Young-20s British lad, built for a good pieing.

Everything started with Toonattik, a British TV programme from the 2000s where the presenters dressed as chefs, and the one with the fewest points at the end got a pie in the face. I always hoped the bloke would lose. I wanted to be like him. That bold, broad-shouldered showman, playing the part of a chef, only to become a hapless stooge, taking his "just desserts" with pride and gusto. It left an impression. Maybe I saw myself in him before I knew what that meant.

I couldn't shake the image. The fantasy was clear. I wanted to be that big, strong lad in chef gear, standing tall, chest out, ready to take his pie like a man. Every time I saw a bloke in chef uniform, the same thought hit me. I wanted to be like him. Not for the job, but for the look. The feel. The title. Chef. The handsome buffoon everyone wants to see pied. The baggy blue and white houndstooth trousers, the double-breasted white jacket. It is costume and character all at once.

It's never been about the job. I don't want to be a chef. Couldn't care less about cooking. It's the character. The moment. I want to be the lad in whites who loses. The one who gets pied. Because that's the part that lands. The fool. The clown. The big lad built like a tank, dressed like a pro, and still made to take the fall. There's something about that that hits me deeper than anything else.

The line between real and imagined has blurred. I have never worked a kitchen, yet the scene is vivid, the heat and clatter, the smell, the sting of cream. When mates became chefs I felt pride and a jolt, as if they had stepped onto sacred ground. Their whites are work; mine are a place I can be a version of myself I never named.

These days, I can't walk past a restaurant kitchen without slowing down, just for a moment. The uniforms do it to me every time. I see it so clearly. Me in that gear, not cooking, just being. One of the lads strolls over, cheeky with it. A steady hand behind my head. Boom. Pie to the face. Crust cracking, cream everywhere. Then the stillness. Breath held, laughter building, the world briefly suspended while I stand there covered and complete. As if something lined up inside me.

Years of rugby and lifting built the frame. The mirror shows a shape chasing a different ideal. A body that looks right in the chef gear, not for skill at the pass, but because it makes the mess feel earned. Seen as the one who can take the hit, stay standing, and look good doing it. A bloke who knows his role and owns it.

I have never said this aloud. Not shame, more reverence, and a fear of being misunderstood. It is not a kink, not a costume, not a joke. It is me, a part I kept hidden.

Why does it stick? Because it is funny, yes, but there is dignity in being the punchline. Put him in a kitchen and he fits. Put a pie in his face and he belongs. No shame, no fight, just pure, messy fun. Maybe I have always wanted to be the one who takes it on the chin and gives everyone the laugh.

There is a way lads move, a nudge and grin that says "you're next", a room of big blokes with noise and trust. A lad steps up out of respect because he knows I can take it. I do not flinch, the cheer hits, and we crack on. With a girl the spark is different. Eye contact and a smirk, a "yes, chef" can light a spark in me, yet outside it the thread slips. Women in whites do nothing for me; watching them get pied does not land, pieing them even less. No dislike, just no pull. The mirror is with lads. If he pies me, all the better, same kit, clear roles, job done.

When my mates went pro it hit in the chest, a pull in the gut as my eyes traced buttons and folds. Not attraction to them so much as to the role, being in their place, maybe under their hand. Not sex and not only comedy, something in between. Two of us in uniform, a pie ready. Then life resumes, but a box inside clicks shut. Every time I see full whites, sleeves rolled, hat set slightly off, it returns, a steady heat and a stillness, like a memory that never fades.

It started as a sketch on a screen. A bloke in a silly hat, playing the fool. But somewhere along the way, I became him. Bigger. Realer. Cream-covered and grinning. The hunky cream covered chef that takes his pie like a man.