Tuesday, 31 March 2009
Come Dine With Me!
Has anyone seen Come Dine With Me? If not – and in a nutshell – the format runs thus: you have four people who can only be described as… well… boring fuckwits, I suppose. These are the people who Big Brother turned down on the grounds that… well… they’re boring fuckwits. The idea is that they all take turns to host a dinner party and afterwards, the three guests rate the night out of ten, using extremely inexpensive looking cards. (Think: slightly sozzled guest in a taxi being driven haphazardly by a pissed Romanian with pathological hatred for boring fuckwits. Pissed guest rebounds off either door whilst trying to give a quick sound-bite to summarise their night: ‘The food was overcooked! Soggy veg and rock hard chicken that was as dry as a Nun’s unmentionables! The wine was chewy! There was no toilet roll and the dog tried it on with my leg as I fingered my sweaty cheese and stale biscuits. I’ll give the night a… (at this point said guest raises cheapo card aloft)… RESPECTABLE SIX’) At the end of the week, the guest that scores highest wins the life changing prize of £1000. Altogether now: oooooooooooooh. It’s hardly Who Wants To Be A Millionaire (a show that I still claim should be re-titled Who Wants To Win £32,000)…
Without wanting to sound like my moderately insane father, it’s just a chance for a collection of… well… boring, stale old fuckwits to tell the world that:
a) They can devise a recipe that sounds nothing short of immoral (last night a woman who was desperate to get her big, fat tits out thought that it was acceptable to serve people prune and salmon roulade. Now, I don’t profess to know what a roulade is, as am common, but I get the impression that it probably tastes of feet.
b) They aren’t anywhere near as funny or clever as they think they are – the jokes on last night’s show were fist-eatingly unfunny and made me want to headbutt myself.
c) They have terrible taste in wallpaper, clothes, hair and pet names. You can’t call a dog Wayne. Nothing should be called Wayne, come to think of it, but least of all, a dog.
I love to hate this programme – it’s a glorious car crash of a television show - although Mr Blokey isn’t as keen. ‘I’m bored, please can we turn it over,’ he can oft be heard crying in manner of a record that is broken. ‘But I like it!’ I exclaim defensively. ‘You can’t even cook,’ he spits in manner of an evil genius or the bespectacled one out of Scoobie Doo who has just fathomed out who the baddie is. ‘I CAN!’ I counter-claim, mock-crestfallen. I know he’s right, but pride ensures that I fight on to the bitter end ‘I’d win this easily,’ I say, trying to convince myself. ‘I would! Don’t look at me like that!’ I shoot, defensively. ‘Go on then, he retorted. What would be on your menu?’ So, ladies and gents, I present you with the following gastronomic, undoubtedly prize winning schmorgasboard that you can expect to feast on at Chez Red Pants.
Gaelic Mushrooms. Sounds exotic, no? It’s more simple than it sounds, so there’s no need to be so awestruck, It’s erm, mushrooms (raw), eaten to the sounds of The Corrs. Or Lulu. Take your pick. Failing this, I could do my old favourite, Marmite Surprise, but I don’t think that would secure me the grand at the end. Marmite’s a risk, you see. Love it or hate it, etc. Or I could serve up a Milky Way with salad garnish. The chocolate bar won’t fill you up and the garnish will add to the 5-a-day razzamatazz that the health conscious swear by.
Zombie Turkey. I’m not quite sure what this is. I’m just trying to be creative with titles. It’s erm... green turkey splattered with blood (or ketchup if you haven’t got any blood to hand and don’t fancy slashing your wrists) and finished off with sunken eyeballs, prized from the nearest domestic pet. Sounds gorge, dunnit? Best served at midnight, Halloween or to people you don’t like, which would probably be all of them at the table. Might season the dish with some LSD – that way I’d probably get me ratings of about 24 out of 10 and comments about how they loved the moonbeam. Which I didn’t serve.
A stick of Twix drizzled with warmed up black cherry yoghurt and sprinkled with soil and diced onion so I can say it’s organic.
I would also award all of my rivals a generous 0 out of 10 on the grounds that I’d rather lick my own arse than eat the swill they served up. Not that it’s necessarily true, but why award people high marks when they’re competing against you? Doesn't make sense, does it?
That grand is in the bag, baby!