I love food. Out of all the things that help keep us alive, food is by far the sexiest. Music isn’t the food of love – FOOD is the food of love, or, if you take that quote to its logical extension: food is the food food food food bacon food. Food is like a midget – looks good, smells good, fits in a bowl, first thing on my mind when I wake up. You’d think, then, that I’d feel some kind of affection for the people who have dedicated their lives to the glory of food so thoroughly that they’ve been given their own telly show.
Really quite intensely surprisingly, It’s not the forced geezerism that shits me about Mr Oliver, although if I do hear the word ‘pukka’ again, I’ll get an eye-twitch visible from space. I don’t even mind that he sprinkles things into dishes with his hand above his head from the top of a ladder, becuase who am I to judge completely unnecessary and needlessly messy affectations? No. It’s the messiah complex. This is a bloke who goes to Italy and shows Benedictine monks how to make risotto. This is an English guy who says he wants to teach Australians about healthy eating. This is a man who has single-handedly and heroically inspired the entire world to eat food, because it’s never occurred to us before. IT’S JUST FUCKING SPINACH, YOU PUDDING-FACED GIT, GET YOUR HAND OFF IT.
Kylie is just going to take this beautiful Chinese lobster, tell us which end is the beautiful Chinese head and then which is the beautiful Chinese tail, push her beautiful Chinese glasses up her face, pause a moment while a beautiful Chinese girl actress re-enacts scenes from Kylie’s childhood in beautiful Chinese soft-focus, and then sit and paint squiggles in her beautiful Chinese sketchbook while her beautiful Chinese scallops marinate. But other than that, she’s not fucking annoying at all.
I like Nigella. I do. But let’s not get carried away. She’s a pair of posh tits with her fingers in the butter who says “luscious ruby gloss” a lot. Get over it.
Is there any chance at all, Maggie, that you produce and sell your own brand of verjuice? Because the world had never heard of fucking verjuice until you started putting it in your fucking coffee, sprinkling it on your fucking ice cream and painting your fucking house with it. I don’t know how you find the time, after growing all your own vegetables (but you can use store-bought if that’s all you have), laying your own eggs (but you can use store-bought if that’s all you have), and slaughtering your own cattle (there is no substitute for home-slaughtered cattle). PLEASE DESIST FROM JUDGING MY LACK OF GARDEN AND MY VERJUICE-FREE LIFESTYLE.