So I have an email, asking if I’d like to audition for a new cooking programme on Channel 4. Good grief. I’m the last person who should ever be on telly doing anything. In fact it’s a wonder I’m allowed outside on my own, unsupervised. But cooking, competitively, against professional chefs? Crumbs. I get anxious just writing a shopping list.
Nope. I will not be going on the gogglebox. No way. Probably… but wouldn’t it be a hoot?
In preparation, I embark upon a self-induced technical challenge. The Greek God encourages matters by ‘interviewing’ me, Noel Fielding style, as I whisk and whirl around the kitchen. Well, I say that; he mainly pretends to wear a terrible shirt and gets in my way a lot.
I’m not sure daytime TV is ready for me, effing and blinding, falling over as I search for the wooden spoon and wearing blue plasters all over my hands and face. In fact, I had a terrible premonition when I wrote this blog post yonks ago. But I’m wondering… cooking, whilst holding a conversation without swearing, and remembering to hold my stomach in… I could do that, couldn’t I? And let’s face it, if you’re going to have a complete nervous breakdown, why not do it on national telly, right..? Hmmm…
Imagine the joy it would bring to my friends and family, ever-supportive:
‘She’s always been a liability but it turns out she can’t cook either, the poor old girl.’
(You could do it though. Go on. You can borrow my hold-it-in knickers? This is the link)