I'm A Tosser!

After my appearance on Gordon Sweary's programme the other night, I have been all over the newspapers! Headlines such as "There's a Prat In My Kitchen!" and "Wot a Tosser!" made me the talking point of all the breakfast TV shows this week! It was shortly after this I was approached by the well known advertising agency, Swarm Locust and Parasite, to front a new campaign to promote Kortright and Aitchison's Salad Dressing. A nice chap from the agency called Tarquin Highgate called me. Apparently his father was at Westminster Boys School at the same time as my father, and this is why he was giving me a call.

"Giles, at the moment you are seen as the premier tosser in this country..." He said. I was flattered. I had no idea that many people knew of my salad preparation skills. Tarquin continued. "Our new slogan for the Kortright and Aitchison account is 'I'm a Tosser - Are you?' It's a real winner. We did have Timmy Mallet lined up for this one, but as soon as he announced he was unavailable for filming due to his committments with Radio Berwick-upon-Tweed's "Wake Up Both of You!" breakfast programme, you were the first person on our list to replace him." An honour indeed. I caught a cab to a small studio just off Covent Garden and was greeted by Tarquin himself.

"Ah, the tosser has landed!" He joked.

The filming was relatively simple. Dressed as a comedy chef, I had to stand in front of a fake kitchen set up, holding a bottle of the Kortright and Aitchison dressing, say "I'm a Tosser - Are you?" at the camera and then pour it liberally over a green leaf salad before tossing it with some salad forks. People who tell you acting is easy are liars! After I had fluffed the first 20 or so takes, one or two words of encouragement began coming from the cameraman, but he said them so quietly and through gritted teeth I could hardly hear them. When I finally nailed it, my words of "I'm a Tosser - Are you?" had barely left my lips and the director had yelled cut, when the cameraman looked me in the eye and said slowly "Never has a truer word been spoken." I was glad to have touched him in such a deep way with my acting skills. Tarquin suddenly appeared and put an arm round my shoulder.

"You really are a tosser, aren't you?" He smiled at me. "Still, don't worry old boy. As long as Daddy is about you won't want for work, will you?" I wasn't really sure what he meant as I have never met his father.

I phoned Filly when I got back to the flat to tell her about my hard day giving my all for the unforgiving lens, and she just laughed stating she had been having some very demanding roles of late.

Anyway, back to the reviewing again this weekend. If you know of a fine restaurant you'd like me to review, drop me a line to gileslondongetsstuffed@yahoo.co.uk and maybe we can have lunch together soon. Bon appetit!

Gordon Sweary's F-Off, Soho

Just earlier this week I was phoned by a television producer for Channel 4 who said "Sorry for bothering you, Giles, but your father has been somewhat forthright in his views that you should be on our new food programme by Gordon Sweary. Are you interested?" Gordon and I go back a long way and he really is an old mate of mine, so I was thrilled they had chosen little old me to be involved. I was instructed to get to Gordon's Soho eatery "F-Off" by 5pm for the filming to begin.

The programme was called "If U Can't Stand the Heat - F-Off" and Gordon was cooking for a host of celebrity guests for the evening. I immediately called Little Dozey-on-the-Wold, but after the phone rang for about 20 minutes her Mother answered in her amusing slurred voice. As soon as I knew Filly wasn't there I hung up. I tried her on her mobile which was answered by a gruff male voice who told me I must have the wrong "f-ing" number and hung up. I tried again and this time Filly answered. She sounded a little flustered, but when I told her something big had come up she murmured "you can say that again!" and hung up. I despair of the woman sometimes, I really do.

I got a cab to Soho and arrived at Gordon's restaurant bang on time. I was really looking forward to this culinary evening. A large Channel 4 bouncer on the door put a hand on my chest as I tried to walk in.

"Where do you think you're going?" He growled. I laughed.

"Giles London. Here for the filming..." He looked down and consulted a long list of names on a computer print out.

