master chalfont

Last night was food TV heaven. I’ve not been following MasterChef despite a friend doing rather well in the ‘heats’, as they say. I did watch most of them this week however, the 3 finalists, a fat gay bloke, a fat bird and a tall neurotic undertook what was to be rather an emotional conclusion, even the presenters were filling up, it was quite extraordinary that ‘cooking food’ could illicit this reaction…

Anyway, the fat gay bloke was head and shoulders above the other two contestants and thankfully he won. His food looked utterly wonderful and judging by the reaction of the jury was the taste equivalent of a rim job by Joanna Lumley circa 1972. The fat bird (also, quite sadly, with a touch of the ginge) had this distracting habit of going blood fucking red and the slightest hint of inertia. It was so off putting in fact I’d have insisted she wore some sort of masking device, perhaps Dicknose from Slipknot would be in a position to help? Her food looked messy too, a bit like her frankly. Subsequently I couldn’t help musing on the condition of her clout, it’s okay, Freud could join that one up (I bet it resembles an Orang-utan’s armpit).

The tall neurotic was struggling to keep his emotions in check. He wasn’t doing too badly until he came up with a pudding so vile (it had black Olives and fucking Fennel in it if you please) it’s a wonder the cunt wasn’t sectioned. He knew he’d fucked up and deserved to loose, still, on hearing he’d lost wept with such force it’s a wonder he didn’t force his balls up through his eyesockets.

After MasterChef there was a highly entertaining programme on ‘food fact’ on Five. I discovered that wine is actually fattier than beer. Apparently the beer belly is a myth, beer is drunk socially, beer lowers ones resolve when it comes to pigging out and the upshot is a (not beer) gut. The wine information was of some concern though. I’m rather partial to a glass and at the same time paranoid my gut is getting bigger. Sadly such news didn’t halt my intake, it was Thursday evening I giggled to myself and poured another glass, I know, I’ll cut my hair.

It just happened. One minute I was smiling inanely at the TV screen and the next I was stood guardsman erect in the bathroom with a clump of hair floating towards the wooden floorboards. Now, I’m sure you never done this, it was a new experience for me too, but realising that you’ve just made the leap of what constitutes social acceptability to what doesn’t, is a fucking shock. I tried to balance the other side, I was making it fucking worse, I nearly vomited in horror, I was making permanent and irreversible damage to my once gorgeous locks, I should’ve never have got it cut last week I said out loud. It had looked shit from the off but at least I’d been a few weeks from it returning to some sort of normality, now I resembled at 50 year old accountant with a predilection for little girls pants.

I considered going online to find an emergency 24-hour barber, does such a thing exist? Perhaps I should just shave it off? Yes! I’ll shave my head! No. I will continue with the self-cut, I was close to tears and felt all hot and weird. After nearly half an hour of fucking heart stopping barbery some semblance of symmetry was attained. Still, I looked fucking ridiculous and was dimly aware of a breeze on my neck. The windows were sealed shut. That part of my body had never been exposed to air before, my stomach did a 180. I gawped at myself, it occurred to me I looked like that bloke from the Thompson Twins, a band I despise with a passion.

There was nothing I could do. Sitting here typing this I feel like an utter berk, just in time for the weekend. I’ve considered nipping off to the fucking hairdressers but concluded I’d be just throwing puke at shit . No, I’m going to have to ride this one out for fucks sake.

Oh, Salami has donkey in it.