SO, YOU'RE planning to stuff the turkey, cover it in bacon, bung it in the oven for a few hours and serve it to your family are you? F***ing amateur.
You might as well be a f***ing vegetarian. No, you've got to rear the turkey by hand. Feed it the best corn. Make it one of the f***ing family. Even give it a name (one year, I called a particularly plump-breasted one of mine Nigella). Then you've got to chop its head off, pull its giblets out while the corpse is still warm and serve it with all the trimmings. That's a proper roast turkey.
Besides, you're only cooking for your family, aren't you? I'll be cooking for 200 people at London's Claridge's. Last year, I served a slap-up turkey dinner for 800 British troops in the middle of the desert. And I didn't cheat with ready-prepared M&S bacon and chipolatas like you bastards will.
Trouble is, everyone these days is too soft. I didn't get where I am today - on the telly, 12 Michelin stars, restaurants all over the world - by being soft. You know what I do to relax, when I'm not killing animals, pulling the wings off flies or towel-whipping sous-chefs? I run marathons. This year, when you've finished your Christmas dinner, you should try a nice refreshing 12-mile run to aid the digestion. But you'll just slump in front of the TV with a tin of Quality Street, won't you? F***ing lightweight.
Anyway, the way to ensure a really great turkey dinner is to make sure a woman doesn't cook it. I've said it before - they're hopeless. The only bird in the kitchen at Christmas should be the turkey. Until it's time to do the washing-up, that is.