THE INTERVIEW GORDON RAMSAY TRIED TO BAN

In April 2008, I was sent by Good Weekend magazine in Australia to interview “celebrity chef” (whatever that means) Gordon Ramsay in London. I was not warned that some subjects were off limits with Gordon Ramsay. If, however, I had read the clips, I would have come across Stephanie Bunbury's Ramsay profile in a 2003 issue of Good Weekend, and would have had a better idea of what to expect. Bunbury was given “a list of forbidden topics” which, if mentioned, would cause Ramsay to “get up and leave”. These comprised: “His father and his brother Ronnie. Other celebrity chefs. Vegetarians. The death of David Dempsey. The issue of drugs within the restaurant industry.” By avoiding the prohibited themes – a couple of which were of no interest to Australians, anyway – Bunbury managed to spend a convivial two hours with Ramsay, whereas he ended our conversation, and kicked me out of his living room, after 15-minutes-and-31 seconds. The last straw for him was also the first straw – I asked him three questions about his father when, at the start of the interview, he had said, "the bullshit at home … I don't want to continue regurgitating". I think Ramsay might have confused Good Weekend with Good Food Week ("We're doing the Good Food Show, is that right?" he asked, as he sat down. "Is that what this is talking about?"). The interview had come through a Sydney PR company that was contracted by Good Food Week, which was in contact with Ramsay through a Melbourne PR company that seemed to represent chefs, which dealt – perhaps indirectly – with Ramsay's personal staff.

It took months to set up the interview, which was finally held – insofar as it was held at all – in London in April, after we had tried to schedule it for LA in January (we were told he was in London) and London in February (we were told he was in LA). We were pushing for as much access as possible and, after turning down an offer of a 30-minute international phone call, were suddenly asked if we would accept three hours with him in the US. This question, however, seemed largely speculative in spirit, like asking a ticket holder if they would like to win the Lotto. The next we heard was that there was a possibility of one hour, or 45 minutes, at Ramsay's home, or in a car driving between Ramsay's home and a TV studio. Before I reached London, nobody ever seemed certain where Ramsay might be, and this continued to be the case once I arrived, the Saturday before the scheduled meeting. I tried to get into the filming of his TV show The F-word, which, according to links to the programme's website, was on Monday. I was told by a PR that it definitely was not on Monday, but it might be on Wednesday or Thursday. On Tuesday, I received an email suggesting I go direct to the producers and apply for an audience ticket under an assumed name, since journalists are not allowed in. The interview was scheduled for Friday, then moved to Thursday, then moved back to Friday. It was supposed to be at 8am (although I was expected to arrive 15 minutes early, in the manner of a visitor to the Queen) then moved – the day before – to 7am. When I turned up at Ramsay's house at the appointed time, his wife told me there had been a scheduling error, and I should not have come until 8am. Ramsay spent an hour on breakfast and a conference call, then eventually came to meet me at 8:10.

When things start off like this, in my experience, they rarely get any better. And they did not. But the aftermath was astonishing. Here is the transcript of the interview that I sent to my editor to try to explain why I had been in London for a week but with Ramsay for only fifteen minutes… THE INTERVIEW I arrive at Gordon Ramsay's house by minicab at 7am, as instructed by his PR at about 2:30pm the day before. A child answers the door and shows me in. Ramsay's wife, Tana, makes me a cup of tea and offers to turn on the radio. I tell her I'm alright, thanks. I'm happy reading Ramsay's autobiography, Humble Pie, which I have brought with me. Tana says there has been a mistake, and the interview won't start until 8am. Gordon is on a conference call. At about 8:05, Ramsay pops into the room to say hello, and acknowledge that this has been very difficult to set up. I'm mildly surprised that he is aware of all the different arrangements, but heartened that he appears concerned. He asks me if I am alright, twice. I must look a bit miserable, but I'm impressed by his manners. He leaves, and returns 5-10 minutes later. I've been told the interview will take place in a car on the way to the studio, but he sits down in the living room, carrying two large books. My friend who supplies his pubs with beer has given me two special bottles to pass on to Ramsay. "That's very kind of him," says Ramsay. Ramsay asks me what this is for. I tell him it's for Good Weekend, the weekend colour magazine of the two main broadsheets in Australia, the Sydney Morning Herald and the Melbourne Age. I compare it with the Independent Magazine. He does not seem to be listening, as if I am answering the wrong question. I tell him how much I enjoyed his autobiography, that it is a good book. I ask a question about it – I don't remember the wording – then ask if we can begin the interview. He agrees, and I turn on my digital recorder…

Ramsay [in answer to the forgotten question about the book]: "It's a... yeah, I mean, in terms of, er... We're discussing the... We're doing the Good Food Show, is that right? Is that what this is talking about?"

