Move over Peter Andre, there's a new jilted partner in town! The humble pig.

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Is it just me or has the constant barrage of "free-range" this/"organic" that been (unfairly) dominated by beady-eyed, clawing, flapping chickens? The GUILT(!) that comes with buying eggs from 'caged hens' is something that is now so firmly engrained in our collective conscience, that a trip to Tesco requires a detour via the pub, just to build up enough courage to perform such treason. And to a certain extent for good reason!

Now, I'm not suggesting everyone should join PETA, grab a chicken and get busy. Certainly, chickens can be a rather devoid of empathetic character traits – you can't really cuddle a chicken without fear of something sharp entering your eye - but my neighbours have chickens which sometimes overspill into my garden and they can be quite enjoyable. By this I don't mean I swiftly yank their heads off and fire up the oven; I mean that they are really quite interesting and impressive to get up close to. They're curious, amusing and pretty. So I say to myself - “You know what Hugh Fearnely Whittingstall, you're right. Free-range is a worth it.” I do not want to eat eggs from battery farmed hens.

So there I am, ready to purchase my breakfast; some exquisitely manicured eggs gathered from underneath a bowing Oak, some bacon, and a sickly shot of self-congratulatory smugness. But wait, the pig! I forgot about the darn pig!

Babe is an excellent film, Pork and human meat taste similar, and (apparently) pigs are incredibly expressive, endearing animals who are smarter than dogs. How can I possibly justify buying bacon intensively farmed by Peter Schmeichel in Denmark, whilst I'm still enjoying the checkout girl's 'good for you' nod in recognition of my super eggs? Arrghhhh! I have just spilt my smug shot all over my crotch – and what's worse it's scalding hot and suspiciously creamy looking.

So I have a decision to make. I'm broke. I can't afford to be spending an accumulative £7-8 on an organic breakfast just to clear my conscious. One of these animals is going to have to get fucked. The decision is obvious. Babe is a better film than Chicken Run and pigs are better than chickens. Put a big ol' pig next to a chicken and I'd chose the pig every time. If some portly pink porkers decided to infiltrate my garden I would no doubt toss my chicken aside with the same contempt I did my Tamogotchi.

(It is also perhaps worth noting that if either of these two species were to revolt then I'd prefer to have some bargaining material to use with pigs. I defy anyone to try and take-on three full sized, pissed off hogs!)

Yet alas, it is true that such a conclusion is only really the lesser of two evils; but what can one do? Organic sausage sandwiches? Sure! But, sooner or later you know you'll be craving a change and the old B&E will come back into the equation. Cereal or toast? Both not to be sniffed at. But, AGAIN (!) therein lies the problem. When you do indeed sniff the air in the morning, what is that delicious smell that has awoken you from your slumber? It ain't Special K! The minefield of breakfast politics raises it head once more. I don't want to even think about lunch.