As I’m feeling freakishly generous, I will concede that Jamie Oliver is good at two things. 1) cooking and 2) calling his children stupid names like Teddy Nutkins and Foofy Poppy Poopy. But his tiresome agenda of social change - forcing children to give up eating Wham Bars dipped in margarine, making homeless people work in his kitchen instead of sitting around burning tyres taking lovely heroin - does my head in. Jamie’s latest round of blustering gobshitery sees him setting up a school for a gaggle of loudmouthed little shits who should be in borstal. It is called Jamie’s Dream School. Celebrities are drafted in to teach them. Rolf Harris teaches art, David Starkey history, Simon Callow drama. Oh ha ha, yah, brilliant. If this show didn’t start life on the back of a beer mat at Soho House, I’ll eat my hat (with chips and a Stork covered Wham bar).
Gathering some young academic failures at his old alma mater, Jamie explained that he’s doing this so-called social experiment because he empafises, innit? ‘I left school with nuffink,’ he said (except rich parents who owned a pub). Funnily enough, his protégés are also GSCE-less tosspots who love the sound of their own voices. The kids talked about being marginalised, did too much texting, moaned that the system had failed them, yadda yadda yadda. Meanwhile I wished I was watching Masterchef. Apparently someone chopped their finger off. Ace.
But the kids themselves weren’t really important – they were just tomato-throwing spectators at the stocks of reality TV. What we really wanted to see was celebrities being attacked by 16 year old psychopaths from Romford. First up, it was drama class with cotton-wool headed thesp Simon Callow. Poor Simon. It was like seeing my gran at a cock fight. Confused, out of his depth, deeply, uselessly posh. He struggled to teach them about Shakespeare. They really should have got Brian Blessed instead - dressed in chainmail, coming in on a big fucking horse. ‘ON GUAAAAAAAAARD!’ he would have yelled, and the whole lot of them would have done a little poo in their baggy boxers. Instead, Simon looked like he’d seen a ghost on the ramparts and ran off to the toilet to scream at his agent.
Next week, I’m skiving off school. Unless David Starkey gets his bollocks stabbed with a compass, that is. I would PAY to see that.
After that was history with David Starkey. I’m 38 and as soon as he opened his mouth I started drawing pictures of knobs on my JLS pencil case. In between droning, the snooty twatbox managed to wildly insult a child without the slightest provocation. ‘Look at you’ he said, conversationally. ‘You’re so fat you can hardly move.’ When the kid complained, Starkey continued to be an odious condescending bore and everyone started shrieking like Bonobo apes. Happily his crime was caught on camera, so next week we can look forward to the sight of Starkey being brutally castrated in the town square, just like in the good old days.
‘I’m hoping the Rolf Harris will get them to unlock their creativity’ said Jamie, in the funniest sentence I’ve heard all year. Rolf to his credit, seemed to be able to control them even without the aid of a wobbleboard, and the kids were asked to paint in an impressionist style. ‘I don’t like art, or drawing or colouring in or nuffink like that’ said 18 year old Nana Kwame, before producing a painting that was better than anything Rolf has done in 40 years.
It all went a bit off piste after that. Henry a posh, snotty stoner twat who should have been locked in the coal hole when he was 6, went on a yacht with Ellen McArthur. Quite how that tied in with the national curriculum is anyone’s guess, but Ellen - used to the shipping forecast and vast, lonely expanses of ocean - seemed delighted to have some company. Then Dr Robert Winston (biology) cut up a pig and made everyone puke up in the car park.
Perhaps if Jamie wanted his experiment to work he should have employed REAL teachers to teach the students. But it doesn’t matter. It’s all part of a social reformist fantasy, which amounts to nothing more than some disadvantaged people getting on telly. Next week, I’m skiving off school. Unless David Starkey gets his bollocks stabbed with a compass, that is. I would PAY to see that.
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