Young-20s British lad, built for a good pieing.
It started with Toonattik, a British TV programme from the 2000s where presenters dressed as chefs and the one with fewest points got a pie in the face. I always hoped the bloke would lose. That broad-shouldered showman, playing the chef, only to become a hapless stooge taking his "just desserts" with pride and gusto. It left a mark. Maybe I saw myself in him before I knew what that meant.
I couldn't shake it. I wanted to be that big, strong lad in chef gear, standing tall, chest out, ready to take his pie like a man. Not for the job. For the look. The feel. The title. Chef. The handsome buffoon everyone wants to see pied. The baggy blue and white houndstooth trousers, the double-breasted white jacket. Costume and character all at once.
It's never been about cooking. It's the character. The moment. The fool. The big lad built like a tank, dressed like a pro, still made to take the fall.
The line between real and imagined has blurred. I've never worked a kitchen, yet the scene is vivid: the heat and clatter, the smell, the sting of cream. When mates became chefs I felt pride and a jolt, as if they'd stepped onto sacred ground. Their whites are work. Mine are the closest I've come to a version of myself I never had a name for.
These days I can't walk past a restaurant kitchen without slowing down. I see it clearly: me in that gear, not cooking, just being. One of the lads strolls over, cheeky with it. A steady hand behind my head. Boom. Pie to the face. Crust cracking, cream everywhere. Then stillness: breath held, laughter rising, the world briefly suspended while I stand there covered and complete.
Years of rugby and lifting built the frame. A body that looks right in chef gear, not for skill at the pass, but because it makes the mess feel earned. The one who takes the hit, stays standing, looks good doing it. A bloke who knows his role. Owns it.
I've never said this aloud. Not from shame, more reverence, and a fear of being misunderstood. It's not a kink, not a costume, not a joke. It's me. A part I kept to myself.
There's dignity in being the punchline. Put him in a kitchen and he fits. Put a pie in his face and he belongs. No shame, no fight. Just pure, messy fun.
There's a way lads move: a nudge and a grin that says you're next, a room of big blokes all noise and trust. I don't flinch, the cheer hits, we crack on. With a girl it's different. A "yes, chef" can light something in me, but outside that the thread slips. Women in whites do nothing for me; watching them get pied doesn't land. No dislike, just no pull. It only lands with lads. Same kit, clear roles, job done.
When my mates went pro it hit me in the chest, not attraction to them but to the role. Being in their place, maybe under their hand. Not sex, not only comedy. Something in between. Two of us in uniform, a pie ready. Then life resumes, a box inside clicks shut. Every time I see full whites, sleeves rolled, hat slightly off, it returns: a steady heat, a stillness, like a memory already lived.
It started as a sketch on a screen. A bloke in a silly hat, playing the fool. Somewhere along the way, I became him. Bigger. Realer. Cream-covered and grinning. The chef who takes his pie like a man.