Wankler is BACK!

Hello food fans. Following the massive success of my first novel, "A Load of Wankler" (currently retailing in the more select branches of Lidl for 99p), I have been asked by the wonderful publishers London Books to produce a follow up. I have been offered a five figure sum to produce a similarly searing insight into the exciting, sexy and exotic world of restaurant reviewing in national newspapers. In the new book we follow our brilliant hero, Guy Wankler, leading restaurant critic in the City of London, as he finally goes outside the confines of the great metropolis and heads Stateside! The book, as you can see from the cover here, is called "Yankee Wankler" and is destined for greatness. Sample chapters will be placed here on my brilliant, informative blog over the next few weeks. Please let me know just how fantastic it is and how many Booker Prizes it should win.

And don't forget, if you still want me to come and review a restaurant or eatery near you (as long as you live in central London and lets face it, who doesn't?) then drop me a line to gileslondongetsstuffed@yahoo.co.uk and lets chew the fat (get it?). Ciao, fans. Giles x

Chips With Everything...

In recent weeks you may have seen quite a bit of my sister, Victoria London, on your TV sets after her appearance in an international poker tournament that she actually won. Amazing really as the only games I used to play with her when we were home from boarding school was the “How Many Earth Worms Can I Stick In their Knickers Before the Owner Pisses Themselves” game. But then, it never lasted that long as I was always terrified of worms.
Anyway on winning this game of poker young Vic has only gone and got herself a healthy pile of dosh, a TV series and a higher media profile than yours truly. So what’s sauce for the goose is you-know-what for the gander and when an invite to the “World Super European Pro-Celebrity Poker Tournament Super Stakes World Masters To The Death 2009” competition arrived on my desk at work I was in no position to decline. Admittedly I had never played poker before (I am much more of a canasta man to be brutally honest).
The event was being recorded ready for broadcast by UK Gamble Till Your Wallet Screams For Mercy Channel (Sky Channel 342932). I arrived at the recording studios which were in an ex-meat packing factory near Plumstead in South East London. My fellow celebs were waiting in the green room (formerly the ladies toilets) and I found that my competitors for the crown were ex-hurricane cock up weather man Michael Fish, religion disbelieving anti-God preaching clever chap Professor Richard Dawkins, ex-Iceland advertising coke snorting professional chav Kerry Katona and wee Jimmy Krankie.
We were soon summoned to the table and in secluded lighting and with hushed air of intense tension we settled into our high backed stools. Jimmy Krankie had a quick suck on his/her bottle of Irn Bru but it was time to go to business. Our jolly attractive Asian Flopsy croupier began shuffling the cards. She explained in her funny ying tong voice that we were playing something that sounded like five card stud and something else about “East End Geezer Rules” being in full effect. She dealt us all two cards each – I sat and waited for my other three but none were forthcoming so I asked her for three more. Everyone else round the table looked at me a bit strangely. She asked me slowly what steak I was interested in. I asked for a nice fillet, blue and with a mild peppercorn sauce. Even the film crew were looking at me now, obviously overwhelmed by my knowledge of good food. The croupier looked at me for a long time, then said “No, what chips”. I snorted derisively. Chips? How passé can you get! Next they would be offering me dauphinoise potatoes and a bottle of Blue Nun. She pointed at the round plastic discs piled up in front of me. “Yours!” She shrieked. I pushed them all towards her. “Not mine, dear” I crooned. “You look after them for me.” Jimmy Krankie dropped his bottle of Irn Bru and even Richard Dawkins said “Jesus Christ!” The Oriental Flopsy paused for a moment then gave me the three extra cards I wanted. I looked at them for a while. There was no denying it, I was in trouble. I had gone well over 21 and there was not a sign of Mrs Bunn the Baker. I spread the cards out on the baize in front of me. There was a long dangerous pause. “Bust” I eventually blurted out.
Not long after this I found myself in a foetal position outside the back of the factory being kicked viciously by two TV Company Execs. Victoria may have won the money and the competition in her appearance but we know who will be remembered the longest for sheer TV presence and memorability!
If you have a fine little diner you’d like young Giles to check out for you, then drop me a line at gileslondongetsstuffed@yahoo.co.uk and I shall see what I can do. Bon appetite and good luck gambling fans!

