It’s 5am on Saturday morning and I’m barely awake, denied the snooze button, attempting to read 2016’s A Gentleman in Moscow by American novelist Amor Towles by bedside light. So far Count Alexander Somebody has been escorted through the Kremlin to his hotel in Red Square, pondered his dead grandmother and made friends with a pigeon. Why am I reading this pre-sunrise tale of suspected post-first world war anti-communism/ornithology? Because I’m recreating Gregg Wallace’s perfect Saturday, obviously.
Last week, Wallace outlined his ideal Saturday in a column that became a surprise viral hit. The MasterChef presenter arrives at the gym an hour before opening time, meets his PA at a Harvester for breakfast, spends two hours in his home office playing a strategy war game, cooks dinner, and falls asleep by nine. I’m a big Wallace fan: when I interviewed him for this newspaper, I found him charming, hilarious and endearing. (“Mate, please. I’m Gregg Wallace. I’m the bald fat bloke off MasterChef.”) I was saddened to hear that Wallace feels “deeply hurt” after he was compared to Alan Partridge following the column, so I wondered what I could do to help out.
