Come Dine With Me Dreams

Come Dine With Me is the television show to end all television shows. Take four complete strangers pit them against each other in the hope of winning £1000 and you have viewing gold.
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The best thing about this programme is that the majority of contestants are clearly fucking mental. It’s almost astounding that after watching approximately 473738328 episodes the show, which boasts potentially the simplest format of any TV programme known to man, I’m still not bored. Basically it appeals to my two most basic loves; people and food. The people range between eccentric and so mind numbingly boring that they become interesting again. The food generally ranges between utterly shit and well, utterly shit. Not to mention the celebrity specials are just something else, Michael Barrymore on how he’s suddenly not gay anymore? Lesley Joseph slipping into essentially the most horrific dress known to man in an attempt to rekindle her Birds of a Feather glory? (could you call that glory?) Bloody brilliant.

Then there’s the Lamb. The Lamb is the affectionate nickname I have given to the shows hugely popular narrator Dave um.. Lamb. When I first heard this man the only one thing that went through my mind was “Move over Simon Cowell, Olivia Foster’s got herself a new idol” – yes all my idols are middle aged men, what of it? I even have a picture of him stored on my Blackberry, granted that’s a little odd and potentially the reason I haven’t pulled in a while but who cares? If you can’t handle the Lamb love you are not the man for me. In an ideal world he would narrate my life or at least you know, the best bits, I could probably cope with a montage of each year spiced up by his cutting yet charmingly camp criticism.

The show has basically risen to cult status among us young folk. It’s like the Star Trek of the noughties (Star Trek was once popular right?). I’ve even been known to push back meetings with friends just so I can watch Stuart of Sheffield attempt to wow his fellow diners with an English Breakfast curry, it’s like where do these people get their ideas from? I feel there is some sort of understated genius going on, weird crack pots desperate to pick up the winning prize of a grand creating dishes even Heston Blumenthal would role his eyes at.

After 5 minutes of cooking my kitchen table collapsed. After 5 hours of cooking, we still hadn’t eaten anything.

If you haven’t guessed it already I am literally obsessed with this show. The thing is, you see, I just really want to be on it. I check the Channel4 website about once every two weeks (everyday) in the hope that one day my area will pop up and I can apply. I keep heavy handed hinting at friends and relatives anytime an area they live in comes up, “Oooo it would be so good if I could just, you know, find someone to lend me a house in North West London”, “Oooo I wish I lived in Greenwich like you do” still no one seems to be offering. Twats. Obviously I’ll make a massive mess, let some strangers root through their underwear draw and probably smash half cut into their Mum’s priceless antique vase but if it makes me happy I just don’t see why they won’t go along with it.

I’ve had to settle for the next best thing: Hosting my own CDWM (if you’re a really big fan you abbreviate). It was utterly disastrous. We couldn’t be bothered to do it in several houses and so decided to stick to one. Mine. We couldn’t be bothered to do 4 different meals so we took a course each. We choose a theme: Christmas (it was December) and away we went. After 5 minutes of cooking my kitchen table collapsed. After 5 hours of cooking, we still hadn’t eaten anything. We had however drunk enough alcohol to sink a small, or large for that matter, battleship. When it came to my masterpiece Pain avec du fromage avec, avec du poisson, (Yes I did write it in French, yes I did include the spelling mistakes, I thought it might make it more exotic) I could barely even stand. And sadly nothing, not even a great name, could make the fact that 2 minutes into the preparation I dropped the “poisson” (Salmon) down the back of the radiator anymore exotic or anymore acceptable for that matter. Needless to say I lost.

The footage of this fateful day, has, thankfully, since then been destroyed, but my desire to get on the show in any way possible, hasn’t. So if you’re reading this and you know someone who might want to lend me a house in any of the following areas: East Suffolk, Merseyside (Birkenhead and surrounds), Central and West Manchester, West London (Harrow, Wembley and surrounds), Walsall and the surrounding area, Warwickshire (Nuneaton and Bedworth areas), East Lancashire (Burnley and Accrington areas), and, finally, the area between Poole & Weymouth in Dorset. (Yes I did just rip that off the Channel 4 website) Then please get in touch and I’ll get working on my menu ideas – Mouton avec du potatoes anyone?

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