The Fishwhacker Swindle?

BBC Radio Four’s Desert Island Discs has long been a favourite of mine, smug middle-classer that I am. (For foreigners: the British middle classes are the rulers of the world, although middle-classers who use the word foreigner unironically as I just have are class traitors and completely confused.) Anyway. For the last God knows how many years DID has been presented by Sue Lawley, but she had to relinquish the role a few months ago because she retired or died or something. Kirsty Young picked up the mantle.

Now Kirsty is hot property. She’s blonde, undeniably pretty, and possessed of a deliciously throaty, sexy Scottish voice that cannot fail to stimulate a throbbing in the groin of any man, even if he is an ancient one-legged bullshitter like this. She’s had some good guests in her short tenure, not least Stephen King, who proved himself to be an immensely witty and likeable man as well as a fellow of impeccable musical tastes. Anybody who would take both Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen to a desert island and immerse himself in their outpourings is my kind of chap.

However. A few weeks ago Kirsty had the triple-Michelin-starred chef Heston Blumenthal on the show. Apparently he runs the best restaurant in the world. Myself, I like to eat food, not art, but what the fuck do I know. Blumenthal was talking about his early days and, as usually happens nowadays with Radio Four presenters, Kirst interrupted him rudely:

‘Then you became an office furniture salesman. Soul-destroying work.’

It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. And it pissed me right off. I have a friend in his early sixties who is really and truly an office furniture salesman, and he loves his job and dreads the day when he will be forced to retire. But to a pampered, cosseted, closeted media type like Kirsty Young, salesmanship is soul-destroying. Deriving a wage from a source away from the public teat is soul-destroying. Earning a living by repetitive, sweat-inducing slog is soul-destroying. Any line of work other than that of flitting around in the delusional smoke-and-mirrors world of the fucking BBC is soul-destroying.

Kirsty, you’re in your mid-thirties. Get a grip and grow up. Get your hands dirty. Try working to an alarm clock every morning, and try accepting work that you don’t really want to do, just for one week. I know it’s hard, love, and your stylist and Sushi chef won’t be impressed. But your self esteem will be boosted no end. And that’s the point.