In a development that has shaken the very foundations of pretentious dinner party conversation, the Booker Prize has been awarded to a novel about food. Yes, food. The very stuff that goes in your mouth.
The literati are beside themselves with excitement, clutching their ergonomic pens and crying into their artisan kale crisps. The winning tome, a 'culinary fiction revolution' as one breathless critic put it, is apparently a masterpiece of edible prose. I can only assume it tastes like victory and smugness.
The judges, no doubt wearing monocles made of compressed foie gras, declared it a 'sensory experience.' Of course it is. So is a Greggs sausage roll, but you don't see that getting a prize for literature.
Unless it's the prize for 'most likely to cause a heart attack in a hurry.' The novel follows a chef who cooks his feelings. Groundbreaking.
I've been doing that for years with gin. But does anyone celebrate my liquid memoir? No.
They just call me a functioning alcoholic. Meanwhile, the literary establishment is dining out on this 'revolution' as if they've discovered fire. Or maybe they've just discovered that people eat.
Next year: a novel about breathing. Watch out, it'll win everything. The critics are already sharpening their adverbs.
They say this book 'challenges the boundaries of form.' Does it? Or does it just describe a soufflé in excruciating detail?
I'd rather read the back of a Pot Noodle. At least it's honest about its contents. But no, we must applaud this brave new world where plot takes a backseat to a description of a perfect crème brûlée.
Forgive me if I don't break out the champagne. I'll stick to my warm Chardonnay and the news that somewhere in London, a man in horn-rimmed glasses is trying to give a salad a literary review.
