Guest Blog: Gordon Ramsay
Fuck that for a game of soldiers, was what I initially said when first asked to write a 'Guest Blog'. These things are for speccy twats who spend too much time with their hands wrapped around their tiny cocks as they gaze at internet porn. And then I was told that there'd be a decent-size fee and a chance to talk about some of my exciting new projects, so here you fucking well go.
I'm constantly being challenged to think of new concepts for restaurants – 'Gordon', they ask me, usually in some jumped-up, prissy, poncy southern fucking accent – 'Gordon, could you do us a favour and advise us on our exciting new eatery'. Actually, that's the golden fucking rule when it comes to ballsing up any kind of prospective business relationship with yours truly – it's a fucking bistro, a restaurant, even a fucking carvery – but please, save me the 'eatery' bullshit, that sort of thing is for posers, pricks, and last but not least, fucking twats.
So anyway, this yank Bill Gates, big wheel in the old computer game apparently, comes to me and claims he wants to open a chain of restaurants. So I called him back to set things straight with him, ' now look here blossom bollock, you may be head fucking cheese in the world of gigabytes or whatever the fuck it is you sell, but now the gloves are off. You're in the restaurateur fucking bear pit now – it's either my way, or you can get the flying fuck out of my kitchen, comprende? Needless to say, he crawled back behind his speccy fucking glasses and I had no more problems after that.
So now you have some kind of an idea of the lame brain shitheels I have to deal with. The worst are the jellyhead fistfuckers who work in TV. I've been asked to present a programme called You Cunt, an hour-long reality show set in a busy kitchen. As the chef and presenter, I'll be expected to swear at ten specially-selected members of the Women's Institute over a 48-hour-period, who will be attempting to produce 400 gallons of home-made jam for some kind of shit-kicking bring-and-buy bollocks. The last old biddy to break down and cry will receive a prize of ten grand. We shot the pilot last week, and it's all looking good, apart from the fact that 95-year-old Winnie had a major stroke after I called her a 'dried up old fuckstick' – well she did pour loganberries into the raspberry pot, the daft old twat.
Time spent away from the limelight is fucking 'A', in my book. Not having to worry about signing fucking stupid fucking cookery books, or having to pretend I like fellow celebrities is time well spent – if you really want my opinion on showbiz folk, they're a bunch of shallow, self-obsessed narcissists – in short, I wouldn't piss up their arses if their kidneys were on fire.
But when I do manage to get away from it all, I like to relax with a glass of fucking wine, and potter about at home. Just the other day I was baking a cake with Spatula, my eldest kid. It was all going very sweetly, when all of a sudden I caught the little bastard licking the fucking spoon – and if that wasn't enough, he was scraping the mixture off the bottom of the bowl. 'For fuck's sakes !', I screamed, as far as I was concerned, that was fucking that. So I had to throw the cake away, and start again, thanks to pate brain's breach of health and safety regulations. Need I remind you that if there was one, single complaint from anyone who'd touched that cake, I would've had to close the fucker down. Imagine the field day the press would've had if I'd had to close my own kitchen down.
I just realised I never mentioned the word 'wank'. There you go – wank.
As told Matt Owen