Hell's Kitchen

I love cooking. It's not a 21st Century Man thing. I have always loved it. Cooking just sort of appeals to me and was definitely not something taught to me at an early age because my mother is to cookery what John Inman was to real fighting.
There was a time when a bloke who cooked was also supposed to be able to run up his own dresses and criticise your curtains but I think times have changed. Almost all of my male pals cook, and cook well, but only a couple of them are screaming, "Oops-where's-that-role-of-lino-which-was-under-my-arm-gone?" homosexuals!
My interest in the kitchen has resulted in a sad development. Saturday mornings used to be times for long, slow sex (occasionally with someone else) and for Tiswas and Grandstand, in the same way that Friday nights were always horror film nights and Sunday afternoons were given over to Miss Marple or some black-and-white classic. Well, they not only don't screen old horror films on Friday nights or anything decent on Sunday afternoons anymore, the genius which was Tiswas is no longer with us and I am always the sole occupant of my bed! To plug the yawning gap "they" now put on Saturday Kitchen and, because of my hobby (no, not that one, the other one), I watch it. It never cease to wind me up.
The chef-of-the-day always starts by showing you a finished dish which looks absolutely fabulous and so you reach for a pen and paper to jot down the ingredients, while trying to take in the "what to do" side of things. That's when the anger starts to build.
"Ok, eggs? Yup, got them. Flour? No sweat. Salt and black pepper? Do me a favour, obviously! Single cream? Ok, I'll have to nip out and get some.
"Sea bass? I suppose if I get up the market pretty damn quick I can lay my hands on one or two. Everything ok so far. Now, Japanese white string noodles? What!! I've never seen 'em in Asda. Oriental star nakamosa individual florettes? You're 'aving a fucking giraffe 'ere, aren't you? What the billy bollocks are they when they're at home, if they ever are? Quimquom seedling bulbs? Fuck off will you!! You're taking the piss now. Diced Venezuelan, purple-headed, anchoves? Yeah, like the fucking bloke at our corner shop stocks them, in between the shelves of Pot Noodle, baked beans and Razzle mags!"
You then have two choices. Firstly, you can decide not to even attempt looking for one or more of the suggested ingredients - which are usually all only found on the Galapagos Islands and harvested by one-legged, black dwarfs with speech impediments - and substitute a few "they'll do" ones of your own. This always ends in disaster as your selection of Spaghetti Hoops never quite matches the piquancy of taste given by the recommended Twin-Beaked-Siberian-Horse-Duck.
The second option is to give up, go back to sleep and, when you finally surface, cook the cheese on toast for dinner which you had planned in the first place!
Why can't these wankers just cook "proper food". I'm all for experimenting and trying new dishes and I remember, as a lad, when I first cooked spaghetti bolognese I felt like I was Pavarotti's granny! I'm not, however, dedicated enough to go on a four-month trek across the Himalayas to find the fucking ingredients for my dinner!
No, I'm sorry. Poncey chefs who dream up ridiculously complicated dishes can sod off to Grantham.