That Keith Floyd has died of a heart attack aged 65 will come as no surprise to anyone who watched last night's Channel 4 film, "Keith Meets Keith", in which the first true British TV celebrity chef was seen to be a sad, frail figure, a pale shadow of his former exuberant self. I hope that the fact that his death apparently coincided with the broadcast of the film is simply a bizarre coincidence, especially given that the programme ran like a visual obituary in any case.
However I can surely be forgiven for imagining (rather morbidly I accept) a scenario whereby Floyd, outraged at his portrayal in the film as a controlling alcoholic has-been, dragged himself seething to his unsteady feet, raised his walking cane in the air shouting "F**k You All", before collapsing contentedly, and permanently, believing he had had the last word.
As is usual in these circumstances, there will be tributes, followed after a dignified time by the stories of how difficult he really was to get on with, or worse. I will bide my time and state my case, of which I'm certain, in due course, but in the meantime, rest in peace, Keith, you were my first true food hero.




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