I can hear the ducks. They're outside my van, quacking, and I am thinking on the twats that want to roast them. But my mind is lost, I think lost in those years of flamboyant chefing when all was flame seared or chilled by ice smoking. And now it seems all are plastic bagging and bathing in low heat food that they're thinking we'll want to eat and eat... Well, not me mate, meat's not for my plate. I see boil in the bag as a posh nosh fad and it's one I don't rate. Just like a trio of cakes or that nouvelle cuisine, fate so marked those. Those restaurants are closed, so old school food scene. I say, and I say it large... Fuck your fine dining and gastronomy though fine veggie flavours I'm happy to see. And take your water bath, your ice cream machine, your Italian espresso maker, your juicer from Berlin. I'm not happy with these utensils, you see, I have nightmares culinary in which I vision clearly the soon to be someday when they will be eating me...