Er, no, this is, like, a 3000-word profile.
"Okay. Right. Okay."

It's one of those...
"Okay."

I pretend to know you, after about half an hour with you [laughs].
"Jesus. Yeah. I don't think, um... Laying yourself bare and opening up, and, um, I suppose, you know, leaving no stones unturned gives it, a... I suppose a proper backbone to see... You know, they hear you on television and they have this image, but when they get to know you, it becomes completely different. I couldn't have done it without mum, that's for sure. Painful in parts, but, erm, yeah, important, I think."

How did you do it? Were you dictating it to a writer, or...
"No, I, er, had a little machine - a little bit bigger than that [he points to my recorder] - everywhere I went, a Dictaphone. I spoke into it every day. It travelled with me. And as I came back and I had Tana typing out and we'd add to it. Then I would go on weekends down to see mum, and as I saw the kids at weekends..."

[A man comes in and interrupts. Ramsay asks him to give something to Sharon. He is going to the office, going somewhere else then coming straight back. Ramsay tells him to drive carefully and take care.]
"... and then, um, I would be interviewed by a girl called Rachel Cooke, who is an amazing journalist. After service, she would follow me for a day, sort of fly on the wall, lunch and dinner, and then hit me with, you know, 200 questions at midnight on the back of what she had experienced during that day. And that's how it started to go. So we did that about a dozen times. Yeah..."

And it was very cathartic? You say at the end that it was.
"I think it was more, er, not therapeutic, but it was a tough time. It was a tough time for my sisters, a tough time for my brother. So, um, it was, um [kisses his teeth]... I think it was more important, I think, really - for them as well. So, um... "It's weird, isn't it? It got serialised, it goes up, and - bang! - all of a sudden, it just starts running."

Has it changed the way people think of you, do you think?
"I don't... I don't hang around and stop and ask. I'm always moved on and gone. I never stop and contemplate. I'm too scared to. So I'm, you know, I, I, I had no airs and graces, and no boundaries with Humble Pie, and, er... It's really weird now, when, you know, there's a... Oxford films are... We signed last month for the rights to Touchstone Pictures. So talking about it now feels slightly eerie, because it's done and, you know, it was sort of put to bed. So when they come and talk to you about... they want to do a picture, a story from 17-27, that 10-year push to get your first Michelin star, I find that really exciting, doing... Talking about the, er, bullshit at home, and the, er, scenario with my brother's heroin addiction, and that stuff [blows air through his lips] - you know what I mean? - I don't want to, you know, I don't want to continue regurgitating, you know what I mean? It gets boring. Because it's gone. Nobody's suffering. You know, my brother's in secondary rehab, and mum's strong as an ox. So..."

What's secondary rehab?
"You know when you come out of rehab and go into a halfway house?

Oh, okay, yeah.
"Is it the same in Oz?"

I don't really know how it works. We have halfway houses, yeah.
"Secondary's, so, er, it's, yeah. Upwards and onwards!"

So, if we are gonna do the interview here for a bit...
"Yeah."

Could I go and stand in your kitchen? My boss has really asked me to go and have a look at your kitchen.
"Could we do that on the way out?"

Of course.
"Yeah."

Yeah.
"And then..."

Just so I can almost put my foot in it: “I had a look in his kitchen”.
"Yeah, yeah."

She loves your kitchen.
"Definitely."

So, what surprised me about this book – although, obviously, I was vaguely aware of, kind of, chef literature – was the savagery of life in the kitchen. I really had no idea.
"Um. Um."

Why? Why is it such a hothouse?
"Why? Let's be honest. Flipping burgers and dressing Caesar salads in division-four cooking is a doddle. It's a piece of piss. When you decide to carve it out at three Michelin stars, and go to the very, very top, then there's a price to pay for that. You can't just read a cook book and it's just gonna happen. You've got to live it, breathe it, push it, move it, enhance it, so, er, not every chef wants to win three Michelin stars."

I mean, is there always a terrible tension in a restaurant kitchen?
"Pressure's healthy. Tension is not very apparent. Pressure is huge. Pressure becomes stressful when you can't handle it. So... Ninety-nine per cent of the chefs I know can't run a fucking bath, let alone a kitchen, so, er... Yeah, it becomes stressful when you can't handle that pressure, but I think pressure's healthy. I thrive on pressure. Without any pressure, I'm the worst cook in the world. Under pressure, then, you know, I'm one of the best."

You really can't cook without pressure?
"Um, nah. Not interested."

And does that go for the rest of your life, as well?
"It depends, really. It depends what kind of frame of mind I'm in. When I've got my jacket on, I take it seriously. 'Kitchen Nightmares' gives me jeopardy. Three Michelin stars gives me pressure. So I'm a bit of an adrenalin junkie, I think."

