A Curse by Jessica Wortley
A curse on those living gourmet lives, with perfect kitchens and perfect knives,
and pretentious food served up on slate, cos they’re too damn cool to eat from plates.
A curse on the kitchen nouveau-riche, who think that class is a well-made quiche,
may their aspirations be in vain, may their cooking bring them only pain…
May their gravy be all lumpy, may their custard be all bumpy,
may their perfect hollandaise decide to split.
May their pies have soggy bottoms, may their raspberries be rotten,
may their maple syrup pancakes fail to flip.
May there be Stinking Bishop’s cheese in their Banoffee Pie ice-cream,
may their sycophantic soufflés just not rise.
May the slicer take their finger, may the smell of burning linger,
may their spotted dick be full of big black flies.
May their jus be less than juicy, may their coulis be uncool and
may they burn the bacon when they’re making brunch.
May their micro-greens be macro, may there noodles taste like nachos,
may their piquant, pan-fried pork lack any punch.
And TV chefs must stand accused of interfering with our food,
Hairy Bikers, John Torode and all the rest.
Worrell-Thompson, Jamie, Ramsay, even Whittingstall’s gone rancid,
and its them I really blame for all this mess.
There’s wine in every god-damn meal, and olive oil, and citrus peel.
There’s no end to what they tell us we should eat.
Mix in some spicy chilli flakes, add crumbs of smiles that must be fake,
then garnish with some bowlfuls of conceit.
Old Mary berry sold her soul, for a designer arctic roll,
and so women everywhere began to scream.
Bloody cup-cakes now bring status, so we’ve all turned baking sadists,
and Paul Hollywood’s the cook that got the cream.
TV chefs may make a living, out of chopping, stirring, sieving,
but the dishes – we will never, ever make.
They can take their slow-roast scheming, and their gastronomic dreaming,
and shove it in their gobs until it bakes.
Jessica Wortley