"Oh yeah" he finally said. "Got you down here, Sir. Not this entrance, round the side." I was ushered down an alley that ran along the side of the restaurant until I came to a dark doorway marked "kitchen". I walked in to be confronted by Gordon Sweary himself.

"WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU COMING IN MY KITCHEN?" He screamed in my face from all of five inches. I told him with my favourite comfortable smile on my face. "WHO?" He yelled even louder and closer. A young girl with a clipboard and headphones on ran up to him and put an arm round his shoulders.

"Giles London, Gordon? Reviewer with powerful Dad? Remember? Suggested cannon fodder for opening scenes?" As she whispered this a smile spread across Gordon's creased up face.

"Ah yes. The rich arrogant tosser." It was gratifying the great man remembered me.

I was soon dressed in kitchen whites with a large hat on my head. Apparently I had been invited on the TV show for my cooking prowess as well as my reviewing skills. Gordon began ordering me round the kitchen stating that all the most important people from the gastronomic world were going to be dining at F-Off tonight. How nice he regarded me so highly. It turned out he was right, as aside from yours truly there was going to be Aldo Silli, Gary Hairgel, Rick Shagger, Anthony Gollom-Thompson, Ainsley Gurning, Lesley Flirty, Brian Northern and many other great TV chefs eating here tonight, plus assorted celebrities from the worlds of sport and entertainment, such as Frank Limpass of Chelsea FC, Chris Gobshite from Radio 1 and Jodie Thrush the model.

The fiming began in earnest and I was surprised how few kitchen staff Gordon seemed to need. In fact it appeared I was the only one this evening, and soon Gordon was barking orders at me. I took his comic threats and occasionally throwing of sharp objects with good grace and we had a good laugh, particularly when I dropped a whole batch of foie gras on the floor. I burnt the Salmon fishcake roulades and then set fire to the beef wellington. When my terrine de rustique flew off the plate and landed in the sink with the washing up, Gordon took the whole comic timing of the evening to a next level. With the camera crew constantly circling us and filming everything he began to try and stuff me into the industrial plate cleaner. I just managed to flit away from that when the kitchen door flew open and in strode George Cantakerous, the independent Respect Party MP and Brian O'Thug, Irish international rugby player.

"Who prepared that fucking lobster?" Yelled Cantakerous. All eyes turned on me.

"Is there a problem?" I asked, with a nice open smile on my face. I felt I should go along with their joking.

"It was fucking raw you prick!" Yelled O'Thug.

"I am surprised your palates are refined enough to be aware of such subtleties..." I began. But that was when they jumped me (as the picture above shows you). A brief but brutal thrashing later, I was lying down gasping for breath when the producer shouted that there had been a problem with the sound and they would have to film it again. Several more celebs swarmed into the kitchen at this point and offered to help out. So we filmed the scene again. And again. Finally everyone was happy. Gosh, aren't TV people perfectionists?

As I limped back to get my cab I could hear all the other celebs singing and laughing in the restaurant. I was proud to have been part of such a good nights gastronomic TV. Back at my flat I phoned Filly again and told her about the hammering I had taken in the cause of other people's entertainment. She told me she knew exactly how I felt and the best thing to do was just lie back and think of Bermondsey. I told her surely she meant England, but she said she knew what she meant, and then hung up.

So another hard evening for me and Filly it seems. If you know of a great restaurant you'd like me to review then drop me a line to gileslondongetsstuffed@yahoo.co.uk and let's have lunch sometime. Just don't sit on my head and punch my cobblers. Bon appetit!

