There was a time when I almost, single-handedly, emptied the pages of every newspaper in the UK. It's true. I was driving along Highburgh Road, turning left into Clarence Drive, when Gordon Ramsay stepped out in front of my car. Luckily there was nobody behind me as I did an emergency stop. He barely noticed and continued inexorably Amarylliswards, deep in conversation with his top chef.

I'm glad my brakes were up to the job because the world would be a drearier place without Ramsay, scary perfectionist, scolder of spotty kitchen subalterns, relentless spawner of children and all-round media whore. In a world where blandness and uniformity - of opinions, of teeth, of blonde streaky hair - is seen as a good thing, Ramsay is rude, sexist and himself. He loves dirty women and hates bread sauce. If he is camping it up for the cameras, he is almost as good an actor as he is a chef. He is even appearing in Crossroads in the new year - he must be a good actor. Is there no end to this man's talents?

In Boiling Point, the fly-on-the-wall documentary about life in Ramsay's kitchen, the man in action was a terrifying thing to behold. His face resembled one of those old-fashioned latex toys, squidgy heads with holes for your fingers that can be contorted into different expressions. That angry, high colouring, the scar, those eyes. Did I imagine the bit where sweat dripped from his jowls onto a plate of food? And if I did, then surely that is surely more terrifying than if it actually happened. I thought I was watching a horror movie. David Cronenberg has surely missed a trick there.

And all the time Ramsay knew that the cameras were there. This is clearly not a man who fears the public gaze. In his latest restaurant, the dining room in Claridges in London, there is a table in the kitchen. You eat your dinner watching him watching you (while roasting the hapless commis chefs). There is also a CCTV system installed, so that he can watch the customers in the main dining room as well. We know this because it was all over the papers, just as we also know that he turned away Joan Collins and AA Gill. It might be quicker to book a table in a goldfish bowl.

Ramsay castigates other chefs for using middlebrow television shows to up their profiles and plug their restaurants. The inference is that, because he does not demean himself by appearing on Ready Steady Cook and preparing something exquisite out of a frozen fish supper and two home-grown marrows, he is a heavyweight player and they are clownish wannabes. That, and his three Michelin stars, allows him to play the superior card. Endlessly.

In fact he is as much of an operator as the Brian Turners of this world. Instead of using formulaic shows to turn himself into a celebrity he has used his anti-celebrity-I'm-a-serious-restarauteur stance to make him, ironically, more famous than the rivals he disses at every opportunity. He is never out of the papers and off the screen - transforming hot-dog flipper Ed Devlin into a top reducer for Faking It, helping Simon Law do the big spread in Friends for Dinner. He has a column in a tabloid newspaper: opinions, not recipes.

Yet there is something endearing in the brash way that Ramsay tanks away at this stuff and fails to notice a turquoise Astra as it prepares to mow him down. If he has any shame, it is extremely well hidden. Asked this week whether he had any haute-cuisine ideas for Finnan haddock, he replied: "How about smoked haddock and mustard chowder from my third book, Chef for all Seasons?" Someone else requested top tips for cooking Christmas dinner after one sherry too many. "You should go and book a table at Claridges because we're open throughout the whole Christmas period," he replied. "It's a £25 lunch menu so there's no excuse."

His wife, Tana, who has produced four children, is the butt of endless jokes about Delia Smith books and smiles cheerily whenever a photographer is in evidence. My feminist soul should shrink in horror at her plight, married to a man who, when asked who he would like to kiss under the mistletoe, selects Caprice, because "she is 6ft 1in, exactly the same height as me, leggy and very sexy". Yet, in the family portraits which accompany many of Ramsay's newspaper and magazine appearances, Tana looks beatific and delighted at her lot. She continues having his children, taking part in his photo shoots and putting up with his smart comments about trying not to get her Delia in a twist. He must be doing something right. I will not be dwelling on what, exactly, that might be. That is another job for Cronenberg.

So he is clearly not the man to demolish the glass ceiling or redefine gender roles for the 21st century. Yet I admire Ramsay for using the media with more finesse than most of new Labour's clanky spin doctors. For being unabashed about his desire to do disgusting things with Liz Hurley. For loving food and being a person of appetites.

Just one thing, Gordon. What is your problem with bread sauce?

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