Last night I had a dream where I was walking up a really steep hill lined with expensive but tasteless houses. When I got to the top there was a kind of piazza and I noticed a restaurant/café style place that looked interesting. It turns out it was owned by Beyoncé and Kanye West, which was weird because they’re not a couple, obviously, but I still wandered in and asked if I could book a table and the next second (because it’s a dream) ‘the wife’ turned up and we were sat down only to be told that, yes, this is a restaurant, but I’m afraid we don’t serve any food. And yet even that dream was able to offer a more satisfying dining experience than going to a Jamie’s Italian.
You see I’ve just about had fucking enough of Jamie Oliver. He’s like Japanese Knotweed but even more abundant wherever you don’t want it and virtually impossible to get rid of. I’d suggest a napalm flamethrower in either instance. What’s really tipped me over the edge is that he has a new book out called ‘Jamie Cooks Italy’. Obviously that would take an oven the size of Germany, but he’s not really cooking Italy he’s just showing us what a prick he is. In Italy. And for once I’m not coming at this armed with little else but anger. I’ve eaten in Jamie Oliver’s restaurants. I’ve watched some of his awful, matey, luverly jubberly programmes. I even own one of his books (a gift from someone who clearly didn’t know me as well as they thought they did). And I’ve tried cooking a few of his dishes, for some reason.
So here is a short list of just the main things that spring to mind when Jamie Oliver is right here, on my tits.
- He’s greedy. Clearly. One of the reasons his restaurant empire is slowly crumbling is because he just didn’t know when to stop, did he. The greedy Essex prick. You line them up and shove them in, that’s just business, but the trick is to offer the punters good food and a pleasant experience. Jamie’s restaurants do neither. Then there are the books. Let’s ‘do’ one at a time.
- Jamie’s restaurants. There was a time, albeit a brief one, when a Jamie’s Italian could be relied on for a mediocre eating foray. Not anymore. The menus are grubby, the food is limp, the service never just right, the tables too small, the gaps between them even smaller, the wine both overpriced and more shamefully, crap and the tap water usually warm enough to feel like it came from the wrong tap. It’s not much further up the scale from McDonalds to be honest and I hate all the little Jamie snippets on the menu; the way he does stuff a little bit differently, usually with a fucking twist or a cheeky smack. He also declines to mention that he puts spring onions in his carbonara. Why? Because he is an idiot, and in case you were wondering – they don’t go – that’s why you will never eat another carbonara anywhere with spring onions in it. And I can make a decent carbonara. Wanker.
- The books. J.O (I can’t be bothered to write out his name again and again, it feels like an unnecessary waste of my life) must be proud of the fact that he has produced so many books and even more proud of being able to look like a frequently used dildo on the front cover of every single one. Take a look at his ‘Jamie Does…..’ book (“easy twists (told you) on classic dishes inspired by my travels”). He’s sitting on a scooter that is positively heaving with fresh, pukka, sorted local ingredients. Behind him is a donkey that somehow appears to be the most intelligent animal in sight because J.O looks nothing less that an arsehole. In fact I’d go as far as to say that he looks like a cunt. His next book should be called ‘Jamie Does Prison’ or ‘Jamie Cooks Meth’. Clueless wanker.
- His kids. I don’t have a specific problem with J.O’s kids as such, although of the 5 he’s blessed the world with I expect at least 4 will be precious, cocky little twats. What I have a problem with is their names and they are roughly 50% Jamie’s fault. Anyway, his kids are called: Poppy Honey Rosie, Daisy Boo Pamela, Petal Blossom Rainbow, Buddy Bear Maurice and River Rocket Blue Dallas. Sadistic wanker.
- He’s a hypocrite and a ruthless opportunist. Do you really think J.O cares about fat school kids? Of course he doesn’t, he just uses this as a front to stuff in his next book or programme. His greatest sin of all was to spin, or more appropriately twist, himself on a sixpence from promoting healthy school meals to promoting his book – ‘Jamie’s Comfort Food’. Turncoat wanker.
- He’s a 15 minute liar. Here’s a little tip to working out how long it will take to cook a J.O recipe. First simply look at the title of the book; many of them give you a handy little hint about how long the recipes should take, such as – ‘Jamie’s 30 Minute Meals’ or ‘Jamie’s 15 Minute Meals’ or ‘Jamie’s Meals Which Can Be Prepared Faster Than Time Can Be Measured’. Next simply take that time value and add a 0 and then chuck in an extra hour just in case. If I had my way J.O would be made to prepare all his ‘no fuss’ meals FROM SCRATCH in the time given and on each occasion he failed (which would be every occasion) his children would have to eat 3 stodgy state school dinners each, a day, for a week.
- He has an MBE. But then James Corden has an OBE. Tells you all you need to know about the honours system these days.
- He has never once had a good haircut. I have so little hair left (on top) that you could easily take off my glasses and mistake my head for an ugly ostrich egg, but in my defence I will say that at least I don’t have to suffer the indignity of shuffling any hair into a series of limp, bandwagonesque balls-ups. He’s done Britpop, quiff, ‘just got out of bed’ and middle aged estate agent amongst others, but they will always die a death because they frame a face that a Bosnian refugee with birth defects would consider unfortunate. So, essentially it’s the face, that perpetually grinning Essex simpleton that makes J.O so very uniquely slapable. Poor wanker.
- Italy. This is almost my final observation/criticism for today, but catch me on a good day and I’ll happily wax some more. A lot more. If I were a man of J.O’s stature and had watched as dozens of my Italian ‘themed’ (themed because they’re so detached from the reality of Italian dining) restaurants hit the skids then the last thing I would do would be to put out a book hawking my skills in ‘twisting’ and ‘bishing’ and ‘boshing’ a classic Italian dish for the benefit of as many people with questionable taste as possible to enjoy. Sorry, ‘enjoy’. He’s a charlatan and a very rich clown and if you had any sense you should avoid any and all of Jamie Oliver’s collected output, in any genre. Wankeroni Italiano.
- Tomatoes, bosh. Mozzarella, whack. Pine nuts, flash. Coriander, sorted. Eight and a half seconds, smash. Quick blow torch, whoosh. All done and then give it a good twist. The man is a wanker.
There, that’s done the trick. For me at least. Probably a nice bloke, annoyingly.
G B Hewitt. 16.08.2018
One thought on “Dare to dream.”
J.O – so I’m hot footing it back from France to hide my books and rearrange the weekends menu. But you’re not wrong