When Gordon Ramsay ‘cum’ to dinner…

A while ago I used to work in a local restaurant that was struggling to make ends meet. I would wash dishes, chop carrots and occasionally knock up the odd starter or sweet etc when the poor chef was rushed off his rancid, overworked feet.

I was enthusiastic and ambitious, but lacking the ‘special something’ that separates the great culinary masters from...well…people like me. At the time I could knock up a mean tapioca pudding but little else...all I had was a dream...

Nonetheless, I was happy, and was bumbling through my daily duties one (particularly busy) day when my hero, the legendary Gordon Ramsay cockily strutted through the doors!

He was researching the place as a potential venue for his ‘Kitchen Nightmares’ programme and had popped by to check out our food and service etc before deciding whether or not to work his particular magic on the flagging business.

Well, as a budding cuisine-concocting connoisseur, meeting the prestigious GR in the flesh was like a dream come true for me, and I begged the head chef to let me cook the great man something…anything. I felt that it would be my ultimate ‘claim to fame’, and my life would therefore become complete.

With a wry smile the chef replied: “Alright then, you can do the starter. But don’t knack it up, or I’ll cut your bollocks off, you little shag-stain”.

You can imagine the orgasmic glee shuddering through my nadsack as I was given charge of banging together a prawn cocktail for the greatest and most famous chef in the world.

However, that unbridled joy soon turned to despair as I went out into the restaurant and, with arm trembling, reached out to shake his hand. “Mr Ramsay” I stammered, “I just want to say how privileged I am to meet you, and I will try my very best to make you a fine starter course of which I hope you will be proud”

“FUCKING FUCK YOU!” spat the scarred-chinned, Scottish-by-birth ball breaker. “I don’t give a fuck, and I don’t want to waste my fucking valuable time talking to a fucking little wanker like you, so FUCK RIGHT OFF!” He pushed away my outstretched hand and turned his head away in disgust.

So with my dreams dashed and my eyes filling up with tears, I ran back to the kitchen to prepare the ingredients for him. In my defence, it was only when I heard “...and hurry up with my fucking prawn cocktail, you fucking little cumsponge” yelled from the restaurant that something inside my head ‘snapped’.

‘Wanker’ eh?...‘Cumsponge’ is it?...’I’ll show him’, I mumbled to myself as I sneakily sloped off with his dish full of prawns into the pantry cupboard. I made sure I couldn't be interrupted before I unzipped my ridiculously patterned chef’s trollies and whopped my charlie out of my dunghampers.

Then, with my tongue poking out with concentration, I bashed my bulging bishop at a frantic pace, and it wasn’t long before oodles of salty electric rope splurged from my putrid purple pulsating prit-stick all over the prawns of the foul-mouthed arse-biscuit. I then zipped up, and mixed the still-warm junior-juice with a globule of salad cream, Worcester sauce and ketchup before taking it out and banging the dish down on his table.

“Enjoy” I sneered at him before striding back to the kitchen and emptying my locker - preparing for the inevitable sacking I would receive once my crime was discovered.

A few minutes later, I was going round the staff saying my goodbyes, when suddenly the kitchen double doors were kicked open – and there stood Ramsay.

He had a face like a smacked arse – then I realised he always looked like that.

I was expecting it to 'kick off' big style – but as he approached me he smiled broadly, shook my hand and complimented me! – He said that although the rest of the meal was an ‘utter sack of crap’, my starter was ‘divinely delicious!’ He added that it showed I had a ’fucking remarkable’ talent and a ‘very special fucking sauce’ (little did he know how 'spot on' he was). He advised the restaurant owner to build the entire business around my ‘gift’.

I was a success!

The restaurant owner was overjoyed. He immediately hoofed the old head chef out on his arse and offered me the top job…insisting that I treat every meal with the exact same level of ‘hard commitment’ that I had given to Gordon.

I realised I was only an average chef at best…so I knew that there was only one secret ingredient that made my cooking ‘special’ compared to everyone else’s.

Thusly, my career as a professional wanker was born.

I chucked my rocket-powered rice pudding with gusto over every single dish I prepared – eccentrically explaining away any stonk-on-related delays with "You can’t stifle my art with your gluttonous wanton impatience...philistines!"

Where I managed to summon up the superhuman shaft-shuffling energy time after time I’ll never know, but soon I understood that I would need additional ‘spermalicious' supplies…and every night, when the doors were locked after closing time, I got busy...

Through careful experimentation I discovered that I could control the level of potency, strength, and flavour of the ‘seminal semolina’ I produced. I mastered this simply by thinking about different things, and adopting different rhythmic grooves and speeds whilst pitilessly pummelling my pork sword.

For example, over my ‘Cream of button mushroom soup’ I would gently stroke my coughing custard cannon whilst fantasising about Barbara Cartland in a barbed wire thong; however if I wanted a full-on, extreme curry spice mixture I would tug hard and frantically whilst conjuring up images of Eva Longoria wearing nothing but instant whip and a gold ankle chain.

Every dish was gobbled down by the gorging, grateful customers at a veritable rate of knots. Soon my culinary masterpieces were the talk of the town and we were doing a roaring trade – but I was becoming increasingly aware of a fast approaching problem…

My ‘gunge tanks’ were running seriously low on jitler and my heavily bruised hog’s eye just couldn’t produce enough man-fat to cope with demand.

