An open letter to Gordon Ramsay.

Dear Gordon,

You don’t know me, but I know you.

I’ve been watching you.

I’ve bought your books, read your recipes, eaten in your restaurants, followed your TV career,  the ups and downs in your personal life. I know all about the cooker that was lowered into your kitchen at your home in London, the cars in your garage, your relationship with your father-in-law, what Angela Hartnett thinks about you, your junkie ex jailbird brother who sleeps rough, and the mother who brought you and your 3 siblings up in Glasgow after your dad flew the coop.

The last two years of your life have been very, very difficult on a personal and business level.

As your vast restaurant empire teetered on the brink of bankruptcy you ended a 7 year fling with a professional mistress. The mind boggles.

But you’re a survivor. As you’ve said yourself, your reckless ambition stems from remembering the misery of your childhood: “That’s enough to keep anyone  f..king moving a thousand miles an hour”.

Since you burst onto our television screens I have followed every F word, have been dazzled by your ability, struck by your searing honesty and sheer determination, and watched you strutting and shouting in the pursuit of perfection. You are now the biggest chef brand in the world.

Being a genius in the kitchen, combined with your magnetic personality, has made you a star on TV.

TV is your forte. You know it, you love it and it loves you.

And you’ve discovered the secret. The money you make doing TV is much easier to earn and outshines the earnings of dishing up food in up to 25 restaurants around the world.

In 2009 your talent fees alone from your US shows hit 9 million dollars.

Two autobiographies and  the 23 cookbooks with your name on them have generated 25 million pounds. Then there are the endorsements, pots, pans, cookers, glasses, china and, of course, the Gordon’s Gin advertisements, all of which bring in 3 million pounds sterling per year.

Gordon, you earn more money outside of your restaurants than in them. Every single one of your restaurants abroad have lost money, not to talk about the headaches and anguish they have caused.

As your restaurant empire declines, with closures, loss of stars, and in the last two weeks, two very bad reviews from serious critics for the newly opened Petrus in London, the writing is on the wall.

Your future doesn’t lie in dishing up food in restaurants across the globe.

Your future is in show business. I know you know that.

You’re arriving in Cape Town this week, the most beautiful city in the world and you’ll have a blast.

Lap up all the attention of your adoring fans,  I’ll be one of them.

But please, for your own sake, check out your restaurant here and sort it out. If anyone says it’s going well, they are lying.

I’ve been, I’ve eaten, I left.  

13 years ago I met you.

I was sitting in Aubergine in London tucking into prawn ravioli as French waiters swirled around, and there you were, in your chef whites, strutting about. A bundle of energy and charisma.

It was a December evening,  the night before your wedding to Tana.

I said hello, and you beamed a great smile back,  I’ve been hooked ever since. 

So please stop pulling the wool over the eyes of customers in some of your restaurants. You know the ones I mean. Call a spade a spade.

Follow your destiny and shine on our TV screens.

Abandon the restaurants which don’t have traction, concentrate on a tiny handful  of restaurants. Make sure Angela Hartnett stays on board, she’s surely your greatest find ever.

Go forth and entertain.

Your adoring fan,

Clare.