I was deeply saddened to hear of the death of Keith Floyd at the beginning of this week. It appears he was the subject of a documentary on Channel Four broadcast the very night he died, which is rather spooky. I was hoping this might have been the first in a series of 'Keith meets Keith', but I doubt anyone else will give Keith Allen an interview now. - Keith Richards might be the only bearer of the name brave enough to take on the Grim Reaper of broadcasting and his cameraman.
K. Richards will no doubt be tuning in to BBC1 next Friday evening, along with the rest of the band, to see how Ronnie's ex missus gets on. This is surely the sweetest revenge a scorned wife could have inflicted on a wayward Stone - reduce him to watching Strictly. I hope she sent him a briar pipe and tartan slippers to wear while he's watching.
But back to Floyd. He was that rare animal, a TV presenter who couldn't give a toss. About anything. Including his own career. And quite often, about his cooking. He had a natural nonchalance, that mixture of raffish rakish rogue and impeccably-mannered public schoolboy that is so irresistible. His enunciation, even when sloshed, was so much better than his cooking, although the food was not really the point. He had never done any cookery training. The point was his joie de vivre, his banter with Clive the cameraman, and to see if he could get the dish finished before he got completely bladdered. He was everything that Delia Smith is not, and never will be. Jonathan Ross would never be able to wear braces, bow tie and panama hat with such natural flair. He was the kind of Englishman that even the French like.
I have a book of Floyd recipes, "The Best of Floyd - my greatest hits", in which each recipe starts off like a newspaper column. He sets the scene, recounts an anecdote, usually involving consumption of alcohol, and finishes off with the instructions for preparing the dish. His recipe for gazpacho has three pages of preamble and one page of recipe. He was one of the people I would have had as a guest at my fantasy dinner party. He still is, in fact.
I can imagine him strolling up to the pearly gates in his white suit, bow tie and waistcoat, and scrutinising the menu before he decides to go in. Then sneaking in the back door of the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of very fine Chablis and giving the ambrosia a stir while having a sneaky slurp.
He did not age gracefully, and was starting to take on an odd resemblance to another Keith - K.Rupert Murdoch - in his old age. His appearance on the Channel 4 programme apparently involved some extremely strong language, but let us remember him as the dapper, handsome, irreverent and unhygienic fellow he was here, licking his fingers before poking them back into the mixture, and swearing in impeccable French:
This weekend Brussels has its end-of-summer last mad weekend, with lots of street parties, no-car Sunday with free public transport, a grand fête-champêtre (country fair) in front of the Royal Palace, and the grand opening of the "Square" a transparent cube leading to a "spectacular new venue" in the newly-landscaped gardens of the Mont des Arts. Brussels' answer to the Pyramide du Louvre, only without the Louvre. And the weather, for once, is glorious!
K. Richards will no doubt be tuning in to BBC1 next Friday evening, along with the rest of the band, to see how Ronnie's ex missus gets on. This is surely the sweetest revenge a scorned wife could have inflicted on a wayward Stone - reduce him to watching Strictly. I hope she sent him a briar pipe and tartan slippers to wear while he's watching.
But back to Floyd. He was that rare animal, a TV presenter who couldn't give a toss. About anything. Including his own career. And quite often, about his cooking. He had a natural nonchalance, that mixture of raffish rakish rogue and impeccably-mannered public schoolboy that is so irresistible. His enunciation, even when sloshed, was so much better than his cooking, although the food was not really the point. He had never done any cookery training. The point was his joie de vivre, his banter with Clive the cameraman, and to see if he could get the dish finished before he got completely bladdered. He was everything that Delia Smith is not, and never will be. Jonathan Ross would never be able to wear braces, bow tie and panama hat with such natural flair. He was the kind of Englishman that even the French like.
I have a book of Floyd recipes, "The Best of Floyd - my greatest hits", in which each recipe starts off like a newspaper column. He sets the scene, recounts an anecdote, usually involving consumption of alcohol, and finishes off with the instructions for preparing the dish. His recipe for gazpacho has three pages of preamble and one page of recipe. He was one of the people I would have had as a guest at my fantasy dinner party. He still is, in fact.
I can imagine him strolling up to the pearly gates in his white suit, bow tie and waistcoat, and scrutinising the menu before he decides to go in. Then sneaking in the back door of the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of very fine Chablis and giving the ambrosia a stir while having a sneaky slurp.
Keiths
He did not age gracefully, and was starting to take on an odd resemblance to another Keith - K.Rupert Murdoch - in his old age. His appearance on the Channel 4 programme apparently involved some extremely strong language, but let us remember him as the dapper, handsome, irreverent and unhygienic fellow he was here, licking his fingers before poking them back into the mixture, and swearing in impeccable French:
This weekend Brussels has its end-of-summer last mad weekend, with lots of street parties, no-car Sunday with free public transport, a grand fête-champêtre (country fair) in front of the Royal Palace, and the grand opening of the "Square" a transparent cube leading to a "spectacular new venue" in the newly-landscaped gardens of the Mont des Arts. Brussels' answer to the Pyramide du Louvre, only without the Louvre. And the weather, for once, is glorious!
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