Quaver toes skin#
Quaver toes series#

Nobody but me - us - could adore your tousled imperfection, so artfully contrived. Watch those sun lamps! And there are weird lines down under your mouth, unique to you.

Quaver toes skin#

Your wrinkles are etched deep, like the cuts in the skin of a pork roast you're hoping to crackle.

Only millions of us could love you, and the way you fold your arms just so in your crisp white jackets. Do you wear tinted contact lenses? You have a face like a forgotten spud in a paddock, a nose like a weary truffle, wrinkles in the weirdest places. You smoulder so fetchingly, Gordy, and your cursing titillates us like an insouciant amuse-bouche. Now is the era of the chef, the erotic blend of knife skills, whisk wrists, rolling in and stuffing and seasoning with of jus and marmalades of smoulder as well as deep-fry, gratin, simmer and stew. It took a split second, a mere quaver beat.

Quaver toes series#

The Americans - who suspended your next series of Kitchen Nightmares when they heard the news - will get over it. Yes, you really are up for grabs you weren't just flirting. You gave us all hope, the promise of enough to go around - and maybe even dessert. It goes together like tomato and basil, bread and butter, corned beef and mustard. It's a sexy combo though, sex and infidelity. You are officially the Sexiest Chef in Britain, as of last week's British newspaper survey, and last week you also became the Cheating-est Chef in Britain. You're as smooth as butter, mayonnaise, pureed mango, melting ice cream. You're always tanned you know we wouldn't want to watch a pimply, pale Pom slithering out of his kit. You shave your chest you must you know we're looking. Given the chance, we'd knead your toes delicately, like little Parker House rolls in the making, but there's the problem of distance and opportunity, sadly. We can't get enough of you and your smooth, smooth chest down which we want to trail our delicate, delicate fingers dripping in baby oil. You have so many programmes, so many books, so much to share, so much skin, and no singlets at all.

For me, surely, you'd slipped so often, so eagerly, out of your chef's whites and showed your manly chest on that programme - oh, whatever it's called. GORDON, GORDON: you ate the raw heart of a just-dead puffin in July, then last week you shattered my still-beating heart into breadcrumbs.