Yep, by the end of the show I thought he was the one who most deserved to win it, and whilst I’m glad he did, I do feel for the other two contestants who were bloody good too. But then they’re ten or more years younger than him and have plenty of time to pursue their dreams. Mat, it appears, won’t be pursuing his just yet, since right now is perhaps not the best of economic times to gamble your livelihood on starting up a restaurant.
His winning menu on the last show consisted of a starter of trio of wild rabbit, a main course of spider crab with hand-cut chips and sea vegetables.

This was followed by an exotic dessert of lavender mousse with hokey pokey honeycomb and a blackberry sauce.

A little while back on this blog, when I was ranting about some of the crap I’d watched either on television or at the cinema, someone suggested I should watch Dexter (Vaude?). Well, I didn’t mention it at the time, but I did watch most of the first season and enjoyed it thoroughly. In fact, the basic premise of the show of a serial killer whose prey is killers, was close to one I used in a short story I wrote over ten years ago (It was called ‘Trophies’, and the serial killer was a hunter of serial killers, Dexter just nobbles the normal kind).

Now I’m watching the second season and, since Caroline has now succumbed, I’ve gone and bought the first season (very reasonable on Amazon) and look forward to catching up on those critical episodes I missed at the end of the first. Yup, Dexter is excellent stuff and gets my recommendation.

I haven’t said anything about it here but, after last night’s excitement, I have to mention that I really like Master Chef. Yes, it is apparent that much excitement is manufactured by camera work, scattering the timings, and a pretence of disagreement between the two judges, Gregg Wallace and John Torode.

When judging six contestants of which three must go, it’s always the case that two are in two are out almost immediately, then Torode and Wallace often pretend disagreement about the good and bad points of the remaining two, and we don’t find out who’s going until they do the line up and dismiss them. Also, it’s noticeable how the cooking scenes are spliced together to generate tension with either of the two judges declaiming, “Two minutes left!” amidst mad frantic cooking which, though it might be true in some cases, certainly isn’t true all the time with all the contestants. Then there’s the part of the show when the remaining three have to work in a professional kitchen in which it seems they always screw up at the start and always manage to sort themselves out by their last dishes (again, this might be true in many cases, but not all).

However, this is television, and I don’t expect the camera to remain in place as a cook stands by his oven cleaning his fingernails whilst waiting for a joint to roast. And there is real tension, real emotion and hunger to succeed. Torode and Wallace, whilst playing to the camera, tell it like it really is when they try the food, being either harshly critical or full of praise. Both of these guys are likable, brash and appear to be utterly honest in their opinions about what they’re eating. You only have to see a grown man nearly in tears because Torode has said of some dish, “That’s really beautiful” or Wallace has been grunting with pleasure upon munching a mouthful of the puddings he so relishes, to realise that the contestants think so too.

Now the program is into its final stages with the three finalists being really put through the mill, cooking for critics, the high and mighty, large numbers of people (in one recent case those being 600+ steel workers) or out in the field rustling up dishes for hungry soldiers. I’ve been enjoying it immensely and will sad when it’s all over.

Last night we went to see Errol Brown of Hot Chocoloate at the Cliff’s Pavillion in Southend. Things started off not too great when we headed down to the sea front from Southend Victoria, then intending to turn right heading for Cliff’s Pavillion which sits on the coast at Westcliff – a simple short walk because, as directions obtained from the Internet detailed, it was only a mile. Reaching the sea front we asked someone for direction and he pointed where expected saying, “About three miles.” We had two hours (intending to eat beforehand), so cue the fast walk. Arriving at the Pavillion half an hour later just affirmed our knowledge that some people haven’t got a clue about distances.
Now with time to spare we found a restaurant called Bojangles that produced very acceptable cod and chips, scampi and chips and half litre carafes of white wine, and now, much more relaxed and happy, entered Cliff’s well on time. Surely Errol’s show would be no longer than a couple of hours and we’d have plenty of time to catch the last train home. Our time was limited because that train departed at 10.36 but, since the show started at 7.30, we assumed we’d take it all in. It was not to be.
Before Errol Brown appeared someone called Yolanda Brown took the stage (no relation, and nothing about her when we bought the tickets). We now got a half an hour of the ‘pimp Yolanda Brown show’, half an hour of ear-ringing boring jazz with lots of, “Let’s have a big cheer for Fred Bloggs on piano!” and “Here’s Animal on the drums!” and “Give it up for Osama Bin Laden on the Jew’s harp!” all followed by the usual tiresome and interminable jazz solos. And if, by the end of it, you didn’t know this female saxophonist’s website or know that her albums were on sale in the lobby, you weren’t listening. I was trying not to.
This period of, “We came here to see Errol Brown so why don’t you fuck off?” ate up over a half an hour of our available time. It was then followed by a half hour break during which it seemed most of the audience was intent on dulling the pain in the bar, then finally we got what we came for. Errol Brown was good, though at 61 the tight trousers had been consigned to history and he wasn’t leaping about the stage (but then he never did). It was all somewhat marred by seats designed by some research branch of the Inquisition, and the sheeple standing up when summoned and not having the decency to sit down again. However, even though our view was distant, near the back, I’m glad we weren’t on the first row, since numerous greying and somewhat wrinkled fans thought it might be an idea to line up along the front of the stage and wave their hands in the air.
By 9.50 it was time to head off, and I’m guessing, having heard the Full Monty ‘You Sexy Thing’ the show was nearing its close. Fast walk now back to the rail station, lost again and venturing into the regions of hoodies, vomit and discarded burger boxes. Annoying that we got to the station 20 minutes before the train departed, but to risk missing it and end up stuck in Southend at that time wasn’t an option. All an interesting adventure, but not one I’m anxious to repeat.