I know it’s been a while and I haven’t delivered my verdict on Gorgeous Gordon.
There has to be a reason for the delay – either I’m so overcome by his carisma that I’m still fanning myself gently with the outer leaves of some obscure type of lettuce or… whatever the alternative is.
We pitched up fairly promptly to see Che Chef doing his thing. It wasn’t even coffee time and already there was a dense crowd of very excited Gordophiles.
A stern-looking MC lady was busy whipping them into an even bigger frenzy. The crowd cheered, gasped and jumped up and down – astonishing behaviour for sober women not participating in an aerobics class.
The anticipation had more texture than the tirimisu Gordon eventually demonstrated.
Anyhow, the moment and the star arrived and did that “Good morning Glasgow”, “Can’t hear you, try harder. Good morning Glasgow” routine beloved of pantomime dames everywhere.
So far, so rock’n’roll. I was hoping for some edgy and unpredictable bad boy antics, a sprinkle of expletives to liven things up.
But then he singled a girl out of the audience as it was her 16th birthday, led the singing and clasped her to his freshly laundered chest in the most avuncular mannor.
Things took a turn for the entirely expected.
While the chorizo and butter bean soup, popeseye steak with port-glazed baby turnips and tirmisu were perfect and immaculate, so sadly was Gordon.
Well behaved, even slightly nervous, the only glimpse of the famous bile and venom were a few set piece snipes at his fellow super chefs.
He seemed like a thoroghly decent sort of chap – more’s the pity.