Young-20s British lad with a passion for a pie in the face.

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.

The first time I took a pie to the face, I was just a kid. No build-up. No audience. Just me, a paper plate, a can of whipped cream, and the hum of the bathroom fan. I wasn't in chef whites, just a white school shirt with the sleeves rolled up, trying to feel the part. I looked in the mirror, raised the plate, and pressed it into my own face. The hit was soft but heavy. Cold cream burst across my skin, slid down my neck, clung to my collar. I didn't laugh. I just stared, covered and grinning. Not like a clown. Like someone who'd finally stepped into the picture. It wasn't a game. It was a beginning.

There's something almost sacred in the way I dress for it. Each button, each fold of fabric, isn't just about the look. It's about stepping into a role I've rehearsed a thousand times in my head. The uniform becomes more than clothing. It's a signal, a ritual, a quiet kind of invocation. I'm not pretending. I'm becoming. And the pie, absurd as it is, is part of that performance, the final beat that makes the transformation complete. It's not just about being seen, it's about completing the ritual I've carried inside me since childhood. Performance isn't the opposite of truth. Sometimes it's the only way to reach it.

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.

What draws me in isn't swagger or domination. It's solidity. A kind of quiet, rooted masculinity that doesn't need to announce itself. The broad shoulders, the rolled sleeves, not to impress, but because that's how the body fills the space. It's not about being the strongest, or the loudest. It's about presence. About being part of a group of lads who joke, shove, and splatter each other, but still carry a wordless trust. In that mess, in that moment, there's a different kind of strength. One that doesn't shout. One that takes the hit and stands tall anyway. One that says, I'm here, I can carry this, and means it.

It's never been about the job. I don't want to be a chef. Couldn't care less about cooking or service or orders shouted over heat. I don't dream about knives or flame or food. I don't want the stress. I want the stage. The 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. Not mockery. Not humiliation. But performance. He plays the part. He builds the tension. He deserves the hit.

The line between real and imagined blurs when you've lived with a fantasy long enough. I've never worked in a kitchen, never trained as a chef, but the picture is so clear in my mind it might as well have happened. The smells, the sounds, the sting of whipped cream hitting my face, all of it feels real. And yet, when friends became actual chefs, I felt something jolt inside me. Like they'd stepped into my dream without knowing they were walking through sacred ground. Theirs was work. Mine was something else entirely. A constructed space where I could exist as the version of myself I never dared to name aloud.

That's what the fantasy is. Not power. Not control. Not even respect in the usual sense. It's about being known as the one who makes the laugh land. The final beat of the sketch. The target who takes it like he was built for it. That's why the job never mattered. It never will. Because it's not about what chefs do. It's about what they wear. What they become. And how good it looks when one of them finally gets splattered.

There's a kind of power in choosing to fall. In standing there, solid and still, as someone else takes aim. It's not about losing. It's about offering. Offering the moment. The laugh. The hit. Knowing full well it'll land, and that it should. I'm not flinching because I trust the person holding the pie. Because they've read the scene, clocked my build, felt the tension. And when it happens, when the cream hits and the room erupts, I'm not diminished. I'm fulfilled. There's something deeply intimate in that exchange. A wordless agreement that I'm strong enough to surrender and still be seen.

There's a rhythm to getting dressed. Not just throwing on the uniform, but stepping into it. I lay the whites out like armour. First the trousers. Blue and white houndstooth pattern. Heavy, stiff, clean. Then the jacket. Thick cotton. Crisp lines. Button by button, I fasten it shut, watching how it shapes to my frame. Each press of the fabric is a quiet confirmation. This is who I am. The sleeves roll back to the elbows, just enough to show the forearms. Solid. Ready. The chef hat goes on last. A little silly. A little proud. And when I catch my reflection, broad-shouldered, calm, waiting, it's like seeing the final version of a thought I've had for years. That's when the tension builds. Because once the gear's on, it's only a matter of time.

I built this frame through years of rugby and lifting, but the shape I see in the mirror has always been chasing a different kind of ideal. Not ripped for vanity, but solid for the scene. The kind of build that looks right in chef whites, not because of culinary skill, but because it makes the mess feel earned. The way the fabric clings. The way the cream slides down a neck thick with muscle. It's not about sexual appeal, not really. It's about a physical truth. A sense that this body was made for a role, and when I step into that uniform, something in me settles. Like the outside finally matches the inside.

The uniform says, "I can take it." That's the power. Starched collar. Neat buttons. Sleeves rolled just enough to show the forearms. Quiet strength, wrapped in ritual. You're not trying to be admired, but when you wear it right, heads turn. It draws the eye not because it's flashy, but because it fits. Like it was made for your build. Like you were made for the mess. And there's recognition in that. From other lads especially. That nod. That glance. That unspoken thing: he looks the part. Same frame. Same weight. Same game. And when you take the pie, you're not being mocked. You're being seen. Seen as the one who can carry the hit and still look good doing it. A bloke who knows his role and owns it. The perfect blend of anticipation and brute physicality, transforming me into exactly what I dreamt of. The big, hunky, pie-covered chef I always wanted to be.

I've never spoken this aloud. Not once. Not even hinted. It's not shame exactly. It's more like reverence. Like saying it would cheapen it. Or expose something too raw to explain. And yet, it lives in me constantly. Every sideways glance at a kitchen. Every beat of stillness before the imagined pie lands. There's a fear, sometimes, that someone might notice. A laugh too loud. A look that lingers too long. I don't want to be mocked. But more than that, I don't want to be misunderstood. Because how do you explain something like this? That it's not just a "kink", not a costume, not a joke. It's me. At least a part of me I've never let anyone see.

