dark beige

By Jamie Oliver




Think back to 1998 - I know it's hard, but if you really try, I reckon you probably can. Combat trousers were all the rage, while everyone was sipping on Sunny D, watching Guy Richie's Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, and listening to Cornershop's Brimful of Asha.

The tragic and terrible events of April 1999 (when some nutter bombed a gay pub in London and some other nutter, not the one they first thought, murdered Jill Dando) were still 5 - 17 comforting months away.

That was when I first got filmed for the show that would make me a star - The Naked Chef. I didn't know it at the time, but that show was gonna change my life, taking me from large tongued chef talent to something of a national treasure.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not being big headed; I know that I'm nowhere near David Beckham or Stephen Fry status yet - if those geezers are the Beatles and the Stones, I'm more like the Who. But those blokes still sold a lot of records, and I reckon Pete Townshend's book's gonna be a cracker, when he finally finishes his research and releases it.

Anyway, I'm getting sidetracked, all I wanted to say is - over the years I seem to have become synonymous with a slightly naff, over-exaggerated style of ingredients addition, based on how I was on the Naked Chef, which was now a decade ago, for God's sake!



The thing is, back then I was young and a little awkward, and I didn't know what those telly types wanted of me. I always tried to just be myself. They were always telling me "just be yourself, be yourself", so I tried, but then they'd say "ramp it up a bit, get animated", so maybe they didn't want me to be myself at all - they wanted me to be some aggravated Essex twat. And I was.

That's why I was always throwing in ingredients in such a false, exaggerated way - tossing prawns like grenades here, drizzling olive oil like a garden hose there. One time the idea was even mooted that I might "head" an egg into a frying pan, Teddy Sheringham-style, but the egg kept on breaking in every take, and I got fed up.

The ironic thing is, I always said that it would break, whereas the director insisted it wouldn't. Therefore, he metaphorically had egg on his face for predicting the wrong outcome, while I literally had a lot of egg on mine, despite my accurate prediction. This unlikely occurrence has proven a great icebreaker for many an after dinner speaking situation.

Over the years, I tried to tone the whole ingredient tossing thing down, knowing it wasn't really me, but it was like a weight round my neck, particularly when Sainsbury's came calling.

Soon I was near bowling some radishes into a summer salad, while doing a Dogtanyan-style dice of some apple into a fruit salad, all the while feeling glum and fat tongued about the way things were going.

All I can say is, thank God for Jamie's Kitchen - where everyone had to start taking me seriously. No-one noticed it at the time, but my hand actions were far calmer and my tossing always at a maximum of 12 centimetres from the cooking receptacle (I really wanted to go for ten, but I'm a reasonable bloke).

Since then I've really gone from strength to strength, while my ingredient addition has gone from weakness to weakness, so that now in 2008 I wouldn't mind being called limp wristed when it comes to adding chorizo to a credit crunch-friendly spicy pasta!

I just think it's a little sad that some sections of the media still portray me as some onion chucking tosser, and haven't truly engaged with my new, more reserved ways. If these arseholes can't appreciate the way I've grown up on the job and gently lob a sausage into a cassoulet where once I hurled it, then fuck them. And I really mean that.