One of my main vices is my secret addiction to food programmes. Maybe it’s overexposure to the fashion industry, or a bizarre, defiant offshoot of my lifelong vegetarianism, but I just can’t fucking get enough of glossy shots of greasy, meaty, heart-attack inducing food. Whether it’s Nigella burning her baps, Jamie tossing his pancakes, or even those amateur excuses for presenters struggling to entertain C-list celebrities on Saturday Morning Kitchen, I’ll be there glued to the screen in a hungover daze, diet coke in one hand, remote in the other.
Actually come to think of it, my obsession could stem from a dormant, deep-rooted eating disorder. I can’t remember the last time I ate breakfast, and I mostly just eat crisps for lunch, followed by a bottle of Tesco value vodka for dinner. Actually sometimes I do have breakfast, if the man who I wake up with the next day cooks it for me.
Anyway, anyway, the point is, I’ve become obsessed with watching old episodes of Anthony Bourdain’s Layover series; in each episode the esteemed, charmingly vulgar TV chef is given a limited period of time to visit one of the world’s most gastronomically renowned cities, and sample the culinary wares it has to offer.
I fancy him SO. MUCH. He’s America’s answer to Gordon Ramsay really, in that he has that whole ‘fuck you’ foodie bad boy shtick. But he’s more clever, he did it first, and I bet he’s way better in bed. I always imagined Gordon Ramsay as quite a selfish lover, and you can imagine the face. I bet it goes all red and crinkly. Plus, Gordon Ramsay might be rude, but Anthony Bourdain is FILTHY. In a recent episode (season 1, episode 5, to be exact) when he visited Hong Kong, a mussel sprayed onto his shirt mid-mouthful, and he said “that’s the second time something’s sprayed all over my chest today.” OH TONY. And don’t even get me started on the episode in Miami, where he bit into a ten inch hotdog, then proclaimed that what was in his pants was bigger. TONY, TONY, TONY.
Just for the record, he isn’t gay. But he fits into that category of cool, liberal straight guy who’s so secure with his sexuality he’s probably slept with a guy at some point just for the hell of it. Also included in this category are Russell Brand, Barack Obama and my mate Ed from uni (I can vouch for that last one personally).
He is, however, fifty-seven years old and has grey hair; he smokes, he drinks and he has a bit of a paunch. But that’s part of the appeal! Yes, yes, daddy issues, etc etc. Maybe I do have daddy issues. So what. Lana Del Rey likes older men. If that’s not a valid reason to I don’t know what is. In ‘Cola’, she sings “I gots a taste for men who are older.” So there. She also sings “my pussy tastes like Pepsi cola”, but that’s a whole other story.
Everyone likes older men, surely. Why wouldn’t you. In fact, I’ve never actually dated anyone younger than me, to my knowledge. Who wants a silly little twink, anyway? Silly little twinks with silly little haircuts and silly little piercings, getting fake tan all over the sheets and quoting TOWIE constantly. No thankyou. I’d like a man who’ll drive me to a five star hotel in Singapore on the back of his Harley, then shove my face in a bowl of oysters and bugger me senseless. And that man is Anthony Bourdain.
He’s got tattoos. He’s got this fabulous, smoky, gruff sort of New York/Chicago drawl. He swaggers. He doesn’t mince and he doesn’t lope along like some ghoulish butler or Game of Thrones extra. He SWAGGERS. He wears nice shoes, nice shirts and nice jeans. None of that combover normcore bollocks (as if normcore is a thing now. Infuriating). No pretentious designer. No Hype caps, no BOY London meggings, no Topman rucksacks, no Comme des shitting Garcons. Good old fashioned huskily cut blue jeans, leather brogues, and good quality button-up shirts. He also is often angry and surly-looking, and looks a bit like he might kill you. I like a man who looks a bit like he might kill you.
In fact I’ve had an epiphany. From now on, I’m going to exclusively date men like Anthony Bourdain. I don’t care if you do PR for Angel Haze, or if your top’s from the new Christopher Shannon collection. I don’t give a shit if you were at a party with Georgia Jagger last week, or if you once slept with Ollie from Made in Chelsea. Give me Anthony Bourdain glowering at me across a candlelit table in Vienna any day of the week. Accompanied by a €90 bottle of wine, and the promise of angry sex on 5000 count Egyptian cotton sheets.