Jamies Star Academy

Professor David Twinky (right) lets actor Simon Bellow know what he thinks about his iambic pentameter.

Hortence has been complaining lately, as you Flopsies often do (!), that since our wedding I seem to spend more and more time at home, and not out working or enjoying myself. Doesn't she realise that intuitive and erudite restaurant reviews don't just write themselves? Some of us actually have to Google the restaurants we are supposed to be going to, make up our minds about going or not, and then write any old rubbish that comes to mind. We can always fall back on sending expletive rich emails to idiotic sub-editors, safe in the knowledge they will never be leaked to rival newspapers and magazines for the general humorous delight of the British reading public.

Anyway, Horey must have been over the moon when I got a phone call from some totty at Channel 4, asking me if I would be interested in taking part in a new TV show called "Jamie Geezer's Star Academy". I thought it must be one of those celebrity talent spotting shows where you have to show off your hidden talents in singing, dancing and such like. Hortence snorted on hearing my thoughts on this, stating that if they were trying to spot some talent in me they might as well forget heavy duty binoculars and simply plump for making the Hubble Space Telescope look down for a change. I wasn't quite sure what she was on about, but I smiled at her anyway.

I went for a provisional meeting at the Channel 4 offices and was told some of the background to the show. They were going to get a load of idiot children, mostly from dreadful working class areas, and introduce them to top TV personalities like yours truly and see if we could inspire them to show some interest in learning for a change. Amongst the other uber-brains selected to whip up some enthusiasm in these troglodyte like youngsters were Jamie Geezer himself; Professor David Twinky - top TV historian; Shakespearean lovey Simon Bellow; former Olympic athlete, Daley Express; former Government advisor Alastair Grumble; elderly Australian artist/singer/weirdo Rolf Wobble-Board; yours truly; and Kerry Katona. We were informed by the production company that each of us had to share our own specialist subject with the classes and we would be filmed for later broadcast. This seemed fine to me. I was hoping that my