The Savoy, London

It seems that my previous two reviews have been of a somewhat downmarket nature, and someone of such a refined palate and sensitive outlook is deserving of a more select quality of cuisine. Therefore when I was talking to Filly on the blower the other night, I mentioned this lack of quality dining. She mentioned she had been getting good regular portions recently, so bully for her! But I had been missing out and requested she suggest somewhere I could go. She burst out laughing and said that several destinations had just suddenly presented themselves to her. I asked her for the details or directions. There was more screaming laughter from Little Dozey-on-the-Wold. After calming down she mentioned a little hostelry that had just opened and which was doing great food and a roaring business. I asked her where this was - turns out it is in HAMPSHIRE for God's sake! HAMPSHIRE!? Now you know I will go anywhere for a good meal (provided it is within about half a mile of the Groucho Club), but HAMPSHIRE? Talk about the back of beyond! I mentioned something about the difficulty of getting somewhere as remote and primitive as Hampshire, when Filly cut across me and said something about "Christ! You and your precious bloody London - go and review the sodding works at the Savoy then you arrogant tosser!" - and she hung up. Honestly, since I took her to Deptford her language has been appalling. Who would have guessed her mouth was capable of such rudery! But her suggestion had given me an idea. I hadn't reviewed the Savoy since at least four weeks before Christmas, so off to the Strand it was for me!

Luncheon at the Savoy is always a treat and I knew I would be in for a special meal, but I was amazed what they had done with the decor as I first approached. The exterior was like a Banksy work, lots of wooden fencing had been put around the windows and plastic sheeting had replaced the Art Deco doors. As I pulled one of these to one side and entered, it was a brave new world that I encountered. This was like an installation at the Tate Modern. The boring old chandeliers, Charles Rennie-MacKintosh windows and art deco plasterwork had been removed and replaced with dust, bare light bulbs on wires and many cement mixers. It was so exciting! I wandered around the vast open space where the champagne bar had once stood and drank in the atmosphere. The waiters have all been replaced by performance artists it seems. As I stood gazing at a pile of bricks a man in a day glo vest and hard hat shouted "Put a fucking helmet on you ponce..." and stalked off. Breathtaking. If this is how exciting they had made the interior decor and service, heaven only knows what they had done with their menus!

After 25 minutes and no sign of a waiter, it suddenly dawned on me that they must have gone for a whole new philosophy of delivering the food to customers. Another performance artist walked past and I asked him about lunch. "Sandwich boxes you tosser" he yelled. And sure enough there they were, scattered around the performance area. Of all different colours and hues, some with hot drinks containers with them. I opened the first I came to - this was bringing out the hunter gatherer in the diner and no mistaking. Inside were some sandwiches sadly not made on a fresh ciabatta or baguette, but some sort of square cut white bread. The filling was a fish terrine of some sort that had been spread thinly - it had a highly piscine twang to it and it's sodium levels were no doubt ludicrously high. I spat the contents back into the box and moved to the next item on this mini menu. It was a small sachet of morceaux savoureux entitled "Monster Munch". Their refreshing sharp taste reminded one of nothing quite so much as pickled onions, would you believe! My palate needed refreshing and I was treated with a light fizzy drink called a Panda Pop which was bright blue and made me burp alarmingly. Intrigued by the gastric delights on offer I opened several other of these "boxes of delights" to discover the sweet meats inside. There were some truly remarkable finds. I was particularly struck by Cheese Strings and Waggon Wheels. But the performance was just starting. A few moments later a hooter sounded and suddenly I was surrounded by the performance artists in their hard hats and yellow vests. There was a moments silence and then they began their show.

"This blokes eaten my fucking lunch!" Shouted one.

"Your lucky" said another "he's spat most of my fish paste sarnies back in the box! Dirty bastard!"

"Where's my Waggon Wheel?" Yelled a third. The original actor then pointed at me.

"That well dressed posh talking dosser must have had the lot! GET HIM!" I was grabbed by several of them, some of whom pretended to beat me up. This was the weakest part of their performance as at least twelve of their "pulled" punches actually connected. More rehearsal needed there lads! I now offered to pay for the wonderful meal and performance, and pulled my wallet out. Apparently they only accept cash now, which was a surprise, but they were more than happy to accompany me to the nearest cash point, before one final pulled kick (again, another poor show lads, but at least you missed both my legs) and they left me to catch a cab home. A really exciting dining experience for me!

