So last night MKR decided to give us all a break from cooking and let our teams play kitchen bonding games instead such as Punch the Polenta, What’s That Burning Smell? and, my personal favourite, Find the Lemon Flavour and Win a Haunch of Lamb Abomination!
And boy was it a party atmosphere with our teams Ali and Samuel and Angela and Melina really rolling up their sleeves and getting into the spirit of obliterating any semblance of skill and out-crapping each other.
Once again our intrepid heros are putting two slabs of fish into an arena to engage in some good old fashioned mortal combat. Italians, Angela and Melina, are giving theirs some extra protection by wrapping it in some pig meat, whilst Ali and Samuel think it’s more important to provide a soft place to land, so they’re lining their plate with a nice puffy gut of polenta whose only redeeming feature is that it doesn’t look like Stefano’s grandmother’s.
While they’re tweaking over entrees, there’s some necessary prep for their other dishes twisting in the Kitchen HQ breeze. Angela is making some biscuits for dessert while Melina is getting down and dirty with some meaty sauce for the main. Ali and Samuel are also working on dessert but they’ve come up with the excellent plan to flash-boil their meat main in the five minutes prior to serving, rather than the recommended eight or so hours.
Our judges are, understandably, thrilled.
Rico isn’t. He’s banking on Italy going down in flames tonight and he’s getting that look on his face that generally means he’s only minutes away from getting to his feet and strutting in front of the TV like a plastered rooster.
But wait – something’s happening! Angela smells burning! By the looks of things so does Kerrie on the balcony – either that or Craig’s been caught short and has used his pants as a potty again.
Melina is freaking out – it’s all happening at once, she needs to get on with the entree and she doesn’t have time to pry off the lid of the pressure cooker and get spat at by some overcooked sauce. So she goes to Plan B: pretend it ain’t happening and surround herself in a sweet smelling cloud of fuck it’s until she can find a way to blame the Asians.
Over in Ali and Samuel land and the polenta is playing them for the mismatched bitches they are and refusing to taste pretty. Samuel has made a second batch but he’s left it too late and when he yanks that ugly yellow shit out of the fridge it’s runnier than Jenna’s mascara. Gappy Ali begs him to take a second look at the first lot, and while that stuff is set, it’s rougher than the scar tissue on Craig’s dick, and Samuel would rather throw the judges life vests and get them to swim through the second lot than serve this first fuckery.
Back to the Italians and Melina’s overdone the bacon vest and the heat can’t get to the fish! She reckons the oven’s on as hot as it will go but Ang doesn’t know which knob she’s been fiddling with because that shit isn’t even warm! And sure enough, the fish is colder than Sophia on her wedding night and the fucks are starting to fly. Angela, still fragile after her last bout of insanity starts shrieking ‘just stick it IN!’ and Craig is halfway down the balcony with his K-Mart’s around his ankles before he realises she’s talking about the fish.
Time runs out and neither team is happy. The girls are hoping the extra three seconds in a finally hot oven will have made the difference while Ali is praying that the flavours will sustain the judges until the Coast Guard arrives to yank them out of all that polenta.
First up for chewing is Ali and Samuel’s and fiesty Irish Fergus isn’t happy. I’ve discovered the subtitle button on my remote control so, while it still SOUNDS like he’s struggling over a mouthful of cats, the little words on the screen tell me that he ‘dislikes this dish on so many levels’.
On the balcony there’s a similar reaction and Elle reckons a knob of butter – hell even just a dick – would have improved the taste of the polenta.
Angela and Melina’s doesn’t go down too well either with Manu finding fault with the fish and the little blonde judge whispering that that prosciutto was scarier than her first fisting.
To the cameras, Ang is gushing about ramming their hearts, lungs, spleens and bladders into their food in the hope of giving it some semblance of flavour. Melina agrees and reckons if she had a second head she’d lop the fucker off and toss that in for good measure.
Back in the kitchen and Samuel has gone rogue. He’s cooking Masterstock and rather than carefully measuring out his myriad of ingredients, he’s just unscrewing lids with his teeth and dumping shit in. After his twentieth bottle of who-the-fuck-knows, he reckons it’s brown enough and in goes a piece of meat that looks like something Godzilla might rip off a T-Rex and throw to his children.
But that’s not their only problem: they’re cooking steamed buns and when Samuel lifts the lid on the steamer they’re sitting there in a circle-jerk doing anything other than actually cooking. Miserable Ali once again sends out a prayer that, even though it LOOKS like catfood, the judges won’t choke on a pilchard.
Ang and Melina are having a better time of it. Melina is happy with the ragout, has carefully packed away her remaining fucks and is boogeying away kneading some dough for their pasta. Ang is doing the same: she reckons this dish is so full of their guts that when the judges eat it it will be like Invasion of the Body Snatchers and they’ll have a big old Melina and Angela love party and live happily ever after on Pluto once her husband has tackled and pounded all those pesky natives.
