#45 Cheered by heroes, cheering our heroes
01/01/21 12:26
Obviously, the show to watch right now is Bridgerton and I can’t wait to dive into its frothy lusciousness, but unfortunately my husband doesn’t share my enthusiasm, so I must find an opportune moment to view it alone. Given that I’m going to bed at 8.30pm every night, filled with existential dread and post-childcare exhaustion, this is proving difficult. To cheer ourselves up, we watched the Nigella Christmas special, and the Panorama doc on the Oxford vaccine. I will now flex my slightly flabby creative muscles by drawing some parallels between the two.
As you know, I love Nigella like Jacob Rees-Mogg loves money, and have recently started to grow my hair in the hope that when it reaches my shoulders, I can shape it into tousled waves that resemble her glorious tresses. I got her latest book for Christmas, along with some brass measuring cups, and intend to recreate her dishes with a little smile playing on my lips, squinting at the recipes, which I won’t be able to see, since I have decreed that our house shall be fairylit from now on. The festive edition of Cook, Eat, Repeat was everything a Lawson-lover could hope for – Nigella lounging on those stairs, gesticulating as if she has someone behind her pretending to be her arms, then beckoning us seductively into her studio kitchen to throw together some batshit concoctions like black bread and aristo-jammy dodgers. Please bump her up the queue for the jab to ensure she can go on making this kind of juicy, oozing, plump, moist, delectably finger-licking TV. As my insomniac son said, ‘I quite like that Nigella, because it makes you fall to sleep’. Inject her culinary comfort directly into my veins, and let me loll in an over-seasoned Twixmas torpor, soothed by the smooth curves of her Le Creuset. The nation needs Nigella like it needs mass vaccination. One saves us, the other sustains us.
And so to Panorama, which my husband described as something to watch if you have any doubts about the vaccine. This was off-putting, as my doubts about the vaccine are only observable by microscope. Give it to me, give me all of them, at 2.30am, naked in the street, singing the National Anthem, filmed by YouTubers. I spent most of the documentary on the edge of tears and wonder – these brilliant, sober, principled, dedicated lionhearts harnessing the power of science to come to our rescue. I love them like I love Nigella, like Jacob Rees-Mogg loves money. That piffling Pob Gove may have had enough of experts, but I will never get enough of hearing about skilled, competent, diligent people fucking nailing their brief. Forest-bathing is a thing, isn’t it, but what about expert-bathing? Submerging yourself in the wise counsel of sage beings who know what they’re talking about. I could get high on that.
They basically threw the design for the vaccine together in a weekend, while the rest of us were moaning about the playgrounds being closed. You’ve got students fresh-faced from their shift, merrily telling us about their role in changing the course of history. When I was at university, I listened to Sheryl Crow, drank Southern Comfort from a crystal tumbler and wrote poetry about insects. Listening to that team of titans tell us how they planned on putting the world back together, cheaply and accessibly, I’ve never felt so boring, stupid and useless – and it was just what I needed. There were slightly too many GVs of white-coated lab technicians applying pipettes to test tubes, and Fergus Walsh nodding, but apart from that this documentary has been whole-heartedly approved by my regulatory board. Send it out across the globe at room temperature, and let everyone benefit.
So those were my Christmas TV presents, and both provided hope for the future. Give me the odd dose of Nigella, and my shot of AZD1222, and I’m good for 2021.
As you know, I love Nigella like Jacob Rees-Mogg loves money, and have recently started to grow my hair in the hope that when it reaches my shoulders, I can shape it into tousled waves that resemble her glorious tresses. I got her latest book for Christmas, along with some brass measuring cups, and intend to recreate her dishes with a little smile playing on my lips, squinting at the recipes, which I won’t be able to see, since I have decreed that our house shall be fairylit from now on. The festive edition of Cook, Eat, Repeat was everything a Lawson-lover could hope for – Nigella lounging on those stairs, gesticulating as if she has someone behind her pretending to be her arms, then beckoning us seductively into her studio kitchen to throw together some batshit concoctions like black bread and aristo-jammy dodgers. Please bump her up the queue for the jab to ensure she can go on making this kind of juicy, oozing, plump, moist, delectably finger-licking TV. As my insomniac son said, ‘I quite like that Nigella, because it makes you fall to sleep’. Inject her culinary comfort directly into my veins, and let me loll in an over-seasoned Twixmas torpor, soothed by the smooth curves of her Le Creuset. The nation needs Nigella like it needs mass vaccination. One saves us, the other sustains us.
And so to Panorama, which my husband described as something to watch if you have any doubts about the vaccine. This was off-putting, as my doubts about the vaccine are only observable by microscope. Give it to me, give me all of them, at 2.30am, naked in the street, singing the National Anthem, filmed by YouTubers. I spent most of the documentary on the edge of tears and wonder – these brilliant, sober, principled, dedicated lionhearts harnessing the power of science to come to our rescue. I love them like I love Nigella, like Jacob Rees-Mogg loves money. That piffling Pob Gove may have had enough of experts, but I will never get enough of hearing about skilled, competent, diligent people fucking nailing their brief. Forest-bathing is a thing, isn’t it, but what about expert-bathing? Submerging yourself in the wise counsel of sage beings who know what they’re talking about. I could get high on that.
They basically threw the design for the vaccine together in a weekend, while the rest of us were moaning about the playgrounds being closed. You’ve got students fresh-faced from their shift, merrily telling us about their role in changing the course of history. When I was at university, I listened to Sheryl Crow, drank Southern Comfort from a crystal tumbler and wrote poetry about insects. Listening to that team of titans tell us how they planned on putting the world back together, cheaply and accessibly, I’ve never felt so boring, stupid and useless – and it was just what I needed. There were slightly too many GVs of white-coated lab technicians applying pipettes to test tubes, and Fergus Walsh nodding, but apart from that this documentary has been whole-heartedly approved by my regulatory board. Send it out across the globe at room temperature, and let everyone benefit.
So those were my Christmas TV presents, and both provided hope for the future. Give me the odd dose of Nigella, and my shot of AZD1222, and I’m good for 2021.
- Nigella’s Cook, Eat, Repeat Christmas Special - BBC Two
- Panorama, The Race for a Vaccine – BBC One