The Morbidly Obese Gannet

Greetings Earthlings. Giles is back, and so is my good friend Heston Bloomingtwatt (pictured right). After my visit and review of his charming avant garde eatery in dear old London, I hadn't heard much from Heston, apart from through his solicitors. So when I received a hand written invitation from the experimental wunderkind to visit his rustique eatery dans le countryside, well one jumped at the chance. Heston has been much in the news recently with his televised series trying to improve the reputation and menu of well known motorway food outlet "Little Fat Git". His re-branding of their "Titanic Breakfast" to "The Hardened Arteries Breakfast" was inspired! So a chance to come and sample his more artistic side at his new rustic eatery called "The Morbidly Obese Gannet" was just too good an opportunity to pass up.

The Gannet is an old 18th century coaching inn nestling in the sleepy commuter town of Much Dribbling-on-the-Velcro. Heston has brilliantly re-designed the interior to look like a 19th century coaching inn instead. He welcomed me warmly with a handshake so strong it brought tears to my eyes. The place was packed full of eager diners and I was eager to sample their fayre.

"Oh, you don't need to see a menu, Giles!" Beamed Heston. "I've got something very special lined up for you, after all the nice things you've said about me in the past!" How nice my modest reviews of his establishments have been remembered and cherished by him. I settled myself down in a corner of the main dining area and sipped at a little something Heston called "Ditch Water". It's taste was earthy, served chilled with much dark sediment floating in it. Heston soon appeared with my first course - a large selection of very ripe looking foreign fruit. He swatted several large bluebottles away from the main pile of putrefying bananas. He then thumped another, obliterating a starfruit. "Ooh, another pregnant female" he remarked. "Dig in!" he urged. The fruit had been aged for a while, approximately 2 to 3 months I would imagine, and required little or no chewing. One particularly slimy piece of guava went down in one blob. This was imaginative cuisine at it's very best. Heston then produced a main course he called "Thawed Heated Frozen Thawed Cooked Re-Frozen Cooked Frozen Chicken Surprise" Again little in the way of chewing was required and the whole ensemble had a distinct gamey flavouring. Heston's crowning glory was his sweet! He called it his "Botulism Sorbet Avec Cascara Jus" and it tasted astounding. I was so impressed that I immediately wandered around the dining area allowing all the other diners to sample this fine dish. Heston looked a little shocked as he wandered in from the kitchen.

"What the hell are you doing, London?" He grabbed the sorbet from me. "Are you trying to get me shut down?" I grabbed the sorbet back off him and ran laughingly through the restaurant liberally flinging spoonfuls of the delightful tasting jus at surprised looking fellow diners. Heston then requested I leave as I think some people were having too much fun. In the taxi on the way back to London, something alarming began happening to me. There was a titanic struggled going on in my bowels and unfortunately I was so immersed in keeping them under control that I didn't notice how much I needed to vomit until it was far too late. The taxi driver was very sympathetic and only hit me once on the way to the hospital.

I was in a coma for three weeks apparently and broke the world record for the number of saline drips needed to keep one person alive. Or as the Australian Doctor who was looking after me explained more succinctly - "you'd virtually shat yourself inside out, mate." The London Pennant Newspaper mocked me somewhat and had managed to photograph the inside of the taxi after it had delivered me to the hospital with the headline "Giles London Really is Full of Shit". Heston Bloomingtwatt is in big trouble as The Morbidly Obese Gannet has been closed by the food standards agency, local trading standards officers and even the UN. It would appear that all of Heston's guests were as susceptible to his Botulism Sorbet as I was. However it would seem that Heston doesn't blame me as he sent me a garland of very nice black roses with the promise that he would buy me dinner next time we met. Well it actually said "I'll get you next time, London. You just see if I don't. HB." which was lovely and a real tonic - but oh, for some gin!

If you have somewhere you'd like me to try then please drop me a line to gileslondongetsstuffed@yahoo.co.uk and let's have lunch together. I might see if Heston is free too! Bon appetit!

A True Stuffing.

It had been a while since anyone wanted me to review an eatery, particularly after the Russell Bland debacle. Therefore, when I was commissioned to write a review of my latest random Flopsy's home Christmas dinner, I jumped at the chance.