Filly had arrived at my flat during my visit and seemed surprised to see me. She kept trying to encourage me to go to the Groucho, but I was tired and a little bruised from the performance at the Savoy. Suddenly I heard the toilet flush. Who had done that? Suddenly, who appears but Bermondsey Dave from my Deptford kebab experience! Filly quickly explained that my toilet had broken and she had remembered Dave was a plumber and had called him. I mumbled something about him being a debt collector as I remembered, but she and he very quickly insisted he was definitely a plumber. I asked him if he had brought his plunger with him, but Filly assured me he had and after witnessing it in action she could confirm that he "sure knew how to use it" - which was a great relief.

So, another good day in the Giles London household! The Savoy certainly surprised me with their new look. If you have somewhere you'd like me to review then email me at gileslondongetsstuffed@yahoo.co.uk and maybe we can have lunch together. Bon appetit!

McDonalds, Kensington

I received an email from a correspondent and fan, from "A Hillside in Wales", by the name of Moonroot. On studying her blog it would appear that she hails from the Celtic fringes of society and probably has little or no idea where London is, or what it is for that matter. Despite her vaguely Neanderthal-like existence on some blasted Gaelic slopes, she did come forth with a recommendation for a restaurant to review. And as befitting someone who sides with the Celtic (lunatic) fringe, her restaurant to review apparently came from the Pictish camp of the Britons.

McDonald's Restaurants are, according to Moonroot, everywhere. I hadn't noticed, but Filly reckoned the sort of person who hadn't noticed any of the McDonald's restaurants springing up was exactly the sort of vain, narcissistic, self-centred, blinkered, arrogant upper-class idiot with guacamole for brains and "very small genitalia" that she was getting sick of, apparently. She also said she wasn't going to drive all the way from Little Dozey-on-the-Wold for a pathetic little quarter pounder, when there was plenty of "100% beefcake in Bermondsey". I wasn't really clear what she was on about, so decided to make this evening's soiree a solo event!

As I was going to be dining at what would appear to be a Scottish themed restaurant, I decided to dress accordingly, and went for a three quarter length Royal Stuart tartan kilt, sporran, tweed jacket, bow tie, Glengarry and dirk stuck down my sock. On consulting with my Yellow Pages, it appeared there was a McDonald's in Kensington not more than 600 yards from my front door. Alas with no Filly to drive me this evening I had to get a cab. On arriving at the august portals of this eatery I was struck by the bright lights and masses of tourists. The management here were obviously doing something right to keep the punters happy. My full Highland regalia caused quite a stir as I entered the hostelry and I had to pose for a photo with two frightfully excited young Japanese ladies. I stood and waited to be seated, but nothing happened and so I ventured up towards the kitchens where a sallow faced youth in an ill fitting uniform stood with a vacant expression.

"How can I help?" He murmured in a quiet monotone.

"Table pour moi, not too close to the hoi poloi, chop-chop." Politneness costs nothing, I always think. He looked at me blankly.

"Is it on the menu?" he asked.

"Is what on the menu?" I was a bit puzzled by now.

"Your hoi poloi chop chop? Is it a new Chinese promotional burger I don't know about? No one tells me nothing..." Tears had started to well in his haunted blank eyes. I had to be calm and considerate at this sensitive moment.

"GET ME THE MANAGER!" I yelled at the top of my voice. "I NEED TO SPEAK TO SOMEONE IN AUTHORITY! NOT THIS IDIOTIC TROGLODYTE!" A harrassed looking Nigerian called Egbunike approached me.

"What is it you want, Sir?" I looked him up and down.

"You're not Scottish!" I said. A weary smile spread across his face.

