One of my best friends is an aficionado of celery. And the shopping for it, in 1950s. Indeed, he might send some of his photos to you, later.
Meanwhile, I ask you to be upstanding with me and salute honest celery, as a manly and patriotic vegetable. It is not pretending to be a fruit, as does the dishonest tomato (unpronounceable trans-Atlanticly, and thus tomatoes are a threat to Britain's longstanding NATO alliance with the USA of America).
Your strawberries, equally, are not ranked amongst the gentlemen of the shopping basket. They are basically prostitutes. Enticingly dressed in red, to ensnare the rich and naive, they are actually a tasteless ornament for a lunatic's breakfast cerial. I discard them.
Celery, by contrast, allows plenty of honest fun. You can roll frozen peas down it, slap the buttocks of any keen guest at a dinner party with it, scoop up hummus or other fine Grecian starter, fight Scandewegian smoked eels with it, or retire to a lonely and virtuous bed with a stick of celery, to be used as an emergency ear-trumpet to hear your alarm clock chime, the next morning. And so to a full day of sober work in the City, on Tuesday.
Celery is actually the Martian word for Speed, according to Wikipedia. It gets on with its job, uncomplaining and unrewarded by medals. Without it, according to Admiral 'Celery' Woodward, GOC Falklands Task Force South, the excitable Argentine would have enslaved all penguins and sheep, not to mention human inhabitants, east of New Zealand, if I hadn't fake-crashed a helicopter at Punta Arenas in Chile.
I rest my crate of celery x