Tom Kerridge is a lovely, large, smiley West Country English chef – and despite appearances Tom can put together a delicate plate of food.
His pub, as he tells us, is the only 2 Michelin star pub in the UK. He's all over the micro herb.
But he also makes fish and chips and good old country cooking. And it looks delicious.
His whole show seems to be based on lovely West Country English things he recalls from his idyllic Famous Five-style childhood and now produces in a 2 Michelin star fashion at his gastropub. And that isn't meant to sound as snide as it does. I'm just jealous. I too grew up in the West Country of England. And I have no Michelin stars. Not that I'm bitter.
The opening of the show is all kids running around a picnic table, eating ice creams and letting them drip down their arms, while adults laugh uproariously at, one can only imagine, middle class jokes about the working class.
I could be wrong. They could be drunk.
Either way it's very, very, very English.
But they can't stay mad at him for long. He's so lovely – a big ball of enthusiasm covered in tattoos with the Best. Accent. Ever. I could sit here all day and listen to him say "butterrr" or "lumpy sauce". Sigh. When he says his omelette is "right good for dishin' up" I want to hug him.
Tom tells us he's going to make baked beans from scratch, promising you'll never go back to the tinned versions. Heinz executives around the world laugh nervously, wondering if it's time to take their kids out of private school.
He also promises that he can make a roast chicken fun. Apparently this is just a matter of baking it in hay and cider – thinking back to my childhood, I don't know if that would cut it. Just sayin' Tom, my loverrrrr.
He then moves on to making his roast chicken - gathering "herrrrbs" from his "garrrrrden" and getting his "ciderrrrr". When he grabs a long white piece of material and suggests it looks like he's about to make a wedding dress, I'm saddened to hear it's just for making a muslin bag for the chicken.
What does she have that I don't?
He makes a sauce to go with the chook that he says is like an English summer time. My memory is wasps, ice cream and stinging nettles but apparently England has changed since the 70s and the taste of summer now means cooking juices from the chicken and some hay. This explains my lack of Michelin stars.
He's now making his homemade anti-Heinz baked beans with a recipe that involves bacon, haricot beans, brown sugar and an Aga stove, cooking them for hours over a low heat. They look nice enough.
Time for a blurry shot of Tom the background while we see some tulips in the foreground.
Tom's telling us how to make Sodabread. It's actually something I may make. It looks delicious.
He piles the beans on top of his home made soda bread before tasting them and declaring them "the best Baked Beans on toast" and then... he sits alone and eats them in the kitchen. Why? Where are all the kids and drunk middle class people now?? Have the Heinz people kidnapped them?
And then Tom says something about faggots and how he grew up on them and how he wants to convert us all.
A nation turns off the TV and writes in to their MPs.
Then he says they're just like sausages.
Some people turn their TVs back on.
He says faggot about 50 times in 5 minutes and no one knows what to do.
He goes to the butcher to get a whole bunch of pork to make them.
The shopping list includes one pig's heart and just a little piece of liver.
Yeah that should be plenty, say those of us with no interest in offal, retching.
But he's so happy to be making faggots you can't look away. It's like a medical drama with an accent as he minces bits of meat that no one in their right mind would want to touch.
And, irritatingly, every time he says faggot, the 14 year old inside me wants to snigger. I feel like a have hay fever, I'm nearly exploding so much. It's exhausting.
He skived off school for faggots. Snigger.
He has six lovely faggots now. Snort.
Gently pick up one of your faggots. Harumph
Enough. They're made, they're like sausages and they're delish. OK?
They go well with his onion gravy. He makes this by roasting onions for two hours while it seems he stands around in the kitchen listening to the radio and tapping his trendy trainers.
His faggots are firm now. Garump.
I need to lie down.
Now he's making an apple and toffee crumble pie. It's like all the good words in the world together at once. He's as excited as we are, making his own toffee like a giant, casually dressed Willy Wonka. He goes on to stew some apples - cooking them in butter with orange peel and cinnamon. He talks about crumble like it's the best thing ever, he's so happy to be making this dessert he can't wait to serve it. But first he needs some help and he hangs out the window calling to.... the drunk adults who haven't been kidnapped by Heinz henchmen after all.
The drunk adults then turn out to be his wife, sister and brother in law. Awks.
The kids who were running around with the ice creams before turn out to be his nieces and he ropes them in to help create the crumble pie – cracking the home made toffee and adding it to the top of what is surely the most delicious creation known to man. Certainly known to Tom. He's beside himself.
It's served with clotted cream ice cream and a taxi to the hospital.
One of these things may not be true.
He asks the kids if they like it and one says "I like the apple in it." Tom laughs. But inside you know he's broken.
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