CHOCOLATE FRYING PAN

Mincing, fucking elitist, snobby bastards.

Quite why such a trivial event has caused me such apoplexy, fury and venom is beyond my meagre powers of explanation. But if have managed to convey the extent of my in-a-bateness by means of my opening line, then I have succeeded in my objective and can safely move on without the possibility of your in any way lagging behind.

I think it was the Independent online I was perusing the back issues of when I came across some work by a rising food writer and, believe me, had I been there when he wrote the piece, he would have risen a good foot and a half further.

I mean, just what is the fucking point of an article purporting to present some funky breakfast dishes the recipes for which, to stretch the point somewhat, absolutely depend upon the procurement of six and a half grammes of the finest Peruvian smoked llama cheese or somesuch?

Stroll on.

This twat, and I do use the term advisedly, despite my somewhat overcooked blood, was extolling the virtues of kedgeree and not once, nor even twice but thrice in the same short paragraph managed to set my pulse to racing, my ire to rising and engender within my normally placid breast a desire to do such physical harm that I had not felt since I devoutly wished to severely, and probably anally, incapacitate Norman bloody Tebbit with a bicycle pump.

I don't think I really needed him to parade his knowledge of culinary trivia so blatantly as to inform us that the dish derives its name from the Indian khichri and nor did I welcome with a loud hussah the news that any kedgeree worth actually cooking has as its prime requirement only the finest and the freshest smoked haddock. These would obviously, in and of themselves, have led any right thinking individual to reach for the mashie-niblick with a view to inflicting some form of cranial rehabilitation therapy but what really got my goat was his insistence that we, on no account whatsoever, should even contemplate for the merest slice of a nanosecond using that godawful, yellow dyed smoked haddock available in most supermarket emporia near you as I type.

This is babble. Who the fuck does he think he is? Or, much more to the point, who does he think we are? Does he really think his readers are the type to now examine the contents of their fridges and ditch any yellow haddock the possession of which, beyond calling napkins serviettes and holding one's knife as one would a pencil, so obviously and beyond all doubt delineates one as of the lumpen proletariat? Those who know no better? 'Kinell.

Mind you, this is from the same newspaper which published an article which appended the adjective pikey to the compound soft play centre, producing within me a similar urge to explore soft flesh with various sharp and abrasive objects and, one would assume, innuring me against further occurences. Wrong.

I will never learn.