Yeah. And the kitchen pumps people's adrenalin up?
"You can't be in high-fiving, best mates and 'Hey dude', 'Pass me the spinach,' 'Don't worry about table five, they've just spent $100 a head.' You know, it's quite full on."

Yeah [laughs].
"So, you know, it's er... I've trained with the best. And Jesus, if you thought I was tough in the kitchen, you should see some of the kitchens I've worked in France. Extraordinary. I mean, absolute, whooo! Bang!"

So you are tough in the kitchen? A couple of bits there [points to the book], you say there are "ludicrous allegation's that I'm a bully" and you also say your relationship with your father made you hate a certain kind of "male aggression"? That's not the kind of aggression that you exhibit [laughs]?
"Yeah, you misconstrued it. When somebody's passionate, it's no different to playing Aussie Rules or being on the soccer field. It's passion. And when there's that level of combat, and you've got a level of competitive spirit within you, that's not bullying, that's just pressure. And, like I said, if there's an easier kitchen that can give you that level of experience, and drill in that kind of understanding, you let me know where that is, and I'm gonna go and work in it. [inaudible] I'll be there. Because it's never gonna be that kind of best-friends scenario. 'Let's get it together, man,' 'Hey dude,' high five, and, 'Let's start cooking the sea bass. Show us the kitchen.' And if you want to get to the very top then you have to work with the very top, and then when you've got your kitchen, you have to train them like you were trained. So, I'm not saying that's an excuse for the lack of my management. I'm an amazing motivator. The staff retention in my company, ten years down the line, is extraordinary."

Yeah.
"So, if I was that much of a knob to work for - as certain critics portray - then my guys wouldn't be with me today. My guys aren't chefs anymore. My guys are partners. You know, they've worked so hard, so they treat those restaurants like their business and, erm, chefs are very selfish, self-centered individuals. They don't like giving things away. So, as I've expanded, my guys are partners. And they've become exceptionally talented and they've become exceptionally well, on the back of their success. And all I do is jeopardise their future by dropping them in the pressure zone. So everyone thinks I'm under immense pressure, and I'm spreading myself too thin, but the real pressure, it's on my staff, it's not on myself. "

So, being under that pressure must make very firm friendships. It must make very deep friendships.
"Extraordinary bonds. It's like a bond in the changing room, you know, playing soccer for Glasgow Rangers. It's like this amazing team effort. There's that level of loyalty. And it's not about commanding respect. That's bullshit. It's about the proper understanding. We spend more time together in the kitchen than we do with our families. So your parents are your first big influence in life, and your second major influence is your career. Things don't really start until your career is moving. You have your parents' discipline, then you have a relationship with your partner ­girlfriend, boyfriend, whatever it may be - and that sort of clouds your image, you're drawn into those false sense of securities, because you feel at the age of 19, you're in love. You've experienced fuck all at 19. Get yourself into a job and get your arse kicked. Put yourself in a strange country where you can't speak the language and you haven't got a pot to piss in, and that forms a character. So, erm, yeah, it's something never to indulge in with that level of comfort zone from your parents. You've got to get out and take the world on, and start forming a character. That lays down the foundation of the rest of your life."

I know this is going over old ground for you...
"No."

...that you said you didn't want to, but – as I say – not much of this is known in Australia. I laughed when you said – although it is not funny – about your dad thinking that you might be gay.
"Yeah, there's always that tendency, because of the feminine side, in terms of being a cook. So after having football boots and exchanging it for an apron, you know, in a true, Scots-blood fashion – trust me, you know, he thought his son was gay. And even if my son turned out to be gay... Whatever. His sexuality, that's got nothing to do with me. That's private. I wouldn't stop loving him any less. In these days' world. But the 1960s and 70s were an old era... That old-fashioned sort of mentality disappeared years ago with Thatcher..."

So, why do you think your dad was so messed up?
"Oh God, em, shame he's not around for you to ask him that question, really. Em, many reasons, really. Huge chip on his shoulders in terms of, you know, never buying a decent house and putting a roof over his head for his family. Drink, I think, was a huge influence, and then he lived his life as this sort of, you know, sad rock star, that was playing in a band that he was never gonna make it 'big' big, but everybody else around him had to take second and third place, because of his music career. So we'd land in thousands of pounds worth of debt to get to the next Marshall amp, to get the next synthesizer, to get the next Fender Stratocaster and, you know, we'd all always be chasing his gear up and down the stairs, in and out of clubs. So, em, I think that was a huge... embarrassment. When you've plugged away at something for 20 years, and you've sort of done okay but you haven't made it 'big', and you've sacrificed your family for that, and you haven't achieved it, if the family aren't there to support you on the back of your selfishness, then you become a very bitter, twisted individual. If you then turn your back on the family that have been supportive for 20 years, and what they'd sacrificed to make you get where you wanted to go and didn't get there, the it's a very, very... naughty human way of turning around and shitting on your family from a great height. A combination of those. I think drink was a huge, you know, downturn. It wasn't a drink, it was a bottle. So, when you're on that trail, you know, fucking game over, mate. [Claps] Game over."

