Which British condiment deserves pride of place on the nation's table?

The tangy, vinegary king of the bacon butty and the only acceptable companion to a full English for the discerning northerner. Anyone choosing ketchup on a fry-up is frankly suspect.

Sweet, glossy and impossible to get out of the bottle without a wrist injury. The default choice of children and people who order steak well done.

A dollop the size of a pea will make your eyes water and your sinuses sing God Save the King. Anything less than this is cowardice in condiment form.

Chunky, sweet and vaguely mysterious in composition, it's the reason ploughman's lunches still exist. Smooth Branston drinkers need not apply.

Heinz tried to rebrand it and the nation revolted, which tells you everything. Either you grew up with it on a lettuce leaf, or you think it's an abomination.