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.

There's dignity in the fall, when you choose it. A big lad in full whites, splattered and grinning, isn't a fool. He's the one who made the sketch work. Who gave the room the laugh it needed. That moment, cream dripping, crowd howling, it's not humiliation. It's art. Timing, posture, presence. It takes more than people think to pull it off. To be the one who gets it full in the face and stands there like he meant to. There's a deep joy in being the punchline, the release that makes the tension worth it. Because when you play the fool right, you're not the joke. You're the reason it all works.

I've wondered why it stuck. Maybe it's just funny, the big lad in a silly hat, splattered with cream, grinning like he earned it. There's a kind of dignity in that. Not the cool kind. The kind that takes a pie and still holds his head high. Stick him in a kitchen and it looks like he fits right in. Stick a pie in his face and suddenly he belongs. No shame, no resistance. Just pure, messy fun. And maybe, deep down, I've always wanted to be the punchline. The one who takes it on the chin and gets the laugh every time.

There's something about how lads move around each other. The way we talk without needing to. A look. A shoulder bump. A grin that says, "You're next, mate." In the kitchen fantasy, it's never just me alone. It's a room full of us. Big blokes. Loud voices. Strong hands. We joke, we jostle, but there's trust there too. And when one of them steps up with a pie, arm cocked, smirk locked in, it's not mockery. It's respect. He sees the size of me, sees the gear hugging my frame, and he knows I'm built to take it. That's what makes the moment land. Not the hit. The decision to go all in. Because he knows I can carry it. And when I don't flinch, that's when the cheers come in.

When a lad pies you, it's more than just a laugh. It's trust. He knows you can take it. No hesitation. No holding back. Just that steady confidence. The smirk. The grip. The hit. It's not mockery, it's respect. He sees the frame, the build, and thinks, "Yeah, he can take it." Then he goes all in. Full power. You feel it everywhere: your face, your chest, your gut. And you're still standing, grinning. That's the point. You're not the joke. You're the target. And you took it.

It's different with a girl. She locks eyes, smirks like she knows something, and whispers "yes, chef" as she pushes it in. It's not force. It's fire. She doesn't need to match me, just wants to mess me up and admire me. That still sparks. But outside that moment, the thread slips. A girl in chef whites does nothing for me. Watching her get pied doesn't land. Pieing her? Even less. It's not dislike, just detachment. Like the scene belongs to someone else.

But a lad in chef whites? Even without the pie, it hits. The stance. The build. The way the uniform hangs. It mirrors something in me. Not desire or envy, just recognition. That could be me. That is who I picture. And when he takes a pie, full-on, and stays standing with cream dripping down his whites, it loops right back to the core. The look. The hit. The mess. All of it lining up. And if he's the one pieing me, that's even better. That shared look. The grip. The hit. Heavy. Sudden. Messy. No words needed. Two lads. Same frame. Same gear. One taking the shot. One taking the pie. Both right where they belong.

And then some of my mates actually became chefs. Real ones. Whites, knives, kitchens, the lot. I didn't know what to do with that. Part of me felt proud. Watching them work hard, earn respect, build something solid. But another part of me went quiet. A low unease in my chest. I didn't understand it at first. Just this tension I couldn't place. Like they'd stepped into something I'd been dreaming about for years, but they didn't see it the same way. Like they were wearing something sacred without knowing it.

Their whites were just kit. Something they wore because they had to. But to me, they looked like a final form. The cut of the jacket. The rolled sleeves. The way the fabric sat on their shoulders. I'd feel something shift in me, watching them. Not attraction to them, exactly. I didn't want them in that way. But I wanted to be in their place. Or maybe, under their hand. It confused me. Still does.

Because when I saw them like that, something physical kicked in. A tightening across my chest. A pull in my gut. My eyes drawn to every button, every fold. It wasn't about sex. It wasn't just comedy. It was something in between. That tension. That setup. The moment just before the hit. We're in our chef uniform and they're holding a big messy pie.

That's what really stuck. One of them stepping forward. Big hand on my shoulder. Cream-filled pie in the other. No warning. Just that grin, that look that says, "You're ready for this." And then the hit. Sudden. Loud. Full force. The plate claps against my face and the cream bursts, thick and cold, sliding down my neck, soaking into my collar. And I just stand there. Still. Taking it. Built for it. And when the laughter starts, when I feel it echo through the room, I don't shrink. I fill the space. Covered. Grinning. Owned by the moment.

And afterwards, nothing changes. We go back to chatting like nothing happened. Just lads again. But something in me would settle. Like a box I've kept sealed for years had finally clicked open. I still don't know what it means. Still couldn't explain it. But every time I see one of them in full whites, sleeves rolled, hat a little crooked, that same feeling returns. The longing. The heat. The stillness. Like I've walked into the edge of a memory that never quite fades.

There's something strangely clean about it. Being taken down a peg in front of everyone, but on your terms. Not bullied. Not mocked. Just humbled. Like a reset. The pie hits, and whatever weight I'm carrying slides off with the cream.

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. Not the joke. Not the fool. Just a lad in chef whites, built for this. Splattered, broad-shouldered, still standing. Seen. Solid. Ready.