve got nothing against Jamie Oliver. We both grew up above a pub - in my mind this makes us long lost brothers - and thought has clearly gone into his menu. The dishes spotlight seasonal British produce and read well; execution is the problem. 

A quiet Sunday night should be an absolute breeze for any restaurant, let alone one with multi-millionaire backers in a prime central London location.

The only joy of the evening came from escaping without burning a hole in my wallet. My advice? Ditch the discounts, shun the celebrities, and give a local restaurateur your support. You’ll at least get a smile in return. 

ADHD is not just a difficulty concentrating. It is a condition that shapes how people experience and move through the world - driving impulsivity, emotional volatility and a painful sensitivity to criticism. Left unmanaged, it can be devastating. People with ADHD are around five times more likely to attempt suicide. Those who claim to be “a little bit ADHD” ought to reflect on that.

The media would have you believe diagnoses are spiralling out of control. The truth is the opposite. Just one in nine adults with ADHD have been identified, leaving around two million people without recognition or support. Closing that gap for future generations won’t just help individuals, it will put a dent in some of the country’s biggest problems.

A staggering one in five prisoners are believed to have undiagnosed ADHD. They were not born criminals. ADHD medication has been shown to reduce offending by up to 25 per cent. But treatment depends on diagnosis, and too many have been missed thanks to poor awareness and long waiting lists. Routine screening in prisons would be a step forward; early diagnosis would reduce offending in the first place.

When ADHD goes unrecognised, many search desperately for relief, using drugs or alcohol to quieten racing thoughts. One study found more than a third of illicit psychostimulant users had undiagnosed ADHD. Across Britain, county lines networks are expanding and cocaine use is surging. You don’t need a dataset to see it - just go to a small town pub on a Saturday night. It’s just one piece of a bigger puzzle, but giving children with ADHD an early opportunity to build healthy coping strategies reduces the risk they turn to self-medication.

The economic costs are just as stark. People with ADHD face a 70 per cent higher risk of long-term unemployment - a waste of talent and a drag on productivity. As AI takes over routine tasks, these are the very people who bring the creativity and lateral thinking businesses prize (just ask Richard Branson). Catching ADHD early turns the tables: it makes being in work in adulthood more likely and boosts earnings potential.

With around 600,000 16–24-year-olds not in education, ­employment or training (Neet) because of mental health conditions or neurodiversity, we need a cultural shift. ADHD must not be an excuse to opt out of work. As Alan Milburn has suggested, GPs could prescribe work coaches for young people with ADHD, helping them to play to their strengths and overcome the obstacles they face. Countries where this approach is commonplace, like the Netherlands and Denmark, have significantly lower Neet rates than the UK. The system needs to focus on what people with ADHD can do, not what they can’t.

The incentives in the benefits system also need addressing. ADHD shouldn’t routinely qualify people for the highest category for Personal Independence Payments, reserved for those who can’t walk 20 metres unaided or plan a journey beyond 200 metres. Yet more than 40,000 people are claiming up to £10,000 a year on this basis. The government must urgently revisit eligibility criteria and crack down on “sickfluencers” sharing tips on how to maximise payouts. For most people with ADHD, the answer should be work, not welfare.

There are systemic issues to fix. But the evidence is clear: those who understand and learn to manage ADHD are more likely to build stable, independent lives than those who are left in the dark. With more than 270,000 children waiting, often for years, for ADHD assessments, the government’s priority should be getting them seen and supported, not casting doubt on diagnoses. Public finances are tight. But this investment would pay for itself and transform lives.

He came, he saw, he forgot his Apple ID password - the story of Easter with an iPad dad.

Millennials like me remember when our dads ticked us off for texting and thought calling it ‘Twatter’ constituted a joke. Mine even blocked my phone from the Wi-Fi after 9 p.m - I’d never been so grateful to own an iPad.

We were the guinea pigs of the digital age. Our parents didn’t have a clue what we were doing online, so we dived headfirst into the relentless group chats, carefully curated envy, and pings that felt urgent but never were.

Now the tables have turned. The dads who once rolled their eyes at our scrolling are losing hours to theirs. The average man in his fifties now spends more time on his phone than watching television; in his favourite chair, but not in the room.

My father avidly quizzes AI on longevity medicine, while my father-in-law treats the BBC Sport app like a life-support machine. A friend’s old man has tweeted almost 100,000 times - the equivalent of Shakespeare’s collected works three times over, though heavier on VAR and lighter on verse.

Dads have always been a bit antisocial, but technology is taking their grumpiness to new heights. One friend reports that his father chose a four hour round trip to rescue the iPad he’d left at their holiday home over an evening with his family.

It’s easy to laugh along, but when 15 per cent of men aged 55 to 64 report having no friends, loneliness is no joke for dads.

Socialising is good for the soul, and it seems, the heart. A study of nearly half a million Brits found that those who kept to themselves were 60 per cent more likely to die of heart disease than those who made time for friends or family. A pint and a chat can be as life saving as a trip to the gym.

It’s easy to poke fun, but dads have a lot on their plates - caught between helping their kids onto the property ladder and planning for retirements that could stretch well into their nineties.

It’s no wonder that a 2024 poll found that more than 40 per cent of 50 to 59-year-olds reported feeling more anxious, and that’s before Rachel Reeves kicked off the nightmare on Downing Street.

Only around a quarter of men who’ve struggled with their mental health say they’d discuss it with their families. The rest bottle it up, scroll it away, or ask Google for advice - retreating behind their screens, as their fathers once retreated behind their newspapers.

Easter is the perfect excuse to break that silence. A walk, a pint, or a full-throated board game can do more for a dad’s wellbeing than any number of Facebook groups swapping memes about potholes.

What matters is being together, laughing and telling the same old stories.

If you’re lucky enough to still have your dad around, it’s worth putting the phone down and giving him a bit of your time. He’ll act like he’d rather be watching the sport, but he’ll stay put.

What dads really need at Easter is what they’ve always needed: the messy, noisy comfort of other people.