Grim school dinners are a rite of passage for all children

As a Southampton headteacher acknowledges the inadequacy of his school’s lunches, Will Gore gets ready to tuck in

Last week Jason Ashley, a headteacher in Southampton, wrote to parents to acknowledge that the lunches being served to pupils in his own school were unacceptable (Redbridge Community School/PA Wire)

Pilchards were my particular terror. Slathered in a sweet tomato sauce, they were nobody’s favourite – but to me, they beat all other school dinner horrors by a mile.

Given the choice, I’d even prefer the grey meat cobbler, in which chewy bits of gristle bobbed indiscernibly in thick gravy. And, if available, the chicken pie was usually a much better bet – except for that time I found half a staple in my slice.

But if you happened to be last in for lunch on a pilchard day, there might be no choice left to make; and as you stared around, hoping beyond hope that a spam fritter might emerge from the darkest recesses of the deep fat fryer, a sad piece of oily fish and a heavy dollop of sauce would be plopped unceremoniously onto your plate by the unsmiling dinner lady. And the deputy head would ensure you ate your fill – or as much as you could without gagging.

Last week, Jason Ashley, a headteacher in Southampton, wrote to parents to acknowledge that the lunches being served to pupils in his own school were unacceptable. An accompanying picture showed various meals, mostly wet and beige. A pair of roast spuds looked like something Ant and Dec would force contestants to eat on I’m a Celebrity...

Mr Ashley’s criticism happened to coincide with a sad culinary experience for my son, who had decided to risk a Wednesday school lunch because he was convinced it was going to be shortbread for pudding. It was not.

Usually, on the third day of the week, he asks for a packed lunch, so desperate is he to avoid the dismal roast that is dished up come rain or shine. Other days tend to be moderately better, though when I asked him what meals he actually likes, he was hard-pressed to come up with examples. “Most things are absolutely disgusting,” was his blunt summation, which I’d like to hear Gregg Wallace say one day on Masterchef.

My daughter ditched school dinners when she started secondary school, now taking daily succour in the familiarity of ham in a pitta, a Babybel, carrot sticks and a KitKat. She has fond memories of her infant school’s golden bean pie but shudders to think of the vegetarian sausages in which – heaven forfend – you could actually see pieces of vegetable. My son is equally creeped out by this particular dish. Perversely, the one thing he really does like is the Quorn hot dog, but it’s a rare beast.

Mostly, he plays safe, plumping for the jacket potato option at least three times a week. That’s all very well but since it’s a flat daily cost for lunch, I’m regularly shelling out £3.20 so he can eat a potato with cheese. He doesn’t even eat the jacket!

Naturally, I feel sorry for kids and their grim school lunches – but only up to a point. For one thing, this is what childhood memories are made of. I may have hated those hideous pilchards but the recollection brings a smile as well as a shudder. One day, my children will laugh together as they reminisce about the unidentifiable roasts and the strange veggie bangers that were their rite of passage.

What’s more, eating a suspicious stew or a flabby piece of fish is character-building – preparation for an adult future in which many things are barely palatable, be they meals, situations or hard truths.

When you stop to think about it, the idea of life being like a box of chocolates isn’t half as challenging as Forrest Gump made it out to be. In that saccharine metaphor, you might not be entirely certain what’s in store, but it will definitely be sweet and chocolatey.

In reality, life is a lot more like school dinners: you never know what you’re going to get, it may be hard to figure out what it is when you see it, and it might leave a bitter aftertaste. Nevertheless, you’ve just got to get on with whatever’s in front of you, finish what you started, and move on.

After all, when the next day comes, it might be time for shortbread.