What a fucking waste of pastry. How on Earth can people seriously be trying to apply vague forgotten rhetoric about eating healthily to a fucking eating contest? What’s Tony going to do next year, cancel the event altogether in case it encourages, er, bad table manners? And let us applaud those who can push kilos of chemical dough, flour and gristle into their faces in mere matters of minutes.
Having said this, I myself sat down in my wooly 90s cardigan to a dinner of salad paysanne with dry smoked bacon, crumbly Welsh goats cheese and salty Greek olives; thyme and oil and flakes of Maldon. I felt like a right Tony. And I am shattered by the shear number of things that keep falling through with the impending wedding. One week from now it will all be cooked. And I will be fried on cocaine.