You drive along a dusty track in Crete, the hot sun beating down on the vine- yards and hills, and you catch sight of a lonely figure standing at the side of the road. It is Jamie Oliver; wearing his signature plaid shirt, unironed and but- tonless, the sea breeze ruffling his sandy locks.
But he isn’t alone. He slowly turns a whole lamb on a spit, muttering excit- edly to himself. Jamie’s dead eyes glint obsessively over the charred carcass, and he rubs extra virgin olive oil into its ran- cid meat. His camera crew are not here today. Instead an elderly local sits behind him, breathing on his neck. He strums gently on a mandolin and chews a raw parsnip. No one knows who he is, not even Jamie himself; he’s just there. Now and then, Jamie stares purposefully into the middle distance, addressing an imag- inary camera, throwing his hands about as if he were Tony Blair falling into a k- hole circa 1996.
“And now, add the rosemary. Mmm. Pukka. I fink it’s better when you mari- nate that meat for at least 24 hours in plenty of olive oil,” he bounces around like a child without ritalin, “you could whack this together with a naughty sal- ad, lots of olive oil...olive oil...pukka!”
A long, hot night passes and you head out to catch your flight back to Luton, and you see Jamie again at the side of a rainy motorway.
He has lost his shoes, is trouserless and unshaven, and his hair looks like a bird’s nest. In fact, it is a bird’s nest. “This is a great way to make the most of local produce” he says, gesturing to the bird feeding its young on his head.“I’m just waiting for her to lay, innit”, he says, leering at nobody in particular. He kneels over the hard shoulder, where he has laid on a spread of Greek yoghurt, rotten fruit and bits of paper ripped to look like pastry.
“Greek yoghurt is some of the best yoghurt in the world innit, so thick. Thick. It’s nice to have a dollop in the morning with like a nectarine, or some plums... I still think it needs more olive oil, I am Jamie Olive-r after all” and he vigorously swigs the bottle of oil over the fruit before taking off his shirt and dry-humping the cold tarmac.
“Lovely jubbly.”
On your fetid Ryanair flight back to grey England, you think fondly of the times you saw the naked chef in various states of undress. Eventually, you forget it even happened, and fall back into the beige numbness of suburban life. On a cold night, you settle down before the telly with a single chocolate hobnob and large white wine. A familiar face pops up on the screen - it’s Jamie. His Greek Es- cape fills the room, and before long you are on the carpet, clutching your olive oil like a dead puppy. Each of his words is a hymn to the visceral beauty of being alive. Later in the week, you go out to WHSmiths, and buy the book. You find it is dedicated to you. Pukka.