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Marco Pierre White JUNIOR. Read that again. There’s two of them. The elder, he gets food stuff a.k.a. ingredients (for un-greedy-cunts) throws them in a pan and gets garlanded. Cooking, the new Reformation.

Offspring, Junior, he’s a walking advert for banality, a classic bungalow of a specimen, (nothing upstairs, joke fans), privately educated, bereft of the intelligence to peer outside the bubble, ‘oh it’s so difficult for me and my ilk, my name holds me back, the doors are open, yes, but, not the doors I need to advertise MY wares, know worrImean? However, for the sake of my art I am prepared to wait for the right door, held by the right person, or even my nanny.

Behold all the body-art created by the young gun, White fils has even got a nod to his illustrious, rebellious, tedious White Père emblazoned across his torso:


Legend has it that Senior, on a windswept night, the tension in the kitchen, household and his own head, was boiling, a pressure-cooker scenario. After cursing all and sundry he went to work on Junior’s skin with a marker pen. Junior got it inked. He is now officially a celebrity with something to offer humanity.

Junior on his tatz ‘“I’ve always been a bit of a naughty boy. My parents were devastated.” Transgressive.

Another stage in the appalling Evening Standard’s project to inseminate all culture with the brain-dead off-spring of dead-behind-the eyes organisms.

Watch out and watch this space.