That Heston Blumenthal Little Chef menu in full

Isn't Heston Blumenthal vile? No, really, come on, he is, isn't he? Bacon and egg ice cream, for example. The fact that it is possible to make bacon and egg ice cream doesn't mean that it should be made. To test the voracity of this statement, it is worth remembering that just because some people do beastly things to farmyard animals it doesn't mean that they should.

Anyway, he is trying to revive Little Chef, beloved roadside eateries that are in many ways a symbol of a land of lost content. It is all on television, apparently. Some of his early offerings to roadside diners met with disapproval - a oyster in hotpot, while historically accurate, is never going to satisfy someone raised on surf and turf. "Waiter, will take this back, please, and tell chef there's a big bogey in the middle."

Admittedly, he might do better with his breakfasts, featuring black puds from Ramsay of Carluke, reputable Scots butcher, but his biggest problem is the boss of Little Chef, some oleaginous executive who bought the remnant of the chain a couple of years ago and thinks he knows what his customers want: Olympic Breakfast and anaemic chips, of course! Let's just say that he and Heston were made for each other, like peaches and mayonnaise, fish and polenta, vodka and brown ale.

So here is what Sir Compton would like to see on the menu the next time he takes the Bentley for a spin down to the local Little Chef.

o0o

Ginger bollocks dipped in liquid nitrogen and squashed by the burden of expectation

o0o

Shattered ego, served with hubris and a dash of effing and blinding

o0o

Shredded reputation with chilly reception

o0o

Mincing and whining, bitter in a twisted glass

o0o

Fees that repeat

Now that's culinary entertainment.