When she's not stirring up all kinds of sexual innuendos with a chocolate covered spoon, or about to split the seams and spill suggestively out of her skirt, she apparently spends her time being strangled by a Saatchi and sniffing little white lines from those real marble surfaces in her SW3 home.
She's Betty Boop bending over an AGA, Marilyn Monroe with culinary skills and Kate Moss with curves.
Drug scandals and spousal abuse are the stuff of which Jeremy Kyle's dreams are made, but remove the location from the council estate and replace the great unwashed with a domestic goddess (who just happens to look like she's tumbled from Botticelli's sketch pad) and you have a recipe that will fulfil every newspaper editors need for a story and every newspaper readers yearning for some salacious gossip.
Without her milky white skin, raven hair, plump red lips and ability to turn every item in a fully stocked fridge into a school boys sexual fantasy, things wouldn't look good between Nigella and the great British public. She is, after all, the daughter of Nigel Lawson, one of Thatcher's henchmen. She's rich, upper class, good looking and spends her life rushing around in taxi cabs buying organic produce, sipping red wine and kneading dough.
Hardly the stuff those on income support and living in social housing can relate to is it? And yet she is endearingly popular. The gays love her because she brings just the right amount of glamour, decadence and big hair to the kitchen. Women love her because she translates being a 'Chelsea Housewife' to the tower block (and also because of the incident with the Saatchi strangler) and straight men love her for her two barely contained breasts. No one stirs a spoon, sucks on a finger or sears a scallop quite like Nigella.
She has all bases covered, even if she was freebasing cocaine - we'd still forgive her because she's like Snow White with an SW3 postcode. She's a Chelsea Princess and a gorgeous glamorous bundle of culinary delights. Jamie Oliver has his enlarged tongue, Gordon Ramsay has his filthy mouth but Nigella somehow manages to use her tongue and those lips like two red velvet pillow cases to illicit not only filthy sexual fantasies, but a strong desire to get into the kitchen and start whisking cream until it explodes into a frothy mess. From Pimlico to Pontypridd, Sloane Square to Sidcup, she's got every man reaching for his nuts and ready to give them a roasting.
According to Charles Saatchi, Nigella spent so much time abusing cocaine, prescription drugs and smoking marijuana that she allowed her assistants Elisabetta and Francesca Grillo to spend £685,000 on the company credit card. Now I've watched Nigella Lawson knocking up Christmas cakes and stuffing chickens in her kitchen, and although she does have a tendency to be a bit sloppy with the ingredients and end up with flour in her hair, she has never given the impression that she'd not be aware of her assistants wandering around the house in brand new mink coats or arriving for work dripping in diamonds and riding a white pony with wings.
I think the case against Elisabetta and Francesca Grillo has unleashed a vengeful beast in Charles Saatchi and given him an opportunity to take Nigella's rolling pin and verbally bash her with it. It seems like hell hath no fury than an art dealer / strangler scorned. He wants to smash Nigella's Souffle, mash her meringues and piss all over her exquisitely laid dining table. It seems the milk has turned sour, the cheese has gone off and somebody left the Saatchi cake out in the rain, and without Nigella, he'll never have that recipe again.
I'll be watching and listening intently to the animosity the case against those Grillo girls has generated between Charles Saatchi and Nigella Lawson, but in the meantime I'll be making the recipe for the 'Holiday Hotcake' that she tweeted yesterday (along with the #TeamNigella').
And as for Mr Saatchi? If you can't stand the heat Charles, please stay out of Nigella's kitchen and to those two thieving Grillo girls?