Written by Fred Peters

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Friday, 6 July 2007

Diary of Gordon Ramsay aged 40 ½

Jump. Smack palm with back of hand.


Today no macho bollocks, just good (slap), clean (clap) stories about local life (jump and slap palm).

Can't stand it when you go round to yer bird's house and she cooks complete shit for dinner. Most people would be polite but I say, 'Fucking heeeell! The melon balls taste like goats' balls and the lasagne looks like dog shit!' The mother-in-law can't cook any better with her bully beef, dumplings and dripping. She's a right giggle, so I always get her in a headlock and then put her over my head and smack her arse red.

So I ride my 7 foot stallion over to my fuck off Harley Davidson and ride at 200 miles an hour, cock out, to Billy the butcher's for some fucking meat. Good (clap), locally sourced (jump) prime beef joints. I slap them for about ten minutes, beat up the butcher and slash the meat open with a Stanley knife. Then, knead it until it's pulped beast, kick it into the oven and piss on the vicar just for a laugh.

Olive oiiiiiiiiil! Season! Excellent, the beef is bleeding like buggery. Yorkshire puddiiiiiiiing! (slap). Roast potatoes! Gravy!

Done! (jump)

See. Fast, (clap, smack) healthy food and no macho clichés.

Eat, for fuck's sake!

Now fuck off out my diary!

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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