"Well spotted. And to save you further time, Sir I am also neither Liberace, Norwegian or the Archbishop of Canterbury. What I am is the shift manager of an extremely busy McDonald's outlet and I have many customers to attend to. What is your problem, Sir?" I mentioned my problem vis-a-vis no seating being offered. He gestured towards some tables and chairs. "Help yourself." I went and sat down. After 20 minutes it became clear that the waiting staff were either non-existant or ignoring me. I stormed back up to the counter where the troglodyte still stood. He cowered away as I approached and Egbunike came to greet me. "Can I take your order, Sir?" He asked.

"I just want a meal. A pleasant meal, in pleasant surroundings." I pleaded to the man. A thought seemed to strike him.

"You would like a Happy Meal?" He said, beaming from ear to ear.

"Pleasant, happy, anything really..."

Later, at home I reviewed the evening. I had been to a restaurant called McDonald's, dressed like John Brown, had failed to spy a single waiter, had been given a cardboard box with a small hamburger inside with some salty chips and a cardboard cup full of thick pink liquid which was too viscous to suck up the straw, and been fobbed off with a small stuffed toy in the shape of a Honey Bee. And this restaurant is popular and has many other outlets? It is a sad day for a respected restaurant reviewer when it comes to this. I tried to phone Filly to fill her in, but she answered breathlessly and said she was already being filled in, and hung up. So, Moonroot - not a spectacularly good evening. Only 3/10 from Giles. Oh, and to whoever stuck the label on the back of my Glengarry that read "will drop Kilt for food" - no one found it funny.

If you know a good eatery you'd like me to try out then drop me a line at gileslondongetsstuffed@yahoo.co.uk and I'll check it out. Bon appetit!

Capital Kebab House, Deptford

Since setting up this cyberspace blog, one has received many emails. Several largely anonymous ones have come from someone signing themselves as "Furious Filly of Rural Hampshire" and if you remove all the swearing and threats only run to about two sentences. I have also received one or two more interesting pointers, vis-a-vis top eateries. One in particular caught my eye for it's splendid and frequent use of colourful Anglo-Saxon colloquialisms. It said "Oi Giles you big fucking poof. You is all well and good going round them poncy west end gaffes, when r you gonna come down Deptford and try some real food you fucking tosser. Signed Nobber and Bermondsey Dave." Luckily they had left a mobile number on the initial message and so, tempted by this wonderfully earthy spirit of theirs I took the plunge and called them. What they lacked in charm and sophistication, they more than made up for in swearing and laughter. I was warmly invited to come down for a "DONNA" and a "rumble" should I so wish. This sounded like possibly an Italian evening and so I called up the Filly who was once again bawling her eyes out as her Mother had had yet another stroke in Little Dozey-on-the-Wold (surely having more than one is just attention seeking), and offered her the chance to join me in what appeared to be an evening in a trattoria.

The Filly arrived with a somewhat wild look in her eyes, and seemed thrilled at the prospect of the evening ahead. She said that dining with me after looking after her frail mother put her whole life "in a new perspective". She simply adores me, and who can blame her. We jumped in her Mercedes and trolled on down to South London where Deptford was supposed to be. Now I had imagined some Putney-esque riverside development after what Nobber had told me on the phone, but this was much more gritty and urban. To get the full flavour of our experience I urged The Filly to put on "Straight Outta Compton" by NWA on the CD, but she only had Katie Melua, and it really didn't suit the ambience. We stopped at the correct address, according to The Filly's sat nav, and there it was. The Capital Kebab House. So not a trattoria at all - more like a pocket sized Greek Taverna. As I stepped from the car, there was Nobber.

