It’s two thirty in the morning when you write off the second rented Ferrari.
You leave it wrapped around a lamppost somewhere in East London and pay a passing teenage drug courier five hundred quid to lend you his BMX.
By the time you reach your mistress’s flat forty minutes later, the ketamine is already wearing off and the two highly poisonous, highly illegal Japanese puffer fish under your arm are on the turn.
You’ve had better – and worse – Saturday nights.
Barry Large, celebrity chef: you’re a monster. Read the rest of this entry »