Tomato sauce on a roast dinner is a sin | BBC Radio Solent's Alun Newman

These always start with a question that leaves no room for manoeuvre.

‘Are you on your way home dad?’

There are no options for the exhausted parent. If you say 'no' then it means that you can still take the request.

If you say 'yes' then it’s good timing as you’re not back home yet and can therefore be instructed accordingly.

We had a bread shortage. It was urgent.

We had no bread other than multi-seed brown bread and that was not an option.

In my mind, I put my foot down and say something like, ‘if you’re that hungry you’ll eat brown bread. It’s better for you, more expensive and you can take it or leave it!’

In reality I said ‘okay’ and was soon wandering around the supermarket. As I pulled a thick cut, white loaf from the shelf it occurred to me that this was banned when I was a child.

I remember my mum declaring that we would no longer have white bread. She’d seen something on the telly and it had convinced her that white bread equalled instant death.

It started a chain of fun memories of things that were banned by my parents.

Cereal with any sugar in was a no-no, although we still had a sugar bowl to dowse everything in the heavenly white stuff.

Essentially, it meant nothing other than Weetabix.

My sister was a rasping, needy, asthmatic and it was believed that yellow food dye was the main culprit, so that was out.

This had a significant knock-on effect and homemade custard was now white.

Singing at the table was not allowed when there was food on it.

Coming from a large, rowdy family, I think my dad simply couldn’t take any chanting or banging of cutlery.

It was a very sad day when the full fat milk was banned but it was the cause of a myriad of fights between siblings.

For a short while TV on a Sunday was banned and it nearly killed us all.

Parents banning things got me wondering about the unflinching laws that I insist upon.

There is one that springs to mind.

Under no circumstances can anyone have tomato sauce with a roast dinner. I have no real idea why I’m so passionate about this rule.

You can leave yoghurt pots and Peperami wrappers in your bedroom.

You can leave books, gels, sprays and brushes on the stairs.

You can resist going to bed and constantly renegotiate a deal.

However, the rule that can never be broken is ‘Tommy K’ with a roast dinner.

I know some people don’t mind and I’m not even sure why I’m so passionate about it.

I can safely say I don’t mind mint, horseradish or cranberry sauce with any meat.

I’ll accept bread sauce on any occasion.

I won’t even care if you have English mustard with chicken.

However, if you squeeze tomato sauce onto a roast in my house, the world stops spinning.

It’s politically correct now to say ‘I won’t judge you’, ‘you do you’, ‘be the person God made you’.

Sadly I will judge, please don’t do you and if God made you that way, say sorry and ask for forgiveness.

Earn a few quid with mumps and malaria

Have you ever urgently needed a few grand but you didn’t want to get a loan from a bank?

My latest fascination is with paid medical trials.

A friend of a friend was recently accepted onto a clinical trial for a tropical disease.

To all intents and purposes they were injected with a strain of malaria and then treated for it.

It was a horrific 10 days and they were exhausted afterwards.

They also questioned whether it was worth taking the time off work. But let’s look at the positives.

You get to stay in a Premier Inn. You’re on your own, so it’s like a singles’ vacation.

Food is paid for, although appetite is considerably down.

There’s unlimited time to yourself to read and have creative thoughts, although most time is spent curled up in a ball.

Then the big one – you get £4,000! Filmmaker Robert Rodriguez funded the award-winning El Mariachi using exactly this strategy.

Would you do it? It could be the ultimate way of gauging how much you really need the cash.

There’s a new wave of studies looking for people who haven’t had mumps.

If you really want that holiday in Spain, forget the lottery, donate your body.

Just for the record, I’m staying in the UK this year.