I know I’ve been accused of being a little too free with the I word; I just can’t help it; I find myself fascinating. But even I was astounded at the extent of auto-fellating narcissism on display in the stunt Señor Alginates was conned into doing, clearly not realizing “straight dudes like cats” was the height of intellectual acuity on offer in Sunday Sillies. You lure arguably the most innovative chef on the planet into your crappy kitchen and it’s all about you and your relationship to your imaginary friend? No wonder the poor guy was reduced to slopping out a mishmash of so many flavors and ingredients the reader’s head spins like Linda Blair’s before hurling. At least when Mme X and I rooked Martin Parr into doing that thing he does so well, we let him shoot his best and sent a sentient being to cover him, not a self-obsessed simian who really should have passed on the assignment rather than drag down the whole newspaper in his subject’s eyes. I would endorse publicly whipping him senseless, but he already is.
But that’s just me.