Leading the Good Life

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Bad News for All Women...

I know, I know... No doubt you have seen all of the announcements in the Clarion, and I might have mentioned it once or twice in some of my brilliantly insightful and witty restaurant reviews, but...brace yourself women of Britain... I am no longer available - I have got married. The radiant creature you see above is the new Mrs Giles London - may I introduce to you Mrs Hortence London, nee Vosper-Thorneycroft-Himmler of Esher. This delightful picture was taken on the morning of our blessed nuptials by the official photographer, just as little Horey (as I call her) was putting on her make-up. We had first met just a few months ago, at a champagne reception fund raiser for the Conservative Party. Horey was running the whole shindig, and had specially dressed up as Eva Braun. I had been getting into the spirit of the whole thing and had dressed as Ernst Röhm. Anyway, several crates of Bollinger later, I flashed her some of my Wankler reviews and we ended up having a quick Anschluss in the back of a Tiger Tank parked on the lawn. And, as they say, the dye was cast!

I wanted Filly to know the bad news - we hadn't really spoken for a long time. So I phoned her on her mobile, but a cockney sounding chap answered. He said she was busy sterilising some bottles, whatever that meant, then a baby started crying and he hung up. Bizarre.

Now what is the most important thing about a wedding? That's right, the Hen and Stag Nights! Hortence decided that she and some of her old chums from Uni were going to go over to Nuremberg, for some reason that escapes me at the moment, and this they proceeded to do whilst dressed in a bizarre combination of clothing that seemed to mix lederhosen and Abba, circa Waterloo. Sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander so to speak, so I decided to get hold of all my great mates for a wild lads night! Well, it would seem that most of my great mates have either moved, or changed phone number. In the end my Stag Night comprised of me, my father and old Uni chum, Auberon Milk-Pudding. I am at pains to say that it wasn't a great success, Dad left for his club at 8pm and Auberon only drinks tomato juice. I was drinking most of the terribly exclusive and expensive Chukkh'up lager from Bengal that I had ordered, while the band I had booked kept launching into "The Boys are Back in Town" by Thin Lizzy every time someone came into the saloon bar of the Bog Snorkeler Pub in Soho. No one else I had invited came. Then Hortence came storming in, back early from Nuremberg and very drunk. As she crashed through the doors, Auberon nudged me and said:

"Isn't that Hortence?"

To which I replied: "She looks quite calm to me..." Horey heard this, so poor old Giles was condemned to a night on the couch.

We were wed on May 29th at the little Saxon church of St Scholl of the Callous Toes in the picturesque Cotswold village of Little Snoring on the Wold. The honeymoon was spent in Berchtesgaden where Horey insisted I wear jodhpurs and riding boots. What a kinky wifey I have!

So to all the delicious totty of England - despair! Giles is free no more. But I can still bash out a restaurant review for you whenever you want. Drop me a line to the same old email address: gileslondongetsstuffed@yahoo.co.uk and let's eat!

45Pee - an Apology

I have been reminded, somewhat forcefully, that my subtle sense of humour is not enjoyed by everyone who reads this Award Winning Blog*. This has been brought home to me very clearly by reaction to my previous entry about a certain Mr 45Pee, the well known and terrifically talented rapper and drum'n'bass dude (note to subs: check if this is still cool parlance with the spotty faced twats who buy his execrable musical diarrhoea - GL) and the fact that he has moved in next door to me. In fact some of the reaction since the article first appeared on The London Clarion website last night has been a little severe. For instance The Bearded Liberal Newspaper said:

"Giles London's racism was shocking enough as it was, but then to outdo himself by threatening to rape, kill and burn 45Pee for playing his brilliantly creative and not at all sexist and racist music too loud was sickening. We should bring our troops back from Afghanistan, string up Tony Blair, blame everything on capitalism, global warming and the oil companies, oh and eat more mung beans..."

The Daily Maelstrom went for:

"GILES LONDON'S RACIST RANT CAUSES HOUSE PRICES TO PLUMMET!"

The Daily Torygraph said:

"Old Alan's young chap banging on about darkies is a bit rum, still here are some more pictures of Liz Hurley looking fruity in a bikini."

The Daily Excess went with:

"Did Giles London kill Princess Di with his racist bigotry?"

And the Clarion said:

"Giles London kept his cool amid recent allegations about his personal life and scooped yet another prestigious award for his brilliant new novel, Yankee Wankler. It has been voted The Daily Clarion Book of the Year 2010 - already! Said Alan London, editor of the Clarion 'This should keep the press off his back for five minutes.'"

