HOW TO KILL AND EAT A TV COOK.
They're everywhere, useless fucking bastards, cooks, in the bookshops and all over the telly. Used to be cops, doctors, lawyers, cowboys and Panorama, now it's fucking cooks, although they call themselves chefs, even if, not counting souffle and saute, none of them can speak a word of French, apart from the French fuckers. Why don't those fucking Roux brother bastards stay in France, if they're so good at la belle cuisine. Frog wankers. Probably wouldn't get a job washing the pots in a French transport cafe but pop over here on Eurostar and people're falling all over themselves to pay hundreds of pounds for their fucking rubbish, Ees zee apple pie, 'ow my Mama used to make eet, Ah, I can steel smell zee apples and zee cinnamon, eet ees tres deliceueueueueuese, zat weel be twenty five pounds, s'il vous plait, you Anglaise pig, Non, ees not for zee 'ole pie, ees for zis tiny leedle portion. Time to kill the gobby fag bastards, and eat them. Frog, English, Spic, Wop, Dago or Chink, take your pick. What sort of a job is it, for a bloke, fucking about with egg whites? Country's hurtling down the toilet and you can't turn on the telly without some fucking mouthy cook with an Equity card, larging it, with fucking fresh chilies, is it chilies or chilis, I don't know, not the sort of thing a decent Britonshould know. That fucking Ainsley Harriot, what a cunt.
All a bloke needs know is how to do a traditional barbecue with chicken and burgers and sausages, maybe a few nicely browned onions and some proper white bread and tomato ketchup, the rest of it is for women. And poofs. Like Gordon Ramsay. Balsamic vinegar, where'd that come from, what's wrong with decent malt vinegar, you can't put that Balsamic shit on your chips.
You won't catch one of them in a proper kitchen, they all hang around the TeeVee studios. Just go into one that smells of burnt fish skin, garlic and lemon juice and you'll find that infuriating, campaigning bastard and Mockney git, boy-man, Jamie Oliver,
Luvvly-Jubblying over some revolting burnt offering, wiping his fingers on the arse of his filthy jeans and saying, Oh My Lord and That Is Gorgeous and This Is What I Feed My Kids. You just walk up to him saying 'Allo Jamie, my son, jus' come to shake you by the brass band, grab him by the Barnet Fair, pull his head hard down on the chopping board, breaking his Marie Rose if you can, and using a big triangular cooks knife, chop his head off and throw it in the bin. This might take three or four attempts, because he's closer to ape than man, but just keep hacking away, it'll come off in the end. It'll probably keep chuntering on about flavours and herbs and Oh My Lording for a good five minutes but pay it no mind, pepper just loves strawberries, that's the sort of shit he talks and ginger just loves Sea Bass. Stupid fucking bastard. What you do then is you pull his clothes off and discard them, make a neat incision in his stomach and pull all the guts and nasty bits out, you can wear rubber gloves if you want, but I don't bovver, just wiping me hands on me jeans when I'm done. Wash me 'ands?| Nah, you can 'ave too much elfansafety, innit. And then you just chop 'im all up into bits, rub 'im all over wiv garlic and lemon zest, best mates, they are, Jamie an' lemon juice and season 'im wiv a bit a salt and a bit a pepper and frow it in a big pot wiv some good olive oil from Sainsburys and some coriander, or you can use parsley or mint or dill, or any a them herbs, or even some cabbage'll do, if you got any lawn clippings, just bung 'em in, to be dead honest wiv you I don't fink it matters, they all taste the same to me. If you ain't got no 'erbs or no vegetables then a good handful of weeds from the garden is just as good. Boil the bastard up for an hour or two, correct the seasoning, stir in a good dollop of creme fraische, a handful of chilies and serve wiv some creamed potatoes wiv butter on 'em. Geezer and Mash au buerre, as we call it in the trade. It's cheap, common, plentiful and nourishing, only not very. And it makes you retch. Just like Jamie.