Was he, like, a very charismatic man? People like that sometimes are.
"No. No. No, no, no. He wasn't charismatic at all. No, erm..."

[Laughs.]
"I think mum would be your best person to answer that. In terms of charismatic, no. Always very unassuming of individuals. He grew up in a council estate in Stratford upon Avon, and anyone that, you know, came from a house that was bought, he was wary of. Really weird. Soooo, erm, no, no. Definitely not character. Definitely not."

In what ways do you take after him?
"Oh, mate, listen, I'm not here to go through, and discuss, and waste our time talking about, er, dad, and there's more important things to talk about."

Sure.
"In terms of, er, I thought you'd done your homework. Everything he'd done, I've done nothing but the opposite. So I don't see myself following his footsteps. You'll have to excuse me. I am going to get ready to go to work. I didn't really come to talk about that.

Sure [inaudible].
"You know, because that's not, er, a hang-up. I've moved on. You seem to keep on digging at it, and I totally understand..."

Sorry, yeah, as I say [inaudible].
"No, no. Not at all.

[Something inaudible about the story not being well known in Australia.]
"Well, I launched the book in Australia."

Sorry.
"Well, don't you worry, but this... I would like to, out of respect for you and your magazine, I'll call my publicist in Australia and call it a day. Er, I've got a manic day today. Are we gonna get the chance to see you in Sydney?"

So, we're not doing the interview... ?
"We've just done it, but I, I'm not here to talk about my father..."

Ah, we'll talk about food...
"I would like to, sort of, call it a day, if you don't mind."

[Inaudible]
"What do you mean?"

We're... we're not having the story?
"Ah, it's not about that. Everything that you've got on there for the last, you know, 17 minutes is about, you know, how, how...

[Inaudible]
"How do you see in yourself your father..."

[We both talk together, it becomes inaudible. I am apologising.]
"Absolutely. It came out two years ago. You know, I've had two paperbacks, and Playing With Fire 's come out, as well, since then. But I'm not going to argue with you.

Okay.
"Definitely not."

Okay.
"I'm just not here to talk about my father."

Okay. Sorry.
"Ah, not at all. That wasn't what I received the email for. I'll talk to the magazine. It's all on tape. We're just gonna switch to food. I'd like to draw it to an end, if you don't mind.

Okay.
"Ah, total respect. Your position. And maybe I'll get a chance to see you in Sydney."

Alright.
"Excellent. Good to see you. Let me see you out."

[We shake hands, I apologise again, and say how much I really did enjoy the book. At the door, he asks me if I am a freelancer or a staffer. I tell him I work on a retainer. Out in the street, I wonder where on earth I am. I walk towards a bus stop, and call you on the mobile.] THE AFTERMATH Ramsay stuck to this courteous, restrained, convivial script even as he gently ejected me from his home. This attitude of "Total respect. Your Position" disappeared, however, once I disappeared up his driveway. His told his PR, and she told my editor, that he had never in his life been treated this way by a journalist, and that he would consider pulling out of the Good Food & Wine Show as result. His PR asked for an assurance that the contents of the "tape" would never be made public. To compensate for the time and money we would waste by killing my story, Ramsay offered instead the original half-hour phone interview, provided it was only about food, and provided I was not the journalist at the other end of the line. In fact, he asked that the editor of Good Weekend carry out the interview herself. I do not know if he still believed that I was somehow representing the Good Food & Wine Show, or if he thought the interview was useless without his endorsement. I wrote the story, which was largely concerned with my attempts to explain Ramsay's position. I showed the story ("Nightmare on Ramsay Street", Good Weekend, 31 May 2008) to another weekend magazine editor who said, “That's exactly the story everybody wants to get with Ramsay”: the human volcano blows his top. But I did not mean it to happen (which is not to say that I had not idly considered winding up Ramsay, but I would have used his repeated contention that cooking in an upmarket restaurant kitchen was “like the fucking SAS”, rather than the fact he had an abusive father). Reading the transcript, it's obvious what happened. Ramsay believed he was doing a puff piece for the Good Food Show, I thought I was putting together a personal profile. Ramsay does plenty of personal profiles – or, at least, he did in those days, before the Sarah Symmonds and Tracy Grimshaw manufactured scandals – but he doesn't talk about his relationship with his father unless he has a book about it to promote. I didn't know that, but I respect it as a commercial-emotional decision. I was surprised about how zealously Ramsay tried to prevent publication afterwards, but I guess that's the kind of person he is…