I used to love Masterchef, I really did. But tonight I discovered that I can’t watch it anymore. Not without snorting with derision, and/or curling my lip at any rate.
This is mainly down to one of the two hosts/judges, the ludicrous Mr Gregg Wallace.
I used to quite like this sarf London greengrocer made good, and whilst he isn’t a trained chef per se, he owns a restaurant, clearly loves his food, and was quite jolly to watch.
Until the tabloid press got hold of him that is, and I was unfortunate enough to learn a little more about him.
Dubbed by the BBC as an ‘ingredients expert’ Mr Wise claims to himself as ‘that fat bald bloke of Masterchef who likes puddings’, which all sounds charmingly self deprecating, but if his attitude to women is anything to go by, that statement was really just a pile of manure.
Our ‘fat bald bloke’ has been married three times. Nothing wrong with that, you might say, and there isn’t. Not in isolation that is.
He got divorced from his first wife, then had his two kids with his second, who found out he was having an affair, one of many apparently. The marriage fell apart, she then had a nervous breakdown and ended up in hospital for three months, so the lovely Mr W went for custody of his kids and got it.
What a prince.
Then our intrepid hero went off to find himself a younger, thinner better looking model and found one young enough to be his daughter named Heidi on Twitter (his main stomping ground), so married her, she gave up her job, and he wheeled her in to help parent his offspring and be his arm candy.
So what, you might say? No one really knows what goes on in a marriage and anyway, he’s not the first famous foodie to ditch his wife for a honey (yes I’m talking about you, Heston Blumenthal), and you’d have a point, I suppose.
Back to the story. Pretty soon, the novelty and reality of being married to ‘the fat bloke off Masterchef’ started to wear thin for Heidi, she called time on their relationship and they split up.
Gregg was devastated.
“Heidi was perfect,” he said at the time in a newspaper article. “It’s not often you find a model who’s also a biology teacher. She had everything, beauty and intelligence. I still love her and if it were up to me we’d still be together. When we split up I went into therapy because I was very upset.
“In one session I gave the therapist my vision of a perfect life. I’m on an old, worn sofa. I’ve got corduroys on, an old checked shirt, rugby on the telly and in the background is a lady who I love and I’ve got trust in.”
Isn’t that last paragraph rather telling? Maybe not to some of you; I’ll continue.
Our wounded hero despite his heartbreak quickly made moves to replace Heidi, and continued to punch above his weight. Indeed after a mere couple of weeks of freedom approached the lovely Sophie Dahl at a function, opening with the classic line ‘You taken?’ Fortunately for her, she was.
Mr Wallace went on to date a number of young ladies, one of whom, Cara 27, was stunning, and again, young enough to be his daughter. But Cara it appears wasn’t good enough. Gregg (who was/is a chubber himself) allegedly told size 10 Cara that she was ‘looking big’ and needed to lose weight if she wanted to be with him as he wanted her to ‘turn heads like Heidi does’. She was also told her wardrobe was lacking and that he wanted her to ‘look expensive’ whatever that means.
Suffice to say they split up and Gregg went on to date lots of other lucky ladies who reported back with similar stories, so if any of you girls out there have a jones for this veritable stud muffin, you’d better get on a diet, practice your head turning skills and appoint a personal shopper if you want a chance landing him, as he has recently lost a couple of stone in weight via Weightwatchers and is ‘ready to date’ seriously again.
Be afraid Twitter girls, be very afraid….
You would however have to usurp a young blonde lady called Anne-Marie who is 26 years old, and sufficiently head turning for him to acknowledge her as someone he likes in the papers.
Mr Wallace professes not to be a playboy, and I agree. He’s not. He’s a ridiculous, vain, self centred, insensitive, insecure, misogynistic little boy in the body of a middle aged man and clearly sees women as a cross between a mother and an accessory rather than an equal partner, soul mate or best friend.
What also failed to endear him to me is his attitude towards mental Illness.
In a quote from his appearance on ‘Who Do You Think You Are’, regarding his discovery that his great-great-grandmother suffered from it, he stated “You just don’t expect tragedy round the corner. And it is a dreadful thing to say, but I am ashamed of mental illness. I felt it might reflect on me, somehow.”
In the same magazine article, referring to his teenage daughter, he commented “She’s very posh. But she looks like me in a frock, poor love.”
Unbelievable. That is his flesh and blood, his number one priory (or should be) and the only good thing he can say is that she’s posh? Oh and that she falls short in the looks department?
Whilst Mr Wallace still clearly has some pulling power, I think I can confidently predict that he is unlikely to find a lucky young lady who will hang around long enough to get to stand behind the sofa and stare fondly at the back of his head, on hand for anything he might need whilst he lounges, farting and yelling at the telly in his ‘corduroys, checked shirt and slippers’. Unless he acquires one that has a strong patience threshold, an ability to play the long game and a desire for UK citizenship, that is.
Indeed as I have discovered tonight, I cannot even bear watching him comment on a fucking fried courgette flower without wanting to jeer and throw things at the telly as I am unable to take him seriously in any capacity whatsoever.
Which is a shame; I used to like that programme.
Oh well, there’s always The Great British Bake Off.
Paul Hollywood, don’t you dare fail me now!
Looking on the bright side, it is heartening to realised that there are worse things than being single and being Gregg Wallaces’s other ‘arf would undoubtedly be one of them.
One thing’s for sure, Dickheads don’t get bigger than this.
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