For a special treat and to kill three cooks with one stone, so to speak, try this imaginative three cooks in one Sunday Roast, or, hang the Sunday Roast, keep it for a mediaeval feast, like they do on River Cottage, with all the neighbours dressed up - by Channel Four - as churls and serfs and minstrels, drinking mead and wassailing. Just tie the Jamie bastard up in a nice parcel wiv some stuffing and set aside. Then, catch Hugh Fearnly-Wanker - if you just stand there with a camera, he'll march up to you and start trying to make you feel guilty or stupid or both, for not being a pretend farmer and pretend restaurateur, like he isn't, at least not without a C4 production crew of scores - seedsmen, food technicians, gardeners, labourers, drivers, all perpetuating this myth that clever. resourceful, industrious and ethical Hugh does all this, just him and his ghastly family and his pretend neighbours, the horrible fucking bastard.
and tie him by his lank, greasy hair, the dirty fucking bastard, to a centrifuge, spin at 5,000 rpm for three hours, until he's dead. If you want to hit him with a big stick as he spins around, that's all very well and will help tenderise the meat. When he's dead, chop off his arms and legs and head and throw in the stockpot, this makes a really good mediaeval stock, if you add enough OXO cubes and monosodium glutomate, put all his guts and organs in the bin for the dogs, and leave him to marinade in a mixrure of fennel and beetroot and freshly picked privet leaves and store in a fridge until required.
Next, catch Anthony Wobble-Thompson, he'll be outside, having a crafty fag, because the anti-smoking killjoys don't fool him, grab him by his nasty wee nonce's beard
and beat the obnoxious bastard to death, taking great care to hit him full in the face with a housebrick or other culinary implement of choice, even if he's not quite dead just remove the head limbs and guts as before anyway, the smarmy little bastard deserves to suffer and it will improve the flavour. Spatchcock the bastard and with a cleaver held sideways, batter him out flat, taking care to rub lots of garlic and chilli into the flesh, to spice him up a bit; place the pre-stuffed Jamie Oliver in the centre and securely tie the Hugh Fearnly-Wanker around him, making sure to drizzle some really good olive oil between them, along with a good handful of garlic and chllies. Repeat with AWT around the other two and replace in the 'fridge. When it's time to cook, roast in a hot oven until the juices run clear, or it's all burnt to fuck, like Jamie does.
Finally, to make the gravy, look online for Nazi Scientist Re-enactment Associations and locate Heston Blumenthal
and kill him by alternately dipping him in icy water and roasting him with a blowtorch. Use a precision-made Krupps thermometer shoved up his arse from time to time to check the temperature, it should fluctuate rapidly between freezing cold and roasting hot, it is best to gag Blumenthal during this process as the bastard just can't fucking shut up; when he's dead, hang him upside-down and drain the blood out, set aside and reserve for making ice cream a la Heston. For this you will need a helicopter, a JCB, some ice flown in from the Arctic Circle, the band of the Argyll and Southern Highlanders, a half-kilo of uranium, a chainsaw and an industrial-sized, fully-staffed laboratory craned into your back garden. You will also need 400 litres of double cream, a gallon of Napoleon Brandy, two dozen plovers eggs, a side of smoked salmon, ten pounds of pork sausages and a large bottle of HP sauce. Check the website www.hestonisamadcunt.com for the full recipe. To make the gravy, simply chop Heston up and throw him in a low oven overnight, in the morning pour off all the fat and the madness juices, boil up the remaining bits, throw in some chillies and some garlic and some ginger and some paprika and some cayenne pepper, blitz it all up and dress with leaves from the garden or if you haven't got a garden, from the nearest roundabout or motorway verge.
Just pull off some chunks of the HughanJamieanAnthonyRoast wiv your bare 'ands, making sure you get a bit of all of 'em and put it on a piece of floorboard, I like to serve it on summink rustic, and make a pile of mash wiv an 'ole in the middle and fill it wiv hestongravy and then drizzle it wiv olive oil and sprinkle wiv some gravel. Or nice bits of glass. You can finely shred some bits of the Sun or the News ov The World and just sprinkle it, artistically. Oh My Lord. GeezersanMash. Them's what you call Bold Flavours. It's really, really good an' interestin' ingredients an' contemporary an' exciting. Just you serve that up to 'em and your friends are gonna fink you're the dogsbollocks.
Next week: We make a trifle featuring bits of Delia Smith, Rick Stein and the late Fanny and Wanky Craddock.
SAFETY NOTICE: On no account try to eat Gordon Ramsay, kill him by all means but just put him, whole, in your next door neighbour's wheely bin
Screcching Gordon is unwholesomely just full of shit - veins, bones, tissue, heart, brain, all of it, just shit, bubbling away. Your correspondent worked, once, in the kitchens of a five-star two hundred bedroomed hotel and anyone acting like this cocksucker, be he chef de cuisine, sous chef, chef de partie, commis chef or kitchen porter would have got a brass-handled, copper-bottomed sauteur in his face, arsehole. Ramsay is to the catering trade what John Prescott is to the labour movement
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