"Fuck me!" He yelled. "That posh twats only gone and turned up!" He slapped me on the back with all the ferocity of Gordon Sweary tenderising a steak and offered to let me wear his Burberry Hoodie, I declined. Bermondsey Dave was a very big chap as well and seemed to take a shine to The Filly and insisted on putting a protective arm around her. He led me into the eatery - it has a sort of quaint English working class seaside feel to it, with formica everywhere and a fruit machine in the corner. A man that Nobber insisted on calling Stavros, even though he later told me his name was Ahmed, showed me his menu which was for once not handwrittedn in finest copperplate and sealed in a leather binding, but in pictures placed on a light box above our heads. Everything looked the same, so I turned to Nobber for a little help. He highly recommended the "Extra Large Doner, all in and chilli sauce" - I thanked him for his astute help. Bermondsey Dave and Filly were busy chatting by the fruit machine and so Nobber and I ate alone at the counter - standing up would you believe! My meal was gargantuan - no nouvelle cuisine here my valued reader. More meat than you can shake a stick at, fresh salad and a chilli sauce that Nobber described as "nuclear" and with pickled jalapeno's that he called "kinansom", though I am at a loss to know what that actually means. After four mouthfulls I had lost the feeling in my palate and was sweating profusely, but Nobber told me this was normal. He recommended putting the fire out with some imported Danish pilsner lager called "Spesh" - it arrived in golden chilled cans. So hot and thirsty was I by now, that I immediately downed six of them and felt most refreshed.

I woke up in my bathroom in Kensington. I had been to the toilet at least eight times during the night, but appear to have been only mildly accurate twice. I looked in the mirror to see that I had a pickled jalapeno stuck to my forehead alongside the words "POSH TWAT" written in permanent water proof ink. I stumbled into my bedroom to find Filly sitting up in bed with a big smile on her face.

"Feeling better, darling?" She asked, giggling quietly. I slowly peeled the pepper from my forehead which for some reason caused her to explode into uncontrollable manic laughter. After five minutes she eventually subsided.

"That was some hot stuff last night..." I mumbled. Her smile returned even brighter.

"You can say that again..." She sighed. I was at a loss to put together the final parts of the evening. How on Earth had we got home?

"I feel pretty rough..." I lay down next to her on the bed.

"And it was pretty rough last night..." She sighed. Just then her mobile rang and she snatched it up, probably her Mother or sister wanting to know why she wasn't back at the maternal bedside. She trotted out of the room to the landing and I could hear her giggling and going on about Bermondsey a lot. She was obviously filling in her family with her escapades last night. What a girl.

So have you got a local trattoria, taverna or other ethnic fusion food outlet you'd like me to experience? Then drop me a line at gileslondongetsstuffed@yahoo.co.uk and maybe we can have lunch together! Filly has requested a few more eateries in the Bermondsey area - she'd obviously got the taste of some rough stuff now! Tally-ho!

Les Riches Crédules, Kensington

My good lady friend - sometimes known as my "filly", at others as Marina Featherington-Cope, had been hearing good things about a little eatery in Hunter Street, Kensington. Apart from the occasional Crab Roulade at Boris Getjakitov's "Ra-Ra-Rasputin" cafe in Gurning Street, Kensington has been a bit of a taste bud no-go area of late. So a chance for a bit of nose bag at an eatery not far from where one resides seemed too good an opportunity to miss. I called "The Filly" on the blower and asked if she minded joining me for dinner in Kensington tonight. She was down at her sick mother's bedside in Little Dozey-on-the-Wold, but sounded thrilled at the prospect of driving up to London to pick me up and go out to dinner. Before she hung up she muttered something about dinner with me that evening would "make the decade seem worthwhile." What a lucky chap I am.

When the Filly finally arrived (making various excuses about the M25 and rush hours) we jumped in her jalopy and drove the 500 yards to this new super eatery. "Les Riches Crédules" is decorated in a sort of Les Miserables style, the main restaurant sign depicting a garishly over made up aristo having his old top knot knocked off with a big guillotine thingy. On entering you wander past large pictures of Donald Trump, Rupert Murdoch and Bill Gates all doctored to look like they are facing a firing squad. The owner and head chef turned out to be my old sparring partner, Phillipé Trémblé, who had once chased me down the King's Road in Chelsea with a meat cleaver after my joke about his langoustiné terrine went a bit pear-shaped.