Now I would just like to put my side of the record straight. I never have been and never will be a racist. Any offence I caused by my petite jest in the previous entry I humbly apologise for and hope that my burgeoning friendship with Mr 45Pee has not been harmed in anyway. As I said to him and his posse this morning, some of my best friends are black. (note to subs: stick in a few pics here of some well known chocos, you know the sort, fairly salubrious. That senile Mandola chap in southern bongo bongo land should do. Ciao. GL).

* The Clarion On Line Blog of the Year Award 2008, 2009 & 2010. Thanks! GL.

Eat the Music

The first inkling one had that something was afoot was when the "To Let" sign went up outside my neighbour's pied a terre last week. The august signage for Messrs. Snipcock and Tawdry gave one hope that ones new next door chaps would either be like-minded intellectual giants, food connoisseurs and gadabout town types, and not some loathsome recently moneyed oik from the rustic outer limits. I was informed by another neighbour that we were to expect a superstar of the music world. How exciting. The quiet leafy Georgian terrace would be even more delightful to awaken to if the sounds of a Rachmaninoff piano concerto was tinkling through from next door.

I was just writing up my latest stunningly erudite and witty restaurant critique ("The Pullham Wright Downe Food Fusion Factory" in Highgate) when I noticed a large delivery lorry arrive and several gruff burly working class types disgorged. They had only just begun delivering boxes through the front door when a second vehicle pulled up - a huge stretch Hummer with blacked out windows, diamond encrusted hub caps, machine gun conning tower, an anti aircraft missile system on the roof and several crates of Crystal Champagne resting on a small towing trailer behind. A huge breasted black flopsy in a minuscule bikini climbed out of the front and walked the nearly 20 feet to the rear of the vehicle to open the passenger door. Several extremely large black chappies in long leather coats and wearing huge gaudy chains round their necks got out first, followed by a remarkable looking figure. He was similarly of the black ethnicity that I have recently mentioned, was wearing a white vest, a baseball cap backwards, approximately three tons of gold jewellery, his jeans were at half mast and you could also see that his teeth were mostly gold coloured as well. He was terrifically muscled and stood for a while as the flopsy wrapped herself round him. He drained a glass of crystal champagne and, pausing only to punch the flopsy in the face, he sauntered slowly towards his front door. What an interesting chap. I decided to go and introduce myself.

First thing I noticed as I wandered up to the front door was the large ethnic chaps standing either side with their arms folded. They didn't seem to notice me approaching and they remained impassive, until I reached for the doorbell.

"Whatcha think you're doing, boy?" One of them growled. I gave him my famous Giles London smooth smile, the one with the gently raised eyebrow, and mentioned I would just like to introduce myself and welcome my new neighbour to the area. "No way. Mr Pee don't talk to no one..." came the response.

"Mr who?" I asked politely. Now there was a reaction. Both leviathans on the door turned their heads towards me.

"You never heard of Mr Pee?" Growled one, threateningly.

"Can't say I have. Is it some sort of urinary tract problem?" I enquired nicely. Arms were now unfolded and I was being stared at.

"You telling me you have no idea who 45Pee is?" Said one. I shook my head dumbly and smiled. "Damn you white people are so dim." Just at that moment something happened. Something loud and tumultuous. It sounded like someone throwing several drum kits down a long flight of stairs, while a Concorde aircraft took off repeatedly in the back ground. The effect on the leviathans and the recently punched flopsy was electric. They immediately started gyrating and dancing like someone possessed. I had my fingers in my ears to try and block out the pain of the noise.

"WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING?" I screamed at the top of my lungs. But no one could hear me. I eventually retreated back into my house, but the sound was still deafening. I looked up 45Pee on Wikipedia. It turns out he is a British drum'n'bass and jungle artist, famed for his glorification of gun culture, misogynistic lyrics and apocalyptic song messages. His real name is Bernard Tunstall and he used to be a trainee gas fitter from Plumstead.

Two hours later...

Mr 45Pee is still on his first "song" and it is just as loud. One cannot even begin to think let alone write scintillating sparkling restaurant reviews. It is totally intolerable. What should I do, Giles London fans? Murder him, or set fire to him and then murder him? How about if I fuck him first, then burn him and his "music" equipment. Yes, I should do that. Now, where did I put my Enoch Powell t-shirt?

If you want me to come and review a restaurant near you (as long as it is in London and doesn't have a drum'n'bass theme) then drop me a line to gileslondongetsstuffed@yahoo.co.uk and perhaps we'll have some food and earplugs together. Or just contact me anyway if you know anything about sound insulation.