(On the tragic death of Keith Floyd, telly chef and bon vivant, mr ishmael said.....)
Mad bastard and shaven-headed freak, pretentious arsehole and lousy cook, Mr Heston von Blumenthal said:
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.
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| Mr von Blumenthal, Michelin Man |
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.
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If only Blumenthal had listened to mr ishmael, and checked out the website hestonisamadcunt, he could have saved himself years of ADHD, neurodiverse and bipolar misery, not to mention being sectioned. All over the telly and the papers, he is busy monetising his brush with the mental health services: “There was a knock on the door, there’s a policeman, then five firemen and then a doctor with an assistant and I was like ‘What the hell is going on here?’ And then I saw the doctor pulling out this big syringe and then I woke up in hospital’......My most artistic, innovative and exciting work is because I am neurodivergent, which I describe as my superpower,” the chef remarked. (thanks to editor mr verge for finding this story)
For me, the clue was the bacon and liquid-nitrogen frozen ice-cream, made from reindeer milk - or maybe the chicken curry ice-cream - or even the fish eyeball cocktail.
Seriously creative, artistic and innovative. You can't make this shit up. Once again, mr ishmael was right.
4 comments:
Thanks, Mrs I and Mr Verge. These days, one doesn’t often laugh but that piece managed it for me. Brilliant.
Heston is a walking, talking embodiment of everything that is wrong with the us. In a proper country, he would be whipped all the way to Dover and be pushed into to the sea to swim for it.
I have eaten btw in what is commonly included in the list of top ten restaurants in the UK. And I used to eat every week in one not quite as good but a hundred yards from here and at prices for French haute cuisine that were about twice what Maccies charges now for shite. In both cases the chef grew his own vegetables in the garden. You could quietly sit over coffee and pastries in the morning - a fiver per head for as much as you wanted - and watch the waiting staff go and get the day's requirements and bring them in for prepping. I am sure that there is a clue here for Heston.
So glad you enjoyed it, mr bungalow bill! Hestonisamadcunt was living in France when his wife had him sectioned. You wouldn't get that sort of service from the British NHS. Five firemen, ffs. Not to mention the police, a doctor and a big fuck off syringe. When a friend of mine grew seriously alarmed by the deterioration of her former partner's mental health - he was serving their guests small glasses of his urine, previously produced and chilled, and she was following him around with the tray, whispering don't drink it, for god's sake - she had to persuade him into their car, drive him to the nearest A&E, where she pleaded with Reception to admit him, before running away. That was in Manchester. She didn't stop running until she got to Orkney.
Do such places still exist, mr mongoose, I wonder? On my bookshelves can be found a beautifully-produced cookbook, punted out in 2007, by Jamie Oliver, to accompany one of his many TV series: "Jamie at home". The book contains lots of pictures of Jamie, of course, purportedly gardening, growing his own produce and incorporating them into fantastical recipes. The blurb says: "I love to spend time at home in the village where I grew up, working with the boss, Mother Nature, in my garden and seeing all my beautiful veggies coming out of the ground." Vomitory pause.....
Its a competitive industry, the chefing business. I once had dinner prepared by a non famous chef - a chap who could have been my brother-in-law had mr ishmael not intervened in my life. Expecting recipe ideas and kitchen tips, instead I was regaled by an extensive rant about portion control and the impossibility of turning a profit.
Jamie Oliver has got that down pat, though - his 13 year old son now has his own TV show and has published his first cookbook "Lets Cook by Buddy Oliver". Its his own natural charism and huge cooking skill that got him the gig, of course - nowt to do with being a nepo baby.
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