From my work bench I can experience it all. The smell of the kitchen wafting in from behind me; the sounds of my partner Gordon Ramsay screaming profanities at one of the younger chefs. He’s rough and he’s tough, but he knows better than anyone how to run a Three-Michelin star restaurant. There is a cry of excitement from one of the tables ahead of me. Someone has just received their meal and, without wasting a second, is devouring its rich meats. The other diners at the table had been stoic and polite all evening, but are now laughing at their friend’s eagerness.
Their excitement brings a smile to my face. That’s why I do it, I think to myself, as I take a piece of poo and put it in my mouth. Popping a squat over a porcelain bowl, I unclench my porcelain buttocks and a marble-graded wagyu steak with garlic butter slips out of my crack and onto the plate.
Gordon was the one who first showed me the way. I began as one of his kitchen assistants and, to put it simply, he was not a fan of my cooking. He would torment and berate me, to the point where I would spend hours sitting on a toilet in the back kitchen wondering what I was doing with my life. One day he discovered me there, sobbing, pants around my ankles—and that’s when he said something that changed my life forever, “You’d be better off eating the shit you made in that bowl than eating the shit you make in my kitchen.”
Little did we know how right he was….
“Order up,” I hear Gordon call from behind me, breaking my reverie as he slips me a piece of paper. I look at it and sigh. Someone ordered from the kid’s menu. I take out a spoon and fortify myself: I’m not going to lie and say I enjoy the sensation, I’m no coprophage. But the life it’s afforded me is more than I ever thought I’d have. I get ready, bracing myself against the walls over a bowl. From my cheeks spit thick chips, fried with a golden crust and salted. The salt stings my anus but the chips need flavouring and the kids—their chips.
It’s not like I’m that different, maybe we’re all like this. Maybe the potential is built into all of us. A few years ago I’d call eating poo to make a sponge cake crazy! Now, I call it Tuesday. So I guess the real lesson is: the next time someone is cruel to you, stand up for yourself and tell them who’s boss. The next time someone hurts your feelings, get up in their face and make yourself known. And the next time someone tells you to eat shit? Well, maybe you should.