Look at this for the worst sandwich ever.
A poem about Jamie Oliver- titled, imaginatively, “Jamie”. read in a mockney accent, obvs.
I’ve come a long way since 1998, all
Cocky, little tosser
Really quite hateful
Serving up smugness,
Piled High platefuls
With my moped, drum kit, braying friends – a roomful
Sliding down my banister
Slurping up a spoonful
Declaring what I’ve made to be “LOVELY” “BEAUTIFUL”
But as much as you might
Find me really quite detestable
Rich and indigestible
None of you could argue
With the recipes, and best of all
You bought the books, you cooked the stuff
You made me a success an all
Easy! Peasy! Bish bash bosh!
Throw it in! LOVELY! (If you’ve got the dosh)
Parmigiano croutons on your butternut squash
I’m from Essex, geezer, so I can’t be posh!
ME OLD MUKKA…
LOOK AT THAT, IT’S PUKKA!
Suddenly I’m all about the culinree filanfropee
Teach the under-privileged to flambé things in pans, for free!
Soon I’m in the schools
Getting turkey twizzlers banned, and me?
I’m a saviour-crusader, middle class Mum’s fantasy
Yeah, a National Treasure. MBE? Nice one, your majesty
Then I press on, sanctimonious, swelled by each new offering,
Poor people- love em! Just can’t help but bother ‘em
Soon I’m meeting single Mums, struggling in Rotherham
Who can’t boil eggs, and yeah
Some people they may scoff at ‘em
But I’ll teach ‘em cook with stuff they can’t afford when we’ve f*cked off again
ME OLD MUKKA,
LOOK AT ME! I’M PUKKA!
If I’d left it at that, it might’ve been alright yeah,
But my face fills your screens like some fat-tongued puffy nightmare
A Sainsbree’s ad, urging you to buy it, just try it yeah?
I’m whoring out my children for a Christmas show and I dare
To tell you how to live.
My ambition’s naked, like the chef; quite bare
My ambitions! Gor, blimey they’re far-reaching,
I suddenly decided that I knew about teaching
Fronted Jamie’s Dream School, David Starkey’s preaching
Cos teaching must be easy! Anyone can do it! Peachy!
And my limited interactions with the TV-fodder poor
Have convinced me I’m the one who should front a sort of war
I won’t take on those who make and sell this shitty food; the stores
The corporations, lobbyists, nah, that’d be a bore
It wouldn’t make good TV, and we all know it’s more
Satisfying and delicious to judge the poor and gawp
At the slum-scum eating chips on the living room floor
Cos look there! On the wall! They’ve got a massive telly!
You can’t be poor if you’ve got a massive telly!
It’s from BrightHouse? On HP? What does that mean? Sell it!
You could buy a pasta maker from my range at Jamie’s Deli!
ME OLD MUKKA…
GET ONE; THEY’RE PUKKA!
The poor, they’re just too lazy- d’you know what I mean?
They won’t work an 80 hour week at “fifteen”
I worked hard for this; they should be more like me
Or at least more like the immigrants; desperately keen
Union? Rights? Minimum wage? Haaah, in your dreams!
But love me or hate me, you’re stuck with me, whatever
I’m adaptable, a kitchen cockroach, I’ll survive forever
Go with the times, the zeitgeist, the weather
I was cool Britannia
Things Can Only Get Better
Youthful optimism, aspiration- go-getter
But now in Tory Times
I’m something different altogether
Like them, I’m
A millionaire who judges blames and damns
Folks whose lives I cannot seem to possibly understand
Sneering, and spreading fear across the land
Show you’re middle class! Use some parma ham!
There’s a recipe in here, buy it!
Bish, bosh, bam.
E Jones 2013