Who's afraid of the Big Bad Wolf? If he has any sense, his barber for one. Ba-doom-tish!

 I've retained, for the most part, a sceptical stance on the high profile relaunch that is Sky 1's bigger, sexier re-vamped Gladiators series. The show that we all remember so fondly from it's 90's heyday may well be back with all the amateur dramatics, pugil sticks and lycra unitards you can shake a giant foam finger at (yes even they make a triumphant return) And there's no disputing that the show plays out with all the high octane family flavoured fun of both the British original and it's patriotically named, trans-Atlantic counterpart "American Gladiators". Yet since it began earlier this year, every episode I've managed to take in, has left me wanting. The harsh, Scottish bellow of John Anderson still sounds just as harsh and Scottish as it did back when MC Hammer still had money in the bank, so we're no worse for wear in that department. And it would seem the presenters are almost modern day counterparts of their male and female predecessors being eye candy and ex-footballer in that order (That's proper football not "American football" for those keeping score at home) and being honest, if you flicked over just to see John Fashanu and Ulrika Jonnson together each week it could only be to ensure the contrast on your TV was still set properly. So if everything good has made the cut and nothing worthwhile or endearing has been taken away, then why are my feelings toward the new Gladiators so apathetic?
Alas, it seems that niggling, absent "Je ne sais pas" turns out to be something Sky couldn't give to me with all the money and resources in the world: A childhood. The realisation dawned on me earlier this evening as through the wonder of Sky plus, I caught up with the most recent instalment from Sunday; Gladiators: The Legends Return. Seeing some of my childhood heroes don the Lycra once again to face off against the now comparatively impudent, young team made me realise that the strongest premise this re-launched franchise had from the offset, was nostalgia. Nothing made this clearer than the man who made the 90's series what it was: The Wolfman. Curly head of receding locks or no, one pantomine worthy strop later I was taken back to the time of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Ghostbusters, and yes, even Roger Rabbit. Hunter may have been the shining paragon of the show's spirit but it was always more fun to be shocked by Wolf's complete lack of chivalry and frequent tantrums.

The Gladiators I look back on in my minds eye will always come with a large serving of eight year old me staying over at my Great Grampa's for the weekend. Such was the fashion that every Friday through to Sunday I'd spend the non school days with a relative who was all the fun of another kid with all the spending power of a parent rolled into one. Saturday night would always be the pinnacle of every visit for TV's blinding prime time line up: Such offering as Big Break, The Generation Game, Catchphrase and of course - Gladiators. There's something delightfully cathartic in looking back on a tragically curly haired, terminally freckle faced Me dancing to that glam rock-esqe theme tune in my Superted Pyjamas, almost catatonic with expectation for the 60 minutes of balls to the wall awsome that was about to be delivered, straight to my eyeballs.

Such memories do not come alone of course. Therein lies the delight to be had. Almost as satisfying a piece of nostalgia was the meal that would ceremoniously precede each night of cathode ray theatre. Back in the days before hydrogenated fats were at the forefront of everyones mind and the link between greasy foods and juvenile heart strain had been established, my grandfather would guiltlessly put down to me, a plate of king ribs and chips with lashings of tomato sauce and as much Irn Bru as my kidneys could comfortably turn into pee. Even knowing what I know now about both their meat (none) and fat (lots) content, there's still something so alluring about those king rib patties that my mouth waters as I type about them. If you'll excuse me now I'm going to jump in the car and see if such a thing as a 24-hour Farmfoods exists. Maybe I'll pre-heat the oven before I leave so I can start cooking them straight away when I get home...