Slightly Askew

Proper funny.

Tweet this post.

I got some tickets to see The Boss at the Emirates Stadium off Ebay.  A bargain, I think.  Although they haven’t arrived yet, so I shall reserve judgement.  The last time I saw the great man, he played Thunder Road first.  If Heaven exists, I imagine it sounds like those first tinkling piano chords.

I’m watching less and less television as I approach twenty-six-and-a-half.  So when I do choose to watch it, I generally avoid ITV.  Two independent sources told about some dancing dog on Britain’s Got Talent though, so I had to resort to YouTube.  I wasn’t disappointed.

Tweet this post.

Occasionally, a video makes a song better.

Tweet this post.

BBC News this morning reported that:

The number of women arrested for being drunk and disorderly has risen 50% in the last year.  The chief of police has blamed alcohol.

Really?  I mean, are you sure?  Shouldn’t we have a public inquiry to determine that this is the reason?

I’m tempted to blame Grand Theft Auto IV.

Tweet this post.

I’m a writer, so you won’t be surprised to learn that I’m often asked to write things.

And so I write something for someone, sweating over commas, conjunctions, but not exclamation marks (because they’re crap).  Then I present my work with a beaming smile, like a puppy that’s collected its first pair of slippers without pissing on them.

And then this happens:

Tweet this post.

Someone’s lost their temper:

You’re a fucking dickhead.

Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares is a stunning programme.  Not for the culinary delights.  Not even for the colourful language.  But because it never ceases to amaze me how many people get caught in a cycle of stupidity and stubbornness.  Neither is a particularly desirable character trait; put them together and you’ve got dynamite.  And great TV.

How these people end up running their own restaurants is quite staggering.  They are a different class of idiot, in an environment that doesn’t suit them.

My career has led me into (and out of) the crazy world of restaurant kitchens.  They’re quite incredible places: drenched in grease, tension, and good humour.  Somedays you’d do so little, it’d barely be worth turning up for work.  We’d do the ’salad olympics’, with tomatoes and obstacle courses made from crockery and chopping boards, or just bodypop on flattened chip boxes.  There’d always be one day that made up for all those easy days, though; you’d work ten hours without looking at a clock.  You would, in the words of Ramsay, be fucked.

Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares takes me back to those days - without the long hours and shit pay.  I’ve got respect for Ramsay.  He’s worked for what he’s got - bloody hard too.  And he’s mastered his craft; perfected his skill.  Sure, he’s got a filthy mouth, but you need one - it’s the only way you can get your point across in some kitchens.

Don’t knock him until you’ve tried it.

Tweet this post.