A short story by myself and an anonymous contributor who wishes to remain unnamed for legal reasons.
Ainsley & The Whisk, A Culinary Tale
The Sun: “10 out of 10, would read again!” The Independent: “N/A” (Never Again)
Chapter 1: A Mongolian Pepper’s Solemn Adventure
The whisk sat upon the table. Ainsley Harriott, Gordan Ramsey’s ex-wife and maverick, stroked his long metal whisk lovingly. He looked up, catching eye contact with a huge red pepper sitting on his latté. Claire, Ainsley’s favourite and most loyal fan wandered into the kitchen.
“Claire, he’s a Mongolian!” exclaimed Ainsley.
“The pepper?! BY Michael GOVE” Claire screamed.
Michael Gove muttered some words of mediocre value in the background. As usual. Claire and Ainsley continued conversing politically, as the Mongolian Pepper wove a little wig on Ainsley’s paté.
And it was so, the pepper was a Mongolian. It was a difficult thing to come to terms with; Ainsley had always wanted a simple cup ‘o’ soup, but this pepper was stopping him dead in his tictacs. Ainsley grabbed the whisk and flung it at the pepper.
“Go back from whence you came, foul pepper!”, and with that, the pepper flew across the room with extreme speed. And Ainsley saw that it was good. And of Mongolese decadence.
Chapter 2: The Whisk in Lidl, Culinary Tools Get Economised.
It was a cold, yet warm day in Southern Israel. The coconuts rolled joyously across the landing strips and the workers at Stansted airport skipped merrily through the security gates, brandishing stolen duty-free goods. The weather was ambivalent, and so were the rumours circulating the Northern Rotisserie Chicken Wing Café in Stan’s teddy ‘Israel’.
“BA aviator controller Jesus made France. He was a clever, handy, practical joke enthusiast fella!” A large, powerful ostrich, whispered to a nearby Kinder display stand. She was wearing a cashier’s apron, and all the while she laminated some of Michael Gove’s mediocre dissertations.
There was a moment of remembrance. “No, stupid lamb, didn’t you know the lovely little Lidl shop assistant Claire was the brave bee involved in the baking of the little french toast, and therefore created France as it is today?”
“We don’t sell little French toast here, but Emile Heskey does; I bet you don’t even know the price of milkybars!” a small voice squealed from under the Ostrich’s apron.
And there it was: the whisk from Ainsley Harriott’s kitchen had somehow managed to barter its way to Israel’s Northern terminal. All over the planet TV screens showed a distressed Ainsley weeping on pregnant mothers and small chitzsu puppies, asking Shirley Bassey where his beloved whisk was.
Around the whisk’s handle, a small tag with the name “LIDL” hung. Ainsley’s secret was out, and he wanted to stop it. But could he? Could he keep the secret any safer?
There is far too much information about Richard and Judy on the internet. I was going to write about them, but after trying to Google them (typing Richard and Judy saucy secrets in and pressing enter) far too much appeared on my screen. I hung my head in…