Seems like some of the critics are not too keen on my new restaurant, called Plane Food, in Heathrow Airport. Like Jan Moir, a former critic for The Daily Telegraph, who is now running her own website called "Are You Ready to Order?"

Yes, I'm ready to fucking order. I'm ready to fucking order a critic with a clue. But I suppose I'll be waiting a bloody long time for that exotic delicacy to arrive at my table. Oh, I'm ready to fucking order; how about a nice "Bananas Foster Jan Moir" flambeed tableside. With a blowtorch.

I love the fucking "critic-speak" these gormless idiots use. Take this nugget from Moir's hatchet job of Plane Food: "the crab itself is pasty and unconvincing as a main ingredient."

Unconvincing? What the fuck are you talking about? It's not Meryl Streep, it's crab. It's not supposed to act or convince you of anything. It's supposed to be scooped the fuck up on your fork and eaten, you twit! It's crab! My word, people like her and Frank Bruni need to be stopped. The bullshit that spews forth from their keyboards is utterly mind-numbing.The fucking idiot also says that "the main drawback of Plane Food, and it is a huge one, is that no naked flames are allowed on site. This means no gas. All the food must be cooked with dull, biddable electricity..."

Guess what, when I press your fucking cheek down on the electric fucking burner, you won't be calling it "dull."

One other thing: DON'T YOU DARE CALL MY EPAULETTES EGGY!

The fact is, if you want shitty fucking food, eat at the kiosks in the airport. If you want a real meal that offers something a bit more than the depressing fucking muckamuck that you see every fucking day, then eat at Plane Food. Hell, eat at any of my restaurants.

If you want cheap toilet paper, use any column by any food critic -- makes the perfect bum fodder.