Most of us don’t have much in common with celebrities. They live pampered lives, in huge, opulent homes, with unimaginable wealth, so moments where they feel relatable to the every person are rare.
However this week, Kelly Brook and Jack Osbourne managed to achieve it. If you removed a few elements – the cameras filming their every move to broadcast to the nation, the Australian jungle – their squabbles about how to prepare dinner could have been any couple in any kitchen in the country. Whether it’s over a campfire or in an oven, cooking is the one argument that British spouses can’t conquer.
I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here participants Kelly and Jack aren’t in a relationship of course, and have only known each other a few days – so they’re on much better behaviour than the majority of cohabitors. But still, you could have cut the tension between them with a knife – as long as you made sure it was the correct size, unlike the one Kelly used to peel some spuds, in Jack’s opinion, during some bickering now known as “potato-gate”.
Then came a row over an eel.
Kelly later explained, “I saw Jack’s eyes light up, it was like Christmas to Jack, and he came running over and elbowed me out of the way to get to this fish like a caveman, and I was like, ‘No, I’m going to do it’.”
The pass-agg dialogue that followed was hauntingly familiar.
“Do you want me to fillet it?” Kelly asked.
“No, I can do it,” Jack quickly replied.
“Oh… ok,” Kelly sighed.
“I asked if you wanted me to and you said yeah,” Jack reminded her pointedly.
“I… oh, ok,” she said, with an awkward laugh.
“If you want to do it, I don’t mind,” Jack shot back, bigger person style.
A beat, while she hovered instead of going away.
“You do it,” Jack surrendered.
“No, you fillet it, and I’ll cook it,” Kelly suggested.
“No, you do it. You do it.” Jack said, standing up and stropping off.
Kelly then lost any moral high ground she’d ever had by being so disgusted by the eel’s guts she gagged and retched. Jack lost his just after taking over from her, when he was unable to resist saying, “I told you.” (Still counts, even without the ‘so’).
The issue here, as in quite a few homes, is Too Many Cooks, which leads us to believe that if people had clearly defined roles, the arguments would stop. Sadly I’m living proof that this is far from true.
My husband does all the cooking in our house, and I do all the tidying up afterwards. Maybe that sounds like a fair division of labour, and perhaps would be, if he didn’t put all the ingredients in little bowls before adding them, like he’s presenting a TV show, and genuinely use every single pot, pan, utensil, and gadget we own, and surely some he borrows from next door too, no matter what he’s making.
He enjoys cooking, so does it with gay abandon, to loud music, splashing sauces all over the walls and ceiling like Jackson Pollock, flinging peelings and spices on the floor. To clarify: he is a good cook, and what he makes is usually delicious, but sometimes, especially if it’s complicated, my heart sinks when he brings it to the table.
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I try to enjoy it, but all I’m thinking about as I chew is the culinary crime scene that awaits me. Unfortunately, this is apparently written all over my face, because he recognises it immediately and is furious and hurt, because he’s gone to so much effort which obviously I don’t appreciate etc etc.
I am then forced to tread carefully, because I’m so useless in the kitchen that before I met him I lived on toast, cereal and, my own personal creation, Goldilocks Pasta (either much too hard or much too soft.) There was hardly any washing up though, and the walls remained unblemished. Just saying.
This kind of domestic disagreement leaves a bad taste in everyone’s mouth, but perhaps knowing we are not alone, that this is a fight nobody can win but all of us are having, brings a crumb of comfort. Plus at least we can now be a bit smug, because here’s one way we have it much better than celebrities. There are no doors to slam in the jungle.
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