“The Guitar Spatula needs no tuning, but will flip your pancakes without missing a beat.
Perfect for when you’re putting on a rockin’ performance in the kitchen, it’ll also be good to have on hand in the event of an air guitar performance…while you’re waiting for the pan to heat up, of course. $12″
Will Self – Egg Flippers
Searching the internet for “Egg Flippers” brought us to the rather unremarkable guitar shaped spatula shown above. We have a word for this kind of rubbish in the U.K. – naff. If you ever feel the need to use a guitar shaped spatula then very quickly use one of your hands to cut off the other because you should not be going anywhere near a guitar.
So what are egg flippers? “egg-flippers” is a term coined by writer Will Self to describe celebrity chefs, such as “Fucking Gordon”, in his collection of culinary pieces irreverently titled “The Unbearable Lightness of Being a Prawn Cracker”.
“The only thing we had any appetite for was the bill…”
Some people have dismissed Self as a grumpy old bastard, and that may be, but Will Self has reason, he tells it like it is – his pronunciations upon the botulism of popular culture hold true: X Factor is a “talent show for people without any talent”.
His journalism is an increasingly sharp parallel to the world of homogenised, stupefied, drip feed bullshit in which we find ourselves marinating, drizzled with near Orwellian torpor; a world that looks increasingly and collectively ‘more dumber’.
Will Self and Language
What is important about Will Self is his aptitude for language, his appetite for words, his lexicon. While Self’s novels are difficult – his writing excursive, brilliant, troublesome, visceral – his journalism is lighter fare, more palatable, easily digestible, even when dealing with the putrefaction of McShite – but by no means any less exciting and, usually hilarious.
In the current day and age language is treated with no respect at all, more often than not it is hacked down; not dissected nor vivisected, but crudely bashed with the blunt axe of convenience – it is tweeted, reduced and simmered into a simple jus de faineant.
“When the Blair government came in…all you needed to be cultured…was a small bowl of extra-virgin olive oil…”
Dog-lizard-alien, thing fishes
You can blame the internet, you can blame the chavistocracy, you can blame the red top media, and, the broadsheets for jumping on the wagon. Maybe you can just blame humankind for being lazy, as well as being stupid; and dirty.
Maybe it’s a part of the grand plan that dog-lizard-alien, thing fishes George Bush and the Rockefeller N.W.O. have in mind to dumb everyone down before shipping them off to Sirius to be eaten at the tables of green-eyed sabre toothed labradoodles. And so, back to the food – the “cuisine” – it really is the shit!
“The Unbearable Lightness of Being a Prawn Cracker”
So W.T.F? has Mr. Self got to say?
Of course Self has brought fresh thinking to the rather ridiculous world of the “food critic” in this collection. Quite reasonably Self argues that eating, nutritional value aside, is nascent coprophilia and instead of focussing upon the high end eateries of London he has decided to spend his time exploring the opposing end of the spectrum and he begins by visiting a McDonalds before moving onto the inverted Tibetan sky burial of fast (Kentucky Fried) Chicken as well as Nandos.
Self’s first steps along the atheriosclerotic path to distension bring out the best of what fast food has to offer – sipping some “flat shit”, gnawing upon cardboard and a snood-fuelled, rude-boy gun battle amongst the hydrolised corpulence of the bloated underclasses. Magnifique!
The Jewel of the Bile
If you are English then you can probably guess exactly which dish is, of course, de rigeur. 500,000 are eaten every day in Britain and 1 in every seven is C.T.M. Yes; curry – “it looks like puke and it soon will be”. More Judas than Jesus, Self attends a “Last Supper” of sorts with fat Yorkshire lasses and a supersized Nan bread. All this grotesque is strangely surpassed only by his own class based appetite for soft-Jazz Kenny G “nutrition discs” and…
“Some say the fare Greggs specialises in is ‘comfort food’. Personally I find no food more comforting than a fresh kilo of Beluga caviar, eaten in hefty dollops off taut warm human skin…”
The “most realest” meal, the Hotel Breakfast, of sharpened toast and sickly susurrating muzak receives the realist lens of Self’s treatment before he moves on to Belgo’s, Kebabs, TGI Fridays and Thai food. Unwilling to stomach the sinking Doner tragedy of the yoof purist, with “visibly fizzing bacteria” , he opts for the Anatolian mysticism of the Shish – one of the better meals in this collection of bas cuisine
Greggs “the bodysnatchers” of British fast food sends Self into a Proustian reverie before the revulsion of foreign flavoured pap , par example a sweet chilli chicken flavoured bloomer sets in.
…” a spongy cake sitting in a pool of cream that looked as if it had lost control of its own bowels.”
Antidiluvian pie and mash, blimey, is followed by the MILF moshpit of superior espresso in Caffe Nero, and “Paul” – allegedly an english excuse for a “French” bakery, Airline food, and the conveyor belt Yo Sushi!
Yo Blair! Yo Qa’eda!
Self also manages to treat himself to the indulgence of a Birds Eye Traditional Chicken Dinner and the repellant Repo Man branding of EAT. He finishes with the Terminus Du Nord in Paris.
Jus de Gordon
If only there was more – perhaps a cannibalistic hangi – Tete de Michael Winner a la vapeur, or Jus de Gordon Ramsey liberally sprinkled with crushed mots-de-fuck and spiced Levre de Nigella. Bon bouffe!
This selection of Self’s adventures through the various troughs of the British high street is as hard to put down as much as it is to keep down. Hilarious, brilliant, accurate, “proper good” or even “pucker” like one of Jamie’s recipes, or puckered like a cat’s arse – it’s up to you, but you will laugh.