And there was one across town at the less salubrious Tiffany's.

Nitespots weren't hip unless you could stuff your face with a booze-blotting burger and a bag of greasy fries as you waited to hail a cab home.

Outside the A&E, as we so wittily labelled it, a bloke called Reuben used to dole out boiled bits of Oxo-tasting rubber wedged in a big, fat breadcake, and you helped yourself to squirts of pale yellow, vinegary mustard and tomato ketchup from the pump dispensers.

We never really thought about the additives contained in said rubber burgers and fluorescent condiments. Or the hidden fat and sodium (well I say hidden; in actually fact, it was running down your arms in salty rivulets).

We'd never heard of BSE. All we cared about was whether Reuben had washed his hands.

And I must tell you, as I rosily reminisce, that I cannot remember one single fight occurring by the burger van.

I know that our city centres have become much more violent places; the Star's pages are full of the stories. But I really can't believe that siting a burger van outside that nightclub on Arundel Gate (which I remember as Barry Noble's Roxy) is going to make things any worse.

Neighbouring businesses rallied to stop the beefy menace they assumed would attract all the meat-headed low-life. The club itself protested that it could hinder access in an emergency. Excuse me? This is a small VAN; with an engine and four wheels. Wouldn't take long to shift it, would it?

Surely greater grounds to start banning burger vans would be the arterial obstructions they might cause in later life. Oh, I forgot, though; we're expecting burger munchers to have beaten each other to death outside nightclubs before that.

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