Every waking moment, my mind was occupied on obtaining as much splooge as I possibly could. After an evening of sweet lovin’, I would roll off my spent girlfriend before insisting that she squeeze her beefcurtains and strain every last drop of the precious man-muck from inside her choc-full clopper into a Tupperware container. Thankfully, she thought this was quite kinky, so didn’t ask any questions and was happy to oblige. She also kindly volunteered to go out and obtain additional samples of filthy fish juice for me to do with as I wished. Result!

As supplies grew ever shorter I spent days trawling the town looking for anything that could pass for baby paste. I remember not being able to mask my delight when I saw two Staffordshire bull terriers going at it like the clappers by a lamp-post; and I managed to crawl underneath them to collect the resulting splatter of dog yogurt with my trusty miniature thermos flask. Fortunately, it only required a modicum of testicular massage from me to make the male spurt, but unfortunately I was then noticed by the heat-ridden bitch ‘mid-hump’, and she proceeded to bite part of my nose off with some ferocity. I still managed to make it away with the precious bounty though, and it went straight into a Steak Diane sauce that very evening.

But it still wasn’t enough…I even volunteered to help the local farmer with menial tasks, and in my spare time I spent countless hours following the animals round with an oversized bucket, weapons grade safety goggles and a pair of ultra thick rubber gloves over my wanking spanners. Before long I had gallons of purest cock custard.

But as my talent (and ego) expanded, the demand became insatiable…and so did the pressure.

It should have been my finest hour when the judge from Michelin arrived to sample my famous 'Flayed Swordfish with Guava Millefeuille'…but no matter how hard I sorrowfully spanked my spluff-shooter, I remained completely cack out of tallywaggle torpedos. I was about to bleakly admit that the game was up.

Then…thinking fast, I remembered that I had one last sample in the fridge from my ‘Finest’ collection – The special test-tube where I would deposit my super-gloop after thinking about Girls Aloud whilst feverishly fwapping to ‘Caught in a Mosh’ by Anthrax.

I served the dish with a smile (and a limp), but I had nothing to worry about…the Michelin star was mine.

Yet as is so often the way, my success was short lived.

I must admit that it was quite a relief when the health inspector finally caught me…I was stood on a chair strangling my slackening spam javelin into a bowl of lobster bisque. Despite all I had done for him, the restaurant manager took no pity on me and sacked me on the spot…but the joke was on him, for within 2 months of me being given my marching orders, the restaurant closed down as their menu seemed to suddenly lose it’s ‘personal touch’ and the customers stayed away in droves.

As for me, I tried to cash in on my new found fame and invested all my money opening a swanky coffee shop in town. Attempting to eclipse the previous success in my own ‘unique’ way, I decided to substitute the coffee beans for little winnetts of dried rabbit turd (I thought if it caught on it would be easier to get a regular supply).

To my lasting regret, the market for coffee that tastes like shit had already been cornered by Starbucks and I was soon made bankrupt.

But, unlike my signature 'Bernaise sauce', I wasn't bitter, and nowadays life is much simpler. I currently work at the soup kitchens run by the local homeless charity...where nobody seems to give a flying toss what I do to the food. This has led to my losing the thrill of adding my special 'tang' to the punter's unsuspecting stomachs.

In fact, I’m already thinking of moving on and ‘experimenting’ again…maybe someday soon I can reclaim my former glories…

So you never know…the next 'chef' employed at your favourite pub / restaurant / works canteen…it could be me...if you’re lucky...;)


Bon appétit
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Tue 23 Sep 2008, 10:32, 12 replies)

-
My arse produces little rabbit-turds of winnets. I need £400'000'000'000 dollar for eighteen percent of my arse-cheeks. It's patent leather.

Do you want to deal with me?
(Chickenwire social lubricator extraordinaire, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 10:40, closed)

you.
are insane. And obsessed with Jizzlob. However, I had a slight stiffening when you mentioned Eva Longoria, and I think she's boring. But the talk of an ankle bracelet triggered a long repressed urge. I shall investigate.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 11:45, closed)

............................
...........
...........

er, *click*?

*shakes head*
( Boss Keloid Got your mother's maiden name tattooed on my arm, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 11:54, closed)

A legendary QOTW answer sir.
*applauds*
( mrlogic is copying your beard, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 12:09, closed)

I've never seen a post
with so many jizz-related metaphors.

Good going, Mr Flake!
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 12:33, closed)

Excellent.
I've just acquired a whole new collection of strange looks as I chuckled my way through that.

Top marks.
( Moey, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 12:39, closed)

*clicks*
not only for 'coughing custard cannon' but for the epic length :)
( Noeli overtheshoulderboulderholderthingstraplatchboobs, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 13:12, closed)

Great bulk
Good god, were you trapped in the cupboard under the stairs for a few hours with just a text editor to play with?
(Benzyl, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 16:40, closed)

Oh how
I wish the Gordon Ramsay part were true...
(dchurch bah, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 18:48, closed)

*click*
that story is so old...

but i do like tapioca pudding

: )
(sniffle is full of shit, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 19:51, closed)

quite frankly
"it wasn’t long before oodles of salty electric rope splurged from my putrid purple pulsating prit-stick"

is a beautiful example of the english language.
(imallamallama looking forward to llamageddon on, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 21:45, closed)

*click*
For prose more purple than Prince's shrivelled bell-end, I salute you.
(cheez is feeling ergophobic, Thu 25 Sep 2008, 14:18, closed)