Britain's children are all fat, pigshit-thick, lazy and ignorant. They will only eat burger and chips, frozen pizza and processed cheese-style triangles. School sports has been dropped, because it's not good for children to be competitive. They can no longer walk to school because the streets are heaving with murderous paedophiles, so they are all driven in huge, polluting 4x4s. The whole country is completely fucked.
Or is it? Wait, who's this? Why, it's Chirpy Cheeky Pretend Cockney Chef Man and he's come to save us all. God Bless yer Guvnor, and yer good lady wife! He's picked up Dick van Dyke's magic pretend cockney umbrella of justice from where he left it all those years ago and he's here to save us, seeking only the humble comfort of money and publicity as his reward. What's that you say Jamie? I can't quite make it out, your tongue seems to have swollen up to fill your entire mouth, making it a little difficult to understand just what the fucking hell you're going on about. Things are made even more difficult by your attempt to put on a cockney accent, which just makes you spit a lot plus half the words you say seem to be ones that you've made up.
Hurrah for Saint Jamie, who must surely now be in line for a Knighthood, because he can now add getting an extra 13p for school dinners to the list of other amazing miracles he has already performed. Such miracles include showing Britain how to add Olive Oil by clumsily shaking it from a bottle held at least three feet above the salad, bullying a group of educationally sub-normal retards into working in his restaurant kitchen, making adverts in which he cooks some lamb for his ungrateful and wanky pretend mates and the inappropriate and irritating over-use of the phrase "Pukka".
I must say, I can't abide these rude young pipsqueaks who seem to be taking over all the cookery related programmes on television. There's the foul mouthed Ramsey, the yobbish Anthony Bourdain, the truly embarrassing Ainsley Harriot and this ill mannered yobbo. Why can't we have more of the divine Nigella, an impeccably mannered, fine figure of a woman.
These new loutish chefs also run their restaurants in a similary rude manner. I remember when all good chefs would be dressed in a smart blazer and slacks, and sport a nice cravat. They would come to see one personally at one's table in their restaurant and would treat you with respect: "Yes, Sir Michael", "No, Sir Michael", "Thank You very much, Sir Michael", whenever one had a complaint. They'd have been more than happy to oblige if one wanted to order something that was not on the menu. They certainly wouldn't have used the f-word in front of their customers or as happenned to me on several occasions, issued threats. Threats that allude to alarmingly violent and unusual use of kitchen equipment, which manage to be both anatomically impossible and spectacularly unhygenic.
School dinners when I was at school were shit, so I dread to think what they're like now. We had liver with thick tubes like macaroni in it, that special bacon that's just streaks of elastic band-like fat, with big bits of bones in between. Pastry made of compressed card, pasta shells made out of special weird white stuff that's not actually pasta. Curry the colour of gooseshit, with scary bits of gristle and handfuls of rhododendron leaves. There was never any chips or burgers, and it was a balanced diet. Balanced because nobody ever ate any of it, whatever it was. It was just a sort of holding service for pigswill as far as I can remember. Even the boiled eggs had bones in them. And gristle. Pilchards, served with unripe tomatoes and beetroot. Great. When it went over to the junk food canteen service, everybody welcomed it and we all had chips every single day.
Shut up Oliver, you ponce.
Gosh, what an absolute dish! I met him once at a launch party for one of his early books (Cousin Celia's in publishing), and I made sure that I got a good old grab-handful of his arse when he was off his guard! I'll have to admit that I'd had a few champagne cocktails, and I gave it a good old squeeze, hard enough to cause a yelp of surprise from Jamie, who dropped his drink and hard enough to break two of my nails. Well, one thing led to another and before I knew where I was, I was swept off my feet. Alas not by Jamie, but by two security guards. I don't remember much about what happened next because I was a teensy bit tipsy, but it seems that a glass was thrown, his then girlfriend suffered minor cuts and I ended up spending a night in the cells. I have to say I felt sorry for the poor young policeman whose tender and surprised face took the full force of one of my Jimmy Choos after he was foolish enough to get between me and Jamie's ex-girlfriend.