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 liked it when the male presenter lost. 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. Not just in his build or the whites, but in the way he made a moment. How he gave everyone the laugh and never looked away. There was a strange power in that. A quiet kind of ownership.

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.

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 baggy pants, the white double breasted jacket. 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. The confidence. And I picture it. Me, in that gear. Not cooking, just being. One of the lads strolls over, all cheek and charm. A hand on the back of my head. Boom. Pie to the face. He grinds it in. Crust crumbles. Cream everywhere. There's a moment, right after the hit, where everything stills. Cream dripping, breath caught, the air thick with laughter or silence. And I'm just there. Covered. Whole. Like something clicked into place.

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. A big lad in a silly hat, splattered and grinning like he earned it. There is dignity in that. Not the cool kind. The kind that takes a pie and keeps his head high. 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 punchline, the one who takes it on the chin and gets 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 turned pro it hit physically, tight in the chest and a pull in the gut as my eyes traced buttons and folds. It was not attraction to them so much as the role, being in their place, maybe under their hand. Not sex and not only comedy, something in between, the two of us in uniform with a pie ready. Afterward life resumes, but inside a box clicks open. Every time I see full whites, sleeves rolled and a hat set slightly off, the feeling returns, longing, heat, 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.