So we’ve seen the snuffing-it of a tedious 1980s Hollywood star much beloved by women who haven’t yet managed to get over Dirty Dancing (yes, that is the equivalent of men who haven’t yet managed to get over Star Trek; no, it isn’t any cuter or less fucking tragic).
More importantly, we’ve seen the snuffing-it of the most entertaining celebrity cooking alcoholic since Jennifer Patterson (PBUH). Keith Floyd invented the genre of “confused looking but charismatic chef goes to foreign places and gets pissed whilst trying to make good food, make conversation with confused locals, provide entertainment and not die”, which is one of the best TV genres, and which is why Mr Bourdain [*] is so unmissable.
Rest you, Keith Floyd. One of my favourite pieces of Floydery was talking to my former flatmate about the chef in question: “oh yeah, as a kid I always got him confused with Pink Floyd”. “Err, you what?” “Well, they were both really wasted people that my parents liked to watch…”
[*] who, weirdly, is only nine years younger than Keith Floyd. Don’t die just yet, Tony.
NB: due to a combination of WordPress’s shitness, my webhost’s shitness, and the inevitability of spammy twats, I’ve had to do various restrictive things to comments. Sozzard and that. If you comment, it’ll appear before too long, and it isn’t being censored, you paranoid fucktard.