on the death of the drunken waster, Mr Keith Floyd:
I fink what we should do is like stuff 'im, up the Jacksie, just go out in the garden and grab some really 'ot chilies, like the ones wot give 'im the arse cancer, chilies really love bowels, what the Poles call le posterieur flambee, just mash 'em all up in a mortar and wotsit, or just 'it 'em wiv a brick, add some really, really 'ot curry paste, Sainsburys is best, a coupla good 'andfuls of paprika and cayenne pepper and a tablespoonful of finely ground glass, all mixed up wiv a good pincha salt and wheelbarrow fulla garlic and shove it up the old boy's bottle and glass, innit, send 'im off a treat that will, 'smore or less what 'e done to 'imself, daft fucker, coulda 'ad a right proper career. Like me. Oh yeah, and mustn't forget, summink else, you get a tanker full of nasty red plonk, most expensive is best and you just keep pumping it into the old boy, even after it comes running out, you keep on pumping that shit in there so's it pickles all the bits wot ain't supposed to be pickled. Bon vivant, they call it. Gluttony wiv a plummy voice.
Mad bastard and shaven-headed freak, pretentious arsehole and lousy cook, Mr Heston von Blumenthal said:
Mr von Blumenthal, Michelin Man
I want to take him into my laboratory (his kitchen, the cunt) and preserve him in cognac laced with a julienne of wrens tongues, in a casket of bitterest Belgian chocolate garnished with gold leaf and crushed diamonds and stored in my specially constructed pantry, kept at a perfectly controlled optimum temperature by Tahitian virgins fanning the air across trays of Moondust imported from NASA and keep him until cryogenics have caught up with me and at some point in the future, when he has been revived, I want to decant the late Maestro. And eat him.