Having a pop at TV chefs. And Michael Portillo.

 TV chefs have the best jobs on television. Except Michael Portillo, a man who has somehow contrived to go on holiday for a job for the last twenty years. Who wants this? Who is interested in a right wing former politician, whose personality is signalled only by his colourful trousers, looking out the window of a steam train or enjoying a cream tea? How has he got this license to dick around, dressed as a deckchair during Pride month, and getting paid for doing it? Can I do this? Is there any market for a middle aged man with a white quiff and too tight jeans peering at Lulworth Cove through rain smeared binoculars. I guarantee I'd say more interesting things than Michael, who sounds like a Labrador gargling piss.  

But TV chefs. Their job is to cook something and then eat it, oohing and aahing, and telling everyone how delicious it is. Mmm, they sob, orgasmically, eyes closed, cheeks glazed, "That is so good. That is...ah! Incredible.

Self praise is no praise was my mother's watchword - which may explain a lot - but every episode is three adverts for how bloody brilliant they are at doing their day job. And they're not shy about telling you. I'm so great at cooking, they trill. I'm really ace at this. That's why I'm on the telly and you're not. I'm so fucking brilliant. 

Imagine if at the end of doing one of his tree-lined, mountain landscapes, Bob Ross ripped off his shirt and started kissing his biceps. "Look at that fucking cabin! Look at it! Fuck, yeah! No one paints a tree like me, nobody. Painted it with a palette knife, two strokes: bosh, bosh, done! Have it! Yeah! I'm the best. The GOAT!"

What if Jack Hargreaves from "Out of Town" - it's a topical reference - started showboating about his fishing lures and his collection of adzes. "Who's got the most melancholy, oddly Spanish theme tune? Me! I'm the Daddy! And that's why I live in a shed." 

Well, it wouldn't happen. 

Why do you think chefs wear those puffy tall hats? Because they're proper big heads.