Her name is Miranda (I think this is correct, can the sub-editors check) and she hails from some ghastly little town that isn't London (I think it's in Wiltshire somewhere). We travelled down by train which was most relaxing in 1st Class, Flopsy was a little more constrained in her movements down in cattle class, but she seemed relatively jolly every time she brought me a cup of coffee and a brioche! We eventually arrived at aforementioned ghastly little town and Flopsy moaned a little carrying my cases to the taxi rank, but we were soon arriving at the rather gauche entrance portals to her parent's farmhouse. Her parents seemed pleasant enough, if somewhat limited in their knowledge of Japanese Noh Theatre, the works of Thelonius Monk and also, sadly, the preparation of an alternative Christmas Dinner.

The starter was a rather plain choice of homemade tomato soup or a dull homemade Brussel's pate. I plumped for the pate and was greeted by a pink, smooth nonsense of dull taste and inept seasoning. The turkey was huge, over basted, too dry at the top and stuffed with sausage meat of all things! Flopsy's mother, who's name completely eludes me, served this abomination with sprouts (how five minutes ago!), roasted potatoes, parsnips, cranberry sauce and a gravy so thick you could have re-pointed your pied a terre in Kensington with it! This was followed by a Christmas Pudding like a cannon ball served with thick skinned custard. Enough to make one's homeopathic therapist gibber with horror! She finally committed good taste suicide by serving me INSTANT coffee afterwards! Quelle horreur! I had made notes during the meal and as we sat in front of the roaring log fire of their tasteless ignlenook fireplace, I read out my review of the meal we had just enjoyed. Everyone was obviously thrilled to have such a reknowned restaurant critique in their midst as they listened in increasing silence. When I finished they were all just staring at me, aside from Mrs Flopsy, who appeared to be weeping with joy into her handkerchief. Flopsy's father then stood up and said he wanted to introduce me to another local Christmas custom. This seemed to consist of him hitting me repeatedly in the face as Flopsy's 18 year old brother held my arms behind my back. These rustic lunatics and their little foibles! Their local custom concluded with Flopsy's father then throwing all my cases on the front lawn and setting fire to them, before frog marching me down the muddy lane they call a driveway and throwing me in the main road. When I got back to their front door, I found it locked and had no way back in.

My mother drove me back to London before a brief stop at Portland Hospital for a check on a broken nose and mild hypothermia. What a Christmas!

Anyway, if you have somewhere you'd like to recommend I should check, then please mail me the details to gileslondongetsstuffed@yahoo.co.uk and I shall give it the once over! Bon appetit, mes amies!

An Apology

I have been contacted by Messrs Pulham Wright-Downe & Showmee, solicitors of the esteemed British character actor Mr Armitage Shanks, demanding an apology from myself and Mr Russell Bland for our behaviour on Mr Bland's BBC Radio Show this morning. They have brought to my attention that the reason Mr Shanks was not in when we phoned this morning was that he was attending his wife's funeral after her death from lung cancer earlier this week. Upon his return to his Maida Vale home he was horrified, upset and angered by the 37 minutes of messages Mr Bland and myself had left on his answer phone regarding the sex life of his 23 year old grand daughter, Ms. Melindra Shanks. Young Ms Shanks is now receiving counselling for the hurt and distress caused and to help cheer her and Mr Shanks up, I have arranged to send them both signed copies of my new novel "A Load of Wankler" (£17.95 in Waterstones). Therefore I apologise unreservedly for any hurt or upset caused by my appearance on the Russell Bland Show, and I hope that when Mr and Ms Shanks are feeling better they might listen to the broadcast again, and appreciate the genuine comedic thought that went into the calls.

Will this do, or do I have to crawl some more? Edit that last bit out of course.

Russell Bland Show

Bonjour my little petite fours. I have just had the most scintillating day, you cannot imagine the amount of fun I have had. I was asked to appear on BBC Radio 2's flag ship filth and humiliation programme, the Russell Bland Show. It features Russell Bland as the host, a man so crazy he back combs his hair! I kid you not folks! And he then sprays it so it stays there. And, get this, he then talks about his sex life, really openly and explicitly! The man is a bloody genius, so it was surely only a matter of time before I was invited on his show.

I was there to help plug "A Load of Wankler" again, which has sold nearly 100 copies now. I am down to my last few sea worthy cargo container fulls now, but I still think I know what most of my friends are getting for Christmas!

