I was on my way into the Guardian to record the latest episode of the Media Podcast. As I walked out of Kings Cross station I happened to bump into The Ribman, a highly regarded purveyor of pork-based street food. His pulled pork rib sandwiches are renowned as the best available on these islands. And his super-hot Holy Fuck sauce has been known to make grown men cry. The Ribman is also a West Ham supporter so we had exchanged footballing pleasantries on Twitter before but never met face to face. I went over to say hello. He suggested I try one of his sandwiches. It was midday and I’d already had scrambled eggs on toast for breakfast. “Perhaps I’ll grab one in an hour on my way back to the station,” I said. “They’ll be sold out by then,” he said. I didn’t want to be rude. Plus, they looked like the most magnificent culinary constructions I had ever set eyes upon. “Okay, give me a small one,” I told him. Yes, what you see pictured above is the SMALL incarnation of the Ribman’s speciality. I ate it on a bench just round the corner from The Guardian. It took me about 20 minutes to consume. The cold wind blew around me as I scoffed from my polystyrene tray. The Holy Fuck sauce burnt my mouth and belly. My digestive system creaked and cranked and rumbled under the strain of the meat. Finally I wiped my mouth clean, staggered to my feet and went off to record this podcast about increased revenues at ITV, the future of the BBC and something about Global Radio I can’t quite remember. Listen to it, it’s the sound of a man trying to make sense of the baffling media landscape while suffering from the onset of acute meat psychosis.