Cook!

The Future of Light Entertainment

Ca3(PO4)2 is the chemical formula for the ash of cremated human remains; most people call it Calcium Phosphate.

Barbeque any carbon-based mammal, and you’ll end up with the same compound, although furry ones may contain more keratin and melanin.

Like most human products, Calcium Phosphate is completely useless. It’s sterile. It’s no good as a fertiliser, so there’s no point spreading Uncle Bill’s ashes on his allotment and expecting a bumper harvest.

Although, interestingly, the ash of human remains can be used as a countermeasure against exposure to radioactive strontium and radium in a living (for now) human. Because it’s completely sterile!

If, for whatever reason, you wanted to make Calcium Phosphate, you’d have to apply extreme heat, which usually involves fire. The thing about fire is that, when uncontrolled, it destroys everything it touches. Its mindset, so to speak, is black and white. It doesn’t care who or what it consumes—good, bad, large or small. You either get cooked, or you don’t. It’s a leveller. The unsurpassed equal opportunist.

However, when controlled, it can, amongst other uses, help create culinary masterpieces. But not, one fervently hopes, with human flesh as a main ingredient. I think this is probably because roasting a body isn’t simple, and secondly, I’m told human flesh tastes far worse than chicken. No, although incineration at a crematorium is an art, you’ll never find chefs working their magic there.

Although perhaps they should, if only for entertainment. The way TV is going, I wouldn’t be surprised.

Picture, if you will, a new TV sensation, “Cook!”

In an appropriately unlit set, a Gothic chapel, maybe, a tetchy, moustachioed celebrity chef, wearing an obligatory shiny suit, a glittering grin and twinkling eyes, flits from contestant to contestant, laughing at his own jokes. For all the world, a mischievous angel who’s crash-landed on Earth.

“Smile, love. It’s not the end of the world.”

Chef smirks at the camera and curses out the mourners for not looking miserable enough. Marvel at the lingering soft focus, mourners’ tissues dropping like confetti.

The pre-incineration wake is artfully staged. Chef drools over the vol-au-vents and spun-sugar creations that rival the soon-to-be widow’s hat. He heckles grieving relatives as they deliver their heartfelt eulogies and mouths, “Who’s the lucky one?” while pointing at the contestants lying nervously in their hospital beds.

Finally, the speeches are done, and viewers at home must now cast their votes (terms and conditions apply). Chef pouts into the camera, “So who gets cooked this week? Who will be the lucky one? Will it be Bill, who isn’t long for this world with his devastating liver disease?” Wink, wink, “Maybe you like the look of bashful Brian, whose heart is failing fast, or will it be Dave ‘the Rave’, the almost brain-dead diabetic? The lines are open, so vote, vote, vote!”

The grateful winner is tossed on the fire and gets to have their lavish wake televised to the nation. Celebrity selfies with the soon-to-be ash — what more could you want on a Saturday night?

And the music for this box-set? Why, Soul, of course. After all, solemn celebrations require a little culture.