Whilst clearing out the fridge the other day I came across what I thought was a shrivelled mushroom. ‘Hang on,’ said my girlfriend ‘let me take a closer look at that, I’m sure I recognise it from somewhere. It’s not…’
‘It is,’ I replied excitedly ‘it’s potty mouthed, walnut-faced superchef, Gordon Ramsay!’
‘’kin-ell,’ he said. ‘Call yourself a food blogger? F***ing disgrace. Two weeks I’ve been waiting here. Not even offered a menu. F***ing joke. At least get me a glass of water, I look like a f***ing prune.’
‘F***ing unbelievable. This guy. Doesn’t know what the f*** he’s doing. Supposed to be a professional writer, yes? Well then f***ing write something! Don’t leave me sitting here like a f***ing idiot. What you take me for? Some sort of f***ing w**ker?’
‘What’s all this Just Cook It b*llocks? You’ve got so much going on here that it’s all f***ing sh*t. Front of house are desperate for some f***ing leadership. Two chefs in the kitchen don’t know what the f**k they’re doing and a manager that smokes more than a f***ing smoking f***ing chimney. Always outside. F***ing disgrace.’
‘Grow some f***ing b*llocks, yes? You’re the owner, yes? Then f***ing tell them what to do! I’m wasted here. I don’t think even I can f***ing save this f***ing place.’
After much begging he promised to stay until the blog was fulfilling its potential. So now he watches from a vantage point, surveying the kitchen from high upon the windowsill.
The best f***ing motivation I’ve ever had.
For more from me (and Chef Ramsay) follow me on Twitter.
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