Scott on the balcony gets a whiff of Angela’s relapse and says he’d like to say they look flustered, but that’s kind of like saying that the old guy who flashes the kiddies on Bondi is just airing out his dick. Ashlee and Sophia think it’s about time these two actually showed some skill rather than just tits and eighties lipstick.
Tasting time and it’s the Italians’ first and theres lots of nodding between the tiny blonde and Queen Alien which causes Rico to lurch to his feet and lay angry fingers in their direction. But then Pete says it’s missing seasoning and that even though this shit is chock full of organs, those dopey bitches have left out the heart which he was really looking forward to slurping down with a nice Chianti.
But then it’s Ali and Samuel’s turn and suddenly I remember that Mick and Matt weren’t the only Tasmanians, because – and there’s really no other way of describing it – this is incest on a plate.
‘Is dis a choke?’ spits Fergus.
Blondie makes a tentative effort to get a forkful past her lips, but the meat is ‘ruined’ and if there’s one thing she can’t abide it’s getting chunks on her Collette Dinnigan.
Meanwhile, Fergus is still having words with his plate and is looking dangerously close to asking it to step outside.
‘Tell us how you really feel’, says Pete and Fergus let’s rip that this fuckery is taking away valuable time that he could be spending ripping off bottle shops and glassing people.
‘Dis is an abomination!’ he slurs and that’s it: Rico’s up and he’s got more cock in his strut than in his trousers and I know I’ll be up early cleaning wine spray off the Panasonic.
Back in the kitchen and dessert is ON! The Italians worry that they have no idea who’s winning so they may as well spend the entire thirty minutes winding lemon rind around cutlery.
Ali’s hands are shaking – either that or she’s hearing techno in her head and is going HARD. Their dessert is a green tart with some green stuff on the side and some less green icecream.
On the balcony, Jake reckons that Ali and Samuel are dead unless their dessert is tarted up with more bling than a Queen Elizabeth drag show and sprays cash directly into the judges’ bank accounts.
Back to the girls and they’re still obsessing over a bunch of lemon rinds. As the clock runs down, they realise what Rico has been screaming all along and rush to take them off before their dreams of winning are destroyed by what is essentially the winning garnish in a smegma-lookalike contest.
Time is up and Ali is looking greener than the green shit on the plate and Melina is busy introducing her foot to anything that can’t get away quick enough. Neither team is particularly happy and Ali, for the final time, hopes that the taste of the food causes such intense vomiting that the resulting disorientation causes favourable scoring.
And it looks like her dreams are coming true! For the first time all night, Fergus’ face doesn’t fold in on itself and little blondie says the pastry is lovely and short. Pete reckons the green shit on the side was like adding dump to a side of turd but that, all things considered, he’s pretty sure he’ll keep it down.
As we already knew, though, it’s not nearly enough – despite the fact that our Italian Mamas fucked so hard with that lemon rind that they forgot to add any flavour to the rest of it. While the judges eat, our girls again start rambling about their innards and how, given the chance, they have plenty more to spill.
Scoring time arrives and there’s a bunch of fives and sixes for the girls. Melina is PISSED – she reckons if this is all her guts get on the black market, she’s sewing up shop and going back to flashing her tits to retirees for fivers.
Over to Ali and Samuel and Ali’s head has consumed her neck and is now resting flat on her shoulders. Samuel is looking bright-eyed and clammy and Rico reckons that put either of these two in a Thai airport and they’d be hustled into a side-room and given the full body cavity treatment quicker than Kerrie’s dog could bark the word ‘whore’.
Fergus doesn’t hold back and tells them he usually eats with his eyes but those bitches bailed the minute that fugly shit landed on the table. He reckons their dessert was ‘redemption’ not to be confused with ‘salvation’ because Tasmanian Air is now boarding and he for one won’t be weeping at the airport.
The scores are a mix of fours and fives – with a three from Fergus -and because Ali is all teary and Samuel looks like he’s been forced to barf up his dignity and then eat it, Manu drops a giant whopper and tells them it is the good dishes everyone will remember.
While everyone else mutters ‘Bitch PLEASE!’ and shoots I’ll-remember-that-meat-even-if-do-won’t-you-froggy-git glances at Manu, Dan says that this is the darkest day in his MKR experience because he was *this close* to yanking Ali and Samuel’s car keys out of the bowl, and Steph had agreed to bear one for the team and take Ali.
The show ends by promising us a trip to the races and I for one am looking forward to all the fashion, food and fuckery we can stretch our ass lips around without screaming for a proctologist.