There has been a real explosion of gossip this past week since dear old Samantha "Thick-as-a" Brick published her very genuinely heartfelt piece about how much she has suffered over the years as she is just so much better looking than everyone else in this blighted country of ours. And I know exactly what she is going through, this poor tortured soul. Don't you think I haven't suffered as well? When you have the looks of a God, a wifey who all men want to sleep with and you're without doubt the most powerful, important and epoch making restaurant reviewer in the whole of the London area - you become a target. That's right - a target, for every jealous, ugly, poor, unimportant little troll who blathers through their worthless pointless lives, producing ugly poor children, living in squalid little houses MILES from the west end, filling their pointless miserable lives with take aways, beer and Britain's Got Talent.
Many is the time I have arrived at vastly important openings of desperately needed sushimi restaurants in Chelsea, to be greeted by the maitre 'd with a "oh it's you - get him in before the press see him", obviously knowing full well that seeing a man of my stature entering their modest portals would drive some of the gathered paparazzi insane with jealousy. Knowing that I, Giles London, have it all, and they have nothing. Aside from a camera with a big lens and a conspicuous talent for accurate long distance spitting, the dirty bastards.
On many occasions I have entered high class eating establishments not a stones throw from the King's Road, and before I have even reached my table the head chef will have pushed a large bottle of Bolly in my hands and said such charming words as "here's a free drink, don't write anything shit about us or I'll cut your balls off, you pampered little Daddy's boy prick". And you know it is just plain jealousy. Jealousy of a career I have forged with my own bare hands, fighting my way to the very top of the restaurant reviewing world, appearing in my own TV specials about silly old food with Sue Dyke, a career of blood toil and tears. When Daddy first offered me the post when I was sent down from Cambridge, I knew I had earned this position. Worked hard and earned it. And with my chiseled good looks, impeccable taste, dazzling wit, brilliant reviews, stunning sexy wife and overall brilliant wonderful jet set life... well, some people just can't hack it. And that jealousy rises like bile to their unimportant talentless craws, and they feel they have to vent it. And it manifests itself in so many little ways - being pointed at in the streets, a small barbed remark overheard in passing, being pushed down two flights of stairs on the underground, a savage kick in the cobblers in Maiden Lane etc. etc.
I was with Samantha the other night at Twats Nightclub in Soho and as we entered one of the other guests shouted "Christ! Look! It's the Brick and the Prick!" and my heart went out to poor old Sam. She didn't deserve that...
On a happier note, if you wish to recommend a good restaurant for a bit of nose bag (as long as you don't get jealous) then contact me at firstname.lastname@example.org and let's eat. Bon appetit!