HERE I am, blithely drifting up the escalator to the cookware department in Debenhams on Magdalen Street. I’m Christmas shopping. I don’t have a care in the world. Until, curving towards the third floor, I see his podgy face and cheeky grin stare out at me from a multiplicity of packaging. There are shelves, full of him.

Jamie Oliver, inspiration to amateur chefs everywhere.

A selection of pots and pans was skilfully has been skilfully skewed by a talented employee. No matter where you step in 2015, you can’t avoid St Jamie. Later I get off the X90 on my way to work. Branches of Jamie’s Diner and Jamie’s Italian are all over the West End. It’s like 1984 out there.

But instead of Big Brother, we have Jamie Oliver, dictating our diets.

Kitchen pal to the meek. Friend of all men, who once considered cooking effeminate. Jamie, the beacon of the testosterone casserole. A laddish hero, whose TV appearances suggest to me that he willingly farts and laughs every time he throws hand chopped garlic at his mates. But Jamie has much more to offer than this.

To me, there is no doubt that Jamie is one of Britain’s great modern exports. His TV shows, beamed around the world. His inspiration to so many, who would otherwise be cack-handed with a saucepan. More importantly his pioneering Fifteen restaurant continues to strive towards placing the unemployed in the workplace. And, perhaps most striking of all, his 2005 Feed Me Better campaign revolutionised school meals, encouraging children to pine after fresh fruit and vegetables. If Jim, aged four, has never munched on a carrot, it’s about time he should. Dig for Victory. Feed me Better.

There are so many levels on which you can’t knock our Jamie. He’s made himself the figurehead of a sweeping movement towards healthy eating. But my problem is as follows.

As with so many people struggling on a low budget, given the slim freedom we enjoy outside of the workplace, I don’t want a smarmy multi-millionaire telling me how to feed my children. I can make these decisions on my own. Cheap sugar drinks are a rare treat. Jamie, we just don’t have time to spend hours slowly frying onions on our hobs. We agree with you, we know you’re right. But if you insist on dictating to us, please can you be more like Churchill, and less like Cheech and Chong?

Smarming up to the PM at 10 Downing Street doesn’t pack a punch. Sugar is probably the last of the PM’s worries, if we’re honest.

Imagine the Downing Street PR department wasting time, telling the PM not to put away his pasty when Jamie knocks the door. Imagine the police outside. Is this guy serious? Sugary drinks?

Think of our emergency services Saint Jamie, and stick to the primary schools.