My advice to Nigella about life, lunch, broon sauce and waiters

SAUCY chef Nigella Lawson said this week that she’d become so happily desocialised during lockdown that she was going on a 5:2 people diet: going out for lunch just twice a week and sitting in the hoose in her pants eating chocolate the other five days

As someone who only goes out for lunch twice a decade, at first I thought this risible, but then I thought that at least it was a start, and that it showed a new and attractive side to this arguably over-egged celebrity.

Indeed, wasn’t she once married to a bloke who ate nothing but eggs? Did the courts not grant a divorce on account of his “egregious and unreasonable farting”?

Perhaps my memory plays me false. I also seem to remember her dad, Nigel Lawson, the former Chancellor of the Exchequer, writing recently that he was an introvert who hated noise. Sounds like my kind of guy.

I’m sure we could get on well together over a pint, and he’d be paying, the posh Tory.

Back to Nigella’s new-found lonerism, and other burdz piled in agreeing with her, saying they too were “going feral” and becoming a-social.I have words of encouragement and warning about this. In general, I believe that, if you don’t get involved with the world, the world won’t get involved with you. That’s what you want: keep the bugger at arms’ length.

The world is like one of those people who seem attractive and interesting on the outside, but who deep-down are toxic and harmful. My advice? Don’t go out. Don’t touch anything. You say: “What about going for a walk?” Well, I’m even ambivalent about that now too.

I walk in the forest near ma hoose and, twice this week, I’ve found afterwards these ticks that can give you Lyme Disease (don’t worry, I’m fine; oh, you weren’t worrying?), one burrowing head-first into my thigh and one going into my stomach. It’s disgraceful. But that’s the world: out to get you at every turn. Your only hope is to avoid it. People, animals, insects. Give them a wide berth. Be polite to them (apart from the insects: crush them all) but do not engage. It always leads to trouble.

I speak half in jest, of course. Regular readers know not to believe a word I say, apart from

“the” and, approached cautiously, “mellifluously” and, for the foreign-minded among you, “chiaroscuro”.

The world, alas, cannot be avoided. We need it to deliver things. To make things that we cannot. To kill things for food that we cannot. It has its uses. It’s a pain in the neck, butt and tonsils.

But it’s also a cure.

It’s all a big joke and, if you’ve any issue with it, take it up with Jehovah the Merciless, the cold and calculating sadist behind it all.

I’d like to poke him in the eye if I could get a hold of Him. But He’d probably just dematerialise Himself, reappear behind me and boot me up the bahookie. Wee swine that he is.

As for lunch, I seem to recall it’s usually an ordeal but can sometimes be pleasant if you put away enough flagons of ale without vomiting over anyone.

Avoid anywhere with waiters: they are rude and often sarcastic, particularly when you ask for broon sauce for your salad. Indeed, my favourite lunch venue is my car, where I like to eat supermarket sandwiches and get my shirt all messy from sticking my face directly into a carton of peeled fruit in juice that didn’t come with a plastic fork.

In the meantime, we wish Nigella well with her newfound sociophobia. Don’t become a recluse, sweetheart. You’ll end up talking to yourself and writing magazine articles. Stay alert. Always carry your own bottle of broon sauce.

As Debrett’s advises, don’t try eating with a mask on. Don’t have the eggs. Remember to spray your guest with disinfectant. Try to get a few pints down your neck. Vomit accurately.