Sunday, 5 December 2010

Leading the Good Life

One is rather finding one's restaurant reviewing career and brilliant insightful newspaper columnest interest difficult to keep going, what with all ones television obligations to attend to. Now unless all you little proles out there have been living under a stone (which outside of WC1 ANYTHING is possible!!!), then you will be well aware of my brilliant new series on the digital TV channel Living It Up At Home Gold UK TV 02. It's called "Leading the Good Life" and features yours truly, the ever humble Giles London, working alongside my dear old chum Sue Dyke as we attempt to do the old Richard Briers and Felicity Kendall thing, and live a life of self sufficiency in suburbia. Now I was never quite sure where suburbia was but it is simply miles and miles out of London - six at least, and is full of these squalid little houses with not a fusion bistronomique outlet to be seen.
The programme is done very tongue in cheek and is made by the brilliant new TV production company called Alan London Films Ltd, incorporating Nepotism Productions. Not quite sure why I was chosen to be the main presenter with Ms Dyke, but obviously Dad must have seen some of my previous work with people like Gordon Sweary and Rick Shagger and the likes, and must have been impressed. The opening programme had us both in the garden of the house we were pretending to live in, digging over the lawned area to make room for things called vegetables. I did a couple of shots with my spade in hand, and made a couple of witty comments to the camera about not realising I had been signed up for Time Team. All the crew got this witty bonne motte and tutted appreciatively, and one or two of them sighed loudly in support of my predicament. As soon as the director yelled cut, I handed the spade to the nearest neanderthal chappy with headphones and ordered him to dig some more of my patch. I called for a skinny latte but sadly none was forthcoming.
Hortence, my lovely wife arrived and stood watching some of the filming with her arms folded and a grimace on her face. She obviously dislikes the suburbs as much as I do. During a break in shooting I asked her if she was alright. She grabbed my by the lapels and hissed she wanted to know my sudden urge to spend all my time with women in comfortable shoes. I looked around at most of the women working on the film crew and commented that high heeled Jimmy Choos would look a bit daft on this programme. With this she screamed briefly, looked me hard in the eye and muttered about insensitivity, before marching off to her BMW X5, pausing only to throw a clump of soil in the direction of Sue Dyke. How eccentric my lovely new wife is.
Well the rest of the filming for this wonderful series has been very good and gone mostly without hitch, apart from the episode when we filmed the "buying some livestock" section. We were driven to a place called Whales, which was very cold, hilly and far from London. We were supposed to be purchasing chickens, pigs and other commercially viable livestock for a smallholding like ours. While Sue and the majority of the film crew were looking at some ducks, I wandered off for something a bit more exciting. And I found what I was looking for! There were these big fluffy things called Alpacas. They looked jolly friendly, and so, with only a cameraman as support, I vaulted over their fence and into their paddock. Well those of you who have seen the footage on You Tube will be aware of what happened next. I obviously now bitterly regret wearing my Afghan coat, and should not have panicked and tried to run when they stampeded towards me. Slipping on the mud was unfortunate, but I should not have curled up like a hedgehog with my bottom in the air. Apparently "Alpaca Gang Bang!" is now the 16th most viewed clip on You Tube, and is even being considered for use in trailers for the series when it airs just before Christmas.
Hortence was very unsympathetic when the driver dropped me off that evening. She even made me go out and purchase my own tube of Preparation H. Not what I was expecting from a life of marital bliss!
If you have any Alpaca-free restaurants you want me to visit, then please drop me a line to gileslondongetsstuffed@yahoo.co.uk and I shall see what I can do.

Thursday, 10 June 2010

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!

Monday, 8 February 2010

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.