Ready, steady, look over there! A sea of red and green!
What a brilliantly decorated Christmas tree that is. I’ve always thought that having just one colour of bauble – red – was aesthetically the right way to go.
But that’s enough about Christmas. Today we’re here to review Ainsley Harriot; his existence, his achievements, his… face.
Maybe just his face.
What is it about Ainsley Harriot’s face that makes him so… magnetising?
It’s as if God – whom I conveniently decide exists only when it fits whatever silly narrative I’m trying to pedal – just really wanted people to buy large brown pepper grinders. I mean, fuck, I just ordered one on eBay, just now. Click here to be a schmuck like me (I’d go for the 10 incher, *winky face*).
Ever been at a house party, having taken a substantial dose of MDMA, and discovered an Ainsley Harriot cookbook belonging to the host’s family tossed nonchalantly on the kitchen side – as if it somehow doesn’t matter? As if it’s just another perfunctory, instructive, iteration of culinary literature? As if some mashed up party-goer discovering it wouldn’t be the greatest thing in the world – the pinnacle of serendipity.
Nobody in their right mind wants to see Fanny Craddock or Delia Smith peering soullessly up at them whilst they attempt to chew off their own jaw in a state of uncontrollable ecstasy. It’s needless to say Jamie Oliver is non sequitur to a night on the beanos. Nigella Lawson is closer to the mark; but she’s more like expensive cocaine, expensive red wine and inexpensive softcore pornography. Aisnley on the other hand, is like happy hardcore distilled into homosapien form. He exudes radical contentment; a placating belief that everything is going to turn out absolutely fine, so long as he continues to smile that smile and grind that pepper grinder.
I’d even let Mr. Harriot grind black pepper into my morning coffee if that’s what I have to do to engrain some of his spirit into mine. I’d pay for his cab, stick a fifty pound note in his breast pocket and send him off to a posh spa-day with his mates just to sweeten the deal. I’d say, “please Ainsley, come and grind your delicious black pepper in to my Nescafé intenso instant coffee and smile at me and look into my eyes like you love me”
… “drizzle expensive olive oil onto my dry, dandruff ridden scalp – delay my pattern baldness by an unknowable amount of time. Or at least stop me from being so – goddamn – itchy. I love you, Ainsley, ditch your mates and go on a posh spa day with me. Go to Portugal with me. Together, we’ll cook meals from seemingly random assortments of ingredients at extremely short notice, and then seek validation from a live TV audience.”
Yes, that’s exactly what I’d say to him.
End of review
I hope you’ve enjoyed this balanced, nuanced and entirely sense-making review of Ainsley Harriot. Long live the king.