"Les Riches Crédules" is famous for it's aggressive waiting staff, expensive water list and a menu entitled "Peasant Fodder". Filly and I were eager to sample the delights and were not disappointed. For a starter I had a "Nouille de pot" in a sort of light curry sauce which was served with a small sachet of mango chutney. Filly had "Chips de crème aigre" which came in a long green cardboard tube with the French word Les Pringles on the side. These were both most agreeable and were washed down with a light Italian sparkling wine entitled "Lambrini Light". For a main course I plumped for the "Bâton de poisson" with "Haricots cuits au four" and Smash. Filly had a "Pudding de bifteck et de rein" which Phillipé tells me was prepared by his Argentinian sous chef called Ray Bentos. The main course was served with a delightful Californian wine called "Thunderbird" which turned my teeth pink and made me want to sing Bob Dylan songs very loudly to the waiter. We finished the meal with two lovely frilly concoctions of Phillipé's called "Fouet instantané" with a "écrimage rêveur" jus. Delightful. And at just £783.34 (excluding tip) this was one of the cheapest nights out I have had in Kensington for a long time.

Filly made some tired joke about me dragging her halfway across southern England to eat crisps, but I was tired by then and after she had dropped me home I told her she should head off back to her maters now as she didn't want to get caught up in the morning's traffic. I shouted at her to drive carefully and she responded by telling me I should too. Well she didn't say it, she just gestured with two fingers. A lot. What a girl!

If you can think of somewhere within 500 yards of where I live that I haven't reviewed yet, then drop me a line and I'll see if I can get the Filly up from Hampshire again to drive me to it! Good eating, friends!

Come Dine With Me!

Hi! Or as we say in West London, arriverderci! My name is Giles London and you probably know me from such TV programmes as "Gordon Sweary's Fucking Kitchen" and "Really Crap Early Morning ITV Movie Review Show". I also write for The Clarion Newspaper here in the UK as a restaurant critic. I have been doing this job for some seven years now and have had a tough fight up the slippery pole of the British media to get here, and now that I have attained the apex of my writing career I am anxious to prove the skills what I have got make me worthy of my place. Or something.

How did I become a restaurant critic? Well I could have spent my formative years washing dishes in Michelin starred Paris eateries, or studying the works of some of Europe's finest chefs. But instead as I was being chauffeur driven down from Cambridge after graduating, I phoned Daddy at work for some advice and he was brilliant. My father worked in the printing industry (Old Inky we called him!), so he had a few contacts in Fleet Street. so I felt sure his advice would be wise, worthy and above all, sensible. I was not wrong.

"Oh fuck all that queuing up for a job in the media, Giles. I'll sack the tosser who is our restaurant reviewer, he is nearly due to retire anyway. Should save us some money on a carriage clock and a piss up. Once you start you can write any old cobblers and get a free meal while your at it. Should keep you on the straight and narrow for a few months. Now I must dash as some of the sub-Editors are hassling me for a decision. Think I might sack the bastards..." and the phone went down. I have never forgotten those sage words.

And now with the dawning of the internet age it seems appropriate that I should launch my ever popular reviews into cyber space - and here they are in all their glory.

Ah, but what name to call these reviews, I hear you ask. Good question. Well, the naming of it was a stroke of luck. I decided to phone my pal, celebrity chef Aldo Silli while he was on honeymoon in the Bahamas recently. When he answered the phone I said:

"Hi Aldo, it's Giles here!"

"Who?" He said. Aldo is such a joker.

"Giles London. I am launching my own restaurant critic blog in cyber space and I was wondering if you had a good idea for a title for it...?" I could hear his lovely wife Thingy (for fuck's sake find out her real name before publishing GL) in the background moaning about Aldo hurrying as things were going "off the boil" - how nice he finds time to cook even on honeymoon! Aldo came back quick as a flash with the perfect title.

"Get stuffed!" he yelled, and hung up. So that's what we called it. Actually I think he said "Get stuffed you pompous little prick", but that wouldn't fit on the title page!

So tuck in guests and enjoy the sumptuous reviews!