Fit for a Queen

#1
As is my wont, ahem posh prose, I was watching the Saturday morning cooking slot on the Beeb this morning. They are in the throes of chosing a chef to cook the Great British Meal for Her Maj, to celebrate her 80th birthday. This morning it was the turn of two welsh chefs to battle it out. After mentally filing the female welshie under "Women you shouldn't fancy but...", I sat to chuckle as the male chef was wracked by the dilemma of whether to cook the lamb or shag it.

Jenny "Bustless" Bond meanwhile was interrogating three oxygen thieves on their view of the splendid courses being put before them. She uttered the expression "Which meal would the Queen prefer, Menu A or Menu B..." and all of a sudden I was in stitches, much to the Fenian bride's surprise!

I mean imagine it, there she is, Queen Elizabeth the Second, by the grace of god Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, sat in state at the Mansion House. Suddenly - clad in a norgie shirt, scuffed DMS and combat trousers so baggy they would be a shoe-in for the Olympic sailing team - enters a member of the QM's department carrying a cardboard box. Snorting back a snotter-ful of green oysters, L/Cpl Gobshite, for it is he, proffers said box to HM "There you go mate, 14 days compo, sorry but it's all Menu A..."

Ah well, back to the Telegraph crossword, sorry to have interrupted your Saturday...I'll get my chef's whites.
 
#4
The judges on these programmes make me laugh. Some ponce in a green jacket who owns a few restaurants, vastly overcharging the populace for a pile of shyte in aspic. A well known chef who extols the virtues of good old fashioned home cooking, who eats in the vastly overpriced restaurants of judge A and talks shyte, and a man who makes his living visiting these establishments, and pulls them apart in an evening rag. Restarant Critic? I can do that. £150 for a bowl of Campbells Soup strained through the gusset of a Tibetan goat herder, followed by half a cockle surrounded in raspberry jelly, then a five foot tower of deep fried cow pats, in a shallot and basil sauce, and to round off a cheescake encased in a totally inedible sugar glass coffin. Then turn round and call it SHYTE? I can do that! FFS!
 

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