Of Sense and Sense-celebrity

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)