“Yeah I can cook. Sunday roast and chelsea vs liverpool what a good afternoon”
look at the way he asserts his abilities in the kitchen, like he’s some sort of renaissance wonder man that women should froth over and guys should want to hang out with because he can both cook and enjoy the football. buddy, this isn’t cooking, this is heating up ingredients. everything looks like it’s from a packet or the supermarket freezer. you even went frozen potatoes; my borderline alcoholic on-the-dole ex-housemate would at least slice up the real thing. those chicken (??) fillets look like dead baby rats and all that fucking gravy, jesus christ, look at the steaming aroma, you can almost taste the thick, salty and savoury air mixed with the foul stench of his hairy little bachelor feet in your mouth. form a queue ladies!
