Too Many Cooks...

Blah, blah, blah...

Darling kraken-lovers, you may have guessed by now that I have a pathological hatred of television chefs. Tossing salt at your food from a great distance and turning parsnips into jus is about as entertaining as a foaming bout of piles. So it goes without saying that when it comes to Gordon Ramsay I actually develop the urge to self harm. What a complete and utter map-faced twat.
It's not his swearing that bothers me. Fuck no. It's his attitude towards the rest of the world. How he has the flaring cheek to flounce into the kitchen of some backwater pub before screaming at the acne-cursed chef because his pie n mash isn't up to Ramsay's impossible standards. What the frig is that all about? Ramsay, love, if said pus-ridden cook was capable of knocking out some oddly-titled dish in the way that you are I dare say he'd be working at the heart of the London elite too, rather than weeping over his career in the Dog n Duck.
Worse, is when smouldering volcano Ramsay gets the hump because the people he is screaming at dare, yes dare, to answer him back. Whoa there Ramsay. Has your common sense shrivelled after too many hours over a boiling vat of fuck-knows-what? Exactly what is going on, that this guy thinks he's allowed to shriek and swear at people yet they are not allowed to do the same to him? Jesus, have you seen how indignant he looks when the bloke who knocks out chips day after day actually retorts? 
The thing is that I'd love a face-to-face with Ramsay. I'd love it more than a hastily fried egg smothered in tomato sauce. Not only am I confident that I could out-swear him (what you see on here is a mere sample of the depths to which my language can plumb) but I know for a fact that I could argue back at him until he's left weeping among a pile of his own spud peelings.
See, that's because I have no patience for the likes of Ramsay, a spluttering telly chef who thinks that if he harrangues people for long enough he'll get whatever he wants. I'm pretty sure that I could give him something he doesn't want though, and that'd be a dose of his own over-seasoned medicine. 
Come into my kitchen Ramsay, you overblown egg-cracker, and I'll show you a new use for the wooden spoon and, believe me, it won't go anywhere near your cooking.

Too Many Cooks...

Skewer this

Dear God, have you any idea how sickened and shaken I am by today's realisation that there are four - yes, four - versions of Masterchef on TV? Now, there aren't enough f-words in the world to describe how much I hate telly chefs. I really fucking hate them. Oh, and programmes about cooking. For a kraken of my girth it is astounding, I know, that I'm not glued to shows about gravy and cake.
But four Masterchefs? Masterchef, Junior Masterchef, Masterchef: The Professionals and Celebrity Masterchef? What. The. Fuck? Exactly how much pompous jus-ing, skewering and pan-frying (by the way, where the fuck else would you fry something? On an Etch-a-Sketch?) does the BBC need? If even one scrag end of my licence fee gets spent on that show - say on a jumped up fennel or ponced up ham - I hope to fuck that it chokes some producer or other.
Why, for shit's sake, does this show need four versions? So that the wheelbarrow-faced presenters can do even more moronic fucking yelling at plates of mash? Cooking doesn't get much tougher than this? No, watching you over-catered bell-ends doesn't get much tougher although the BBC is clearly willing to shove our levels of endurance to the point at which our cranial neurons shatter and we start stabbing each other with dry spaghetti.
Worse, one quick view makes you wonder whether you stumbled onto a show about the plight of limbless newborns, such is the level of intensity with which the programme is presented. It's all ferocious hyperbole and cruet-based hysteria. It's cooking, you fucking fools! Cooking! You're not resurfacing Mars or dissecting the Royals live on air. You're slapping a pollock on a plate! That's it! That's all! Get a fucking grip!
Christ, I tell you what. Blogging doesn't get much harder than this.
Twats.