Bevvied. Ruby Murray. Mates. The missus. Laavely. Strip it bare. Make it work. PUH-kah!

What's that I hear you say, men of Britain? That Jamie Oliver is a dribbling mockney Britpop twat, six years out of date? Lord Sainsburys' special whore? A copper-bottomed wanker, sliding down his spiral staircase with that 'oh my Jockeys just went up my arse' expression on his face?

Oh, give me a break.

You. Are. Just. Jealous.

You're just upset because he's fit and your girlfriend fancies him.

Jamie Oliver is the first proper male bimbo. I suspect that, like a thousand female television presenters before him, Jamie was not selected for his technical skills. A television producer did not taste Watermelon Vodka and Smashed Maltesers Ice Cream and demand that the chef of these delicacies be dragged from the kitchen.

No, a female TV producer, making a documentary about some uggo old chefbloke like Antony Worral Thompson, spots the Jameister in the background chopping up some carrots and goes moist. Never tasted a recipe; never even spoke to the guy. Bish bash bosh, he's got his own series.

Think about it. What do all male chefs have in common? They are all mingers, pure and simple. They ming. All of them. Ming ming ming. Spiky Gazza. Mardy Marco. Anthony, with a face like a smacked arse. Mingtastic. So that clever lady producer saw a gap in the market just the right size for an unminging, cute, labrador-eyed boy. And she saw just the thing to put in it: Jamie Oliver.

Jamie Oliver, just like Gail Porter, Cat Deeley, Lisa Rogers, Samantha Janus, Denise Van Outen, et al ad infinitum, is a blonde bimbo whose success owes far, far more to looks than to anything else. Irritating, isn't it? Not right, is it? No fair, is it?

Boys, please. You're just jealous. How are you enjoying your own medicine? And do you want fries with that?