Oh! you’re just showing of now, my Global knives collection


That’s over a £1000 worth of cutlery there, 15 years old, bit shagged in places, a couple of tips have broken off, but still fucking good. Best knives I’ve ever bought, sad I’m not a chef. Having said that I am shit hot in the kitchen.

Dating tip. #178 in a series of zero, watch how a man dances to get an idea of what he’s like in the sack, watch a man in a kitchen to see how he is in life. There you go, zen dating advice.

I thought rather than doing a food selfie I’d show of the kit for a change. Tonights grub is beef fajitas, I used my sushi sword to thin slice the steak. Yes, I own a Global Knives Sushi sword – I think that gives a smidge of a hint of what a pretentious cnut (even more pretentious cnut is 20th Century slang for soldier used extensively in WW1) I am and I can make sushi. Don’t ask me to prepare Fugu though.

I even have a Global Spatchcocking knife, sad but true.

Anyway, why am I writing such drivel you ask. I enjoy reading dating advice blogs, I don’t have to date anymore I’m married with children and I got to thinking about a couple of schmuks I used to work with.

They weren’t dating each other but they dated extensively from sites and they both thought they were epicureans and gourmands. Always bloody sniping about the poor unfortunate fucks who went on dates with them and how they weren’t right cos they had poor taste.

They were arseholes the pair of them, she thought she was the next Jane Asher, he thought he was Monsieur Mange-Tout (looked a bit like him too come to think of it). Now, this pair thought they were gods-gift as they were single, thought they were clever and thought they were cultured.

Oh! for the life of me, were they tedious and sneery. They liked to gang up on me because, the tattoos, the accent (I down play the RP one and use the Eastend one I’ve picked up over the years) and for some reason decided I knew fuck all about cooking or food because I would enjoy a McDonalds at my desk.

Over time I enjoyed fucking with both of them, just for the sheer sadistic pleasure in it. Once they were looking at a website of bizarre foods and one of the entries was a Romain Cauliflower.


There’s nothing special about it, just an odd shape and you can get it at Borough Market which is a ten minute walk from Fenchurch St. where we were working. To get the best from it, blanch it really quick and steam the fucker, serve it with fried duck with a dark rich sauce, fucking tasty. So of course I said all that. You should have seen the look on the dipshits faces, the bloke even went as far as to say “How do you know that?” Eh! I can’t look up shit in a cook book, or go to a market.

So my advice to people going on a date with an epicurean, don’t say a bloody word about food, let the twat choose (because they know best – y’know, fucking control freak) and they choose, they pay (fellas don’t get stung by an epicurean bird, they choose your grub, they pay for your grub – they are just as bad a control freak as gourmand blokes). If it’s not to your taste, push the scran around the plate, make polite small talk, say anything negative about their choice and your night will become miserable. Finally, escape and change all your contact details as the sod is going to sulk longly and loudly.

There you go my dating advice for people who pick an epicurean to go on a date with.