The show itself? Well, what can I say? It was a HOOT! Russell and I are obviously cut from the same cloth when it comes to humour and we had a right old time of it. When we were reviewing the papers and drawing knobs on all the men, we suddenly came across this picture of a real hot Flopsy. She was wearing black and looking quite solemn, but she looked like a goer. It said her name was Melindra and she was grand-daughter of British comic actor Armitage Shanks. Someone from the production team had worked with Armitage and had his home phone number! So Russell and I, on the air, only go and phone him! BUT HE'S NOT IN! It is so screamingly funny! So we leave a load of lurid messages on his crappy old answer phone telling him what we have done to his grand-daughter and what we'd like to do to her next time we get her hands on her. We laughed and laughed, in fact I nearly soiled myself it was so funny! If you missed the show "live" then please go to the BBC Radio i-player and listen to it back. You will howl!

Russell Bland is a comic genius and I can't wait to work with him again. HA!

Sub-Editors - An Apology

It has been brought to my attention that an internal memo from my desk here at The Clarion office has somehow found it's way to the pages of fellow broadsheet paper The Sentinnel. The memo is purported to have been written by me to four of the sub-editors on my weekly restaurant review page in The Clarion colour supplement on Saturdays. The memo in The Sentinnel reads thus:

Look, you dim-witted, fuck brained fuckers. Sub-editors are supposed to do what sub-editors do without pissing off, annoying or butchering the work of the TALENT - i.e. ME! The people who's brilliant writing, like what I always do, sells mucho editionos of the fucking paper and keeps Neanderthal fuckwits like you in fucking jobs!

My final line in my previous review of Los Cobblas Tapas Bar and Taxidermy Collection was: "OK, so £561.58 might be viewed in some quarters as a little steep for two garlic fried tiger prawns and a glass of Rioja, but so exquisitely does the chef at Los Cobblas put this sort of stuff together then a Tapas Bar and Taxidermy Collection is obviously the ideal place for me to come and...wait for it, brillianto jokeo on it's way mi amigos...get stuffed! (Get it?)." And how did the article look when published? Like so: "OK, so £561.58 might be viewed in some quarters as a little steep for two garlic-fried tiger prawns and a glass of Rioja, but so exquisitely does the chef at Los Cobblas put this sort of stuff together then a Tapas Bar and Taxidermy Collection is obviously the ideal place for me to come and get stuffed!" Yeah, a hyphen suddenly appears between "garlic" and "fried" without clearance from me, and then my brilliantly humourous aside at the end gets BUTCHERED by some ill educated FUCKING FUCKETY FUCK FUCK FUCKER! Do YOU get paid to go and review restaurants? NO! Is your Father editor of a national newspaper? NO! Do you have an assortment of random Flopsy's you can take to impressive restaurants every week? I don't actually know. But you probably haven't. I HAVE THOUGH. And this may seem petty and you may call me a bit of a pratt, but when I heard what you had done to MY ARTICLE, well I was awake all night. In a RAGE! A FUCKING RAGE MAN! And I know a man can get verbose when he is angry and sometimes I am guilty of using several hundred words when only one will do, and I.... (continues for another 12 pages in a similar manner) ....until I was spent and just lay on the floor next to the toilet gasping for breath, but it certainly stopped the conversation in the Vicarage I can tell you.

Now get this fucking fuckers! MY DAD is Editor of this fucking paper and if you ever, and I MEAN EVER butcher any of my brilliant articles again I will KILL YOU IN COLD BLOOD WITH MY BARE HANDS! Or get you suspended on full pay. You just see if I don't.

Regards as usual, guys,

Giles London

Restaurant Critic #1

As you can see, The Sentinnel has just used my words out of context and have tried to portray me as a spoilt, psychotic, bully boy, but nothing could be further from the truth. Me and my close team of sub-editors get on like a close family and love each other very much. Don't you think that if they really hated me, they'd find a way to be-little me in these pages as well? Hello, my name is Giles London and I only got the job because of my father. I have a very small penis, no sense of humour and I am a total and utter twat. And by the time the posh tosser has worked out who put this on his copy I will be in my new job on the other side of the World. Stitch that, London, you prick.

On a lighter note, if you can think of somewhere cool to have dinner, then drop me a line at gileslondongetsstuffed@yahoo.co.uk and let's have some nosh. But I still won't pay as I am such a tight fisted donkey-raping shit-eater.