Posts Tagged ‘Eels’

The Wild Gourmets

October 4, 2007

Wild Posh Wankers 

Before we’ve even fucking begun, the names of these two hooray henry arseholes is enough to warrant crimes against humanity, she is called Thomasina and he, Guy. Of course Guy calls her ‘Tommy’ but being the upper class twit that he is he pronounces it ‘Tom-air’, because he’s so fucking well to do he can’t be pissed to bleedin’ talk proper like what the rest of us peasants does.

Tom-air looks like she’s been dragged through a hedge backwards, she’s so bloody horsey-trot-on, she can’t even be bothered to run a comb through her fucking hair.

Permanently maintaining an expression on her face of ‘yar?’, only he, Guy, can rival her in terms of being the most vacuous, pointless git on the television. In my life, I’ve never met a Guy who doesn’t deserve being doused in an accelerant and being set alight. This one is no exception, though an additional kicking would make me feel better.

The premise of the show is dangerously banal, take two privately educated Country Life inbreds and make them ‘live orf the land’. So far they’ve largely failed to meet any of the necessary criteria that justifies the words ‘gourmet’ and/or ‘wild’. Guy has seamlessly failed to catch fucking fish. Even when they do get permission from Daddy to shoot mammals they wind up buying them orf the landowner. Actually, they buy most of things they are supposedly foraging for from passing lower class ruffians.

When they did actually catch and cook something it obviously tasted like shit –Tomair caught some eels which she cooked there and then. Guy actually spat them out, the cunt.

Obviously Channel 4 has been watching BBC2, specifically the Sunday evening joy that is Ray Mears who fucking lives the life for real. Ray actually trains the fucking SAS in survival techniques. These two I wouldn’t trust with directions to the nearest Waitrose.

They permanently impress on us that living outdoors doesn’t mean that you have to rough it. Guy spent most of last week’s episode making Tomair a chod bin out of saplings; she ended up having to climb a 6-foot pyre of birch in order to lay a cable. Ray would just shit in a hedge, Tomair needs a fucking throne (though I reckon Guy needs it more so he can watch all shit coming out, probably from the privacy of, and ironically, a hedge).

Just to ram the un-roughness of living outdoors we left the over privileged trust funders languishing in opulence in their ‘shelter’. The bloody thing was decked out with chairs (chars) soft furnishings (sarft farnourshings) and a fucking huge wood burning stove with a fucking chimney if you please (a beeping whooge ward barning steeove weeth ar beeping cheemnay)

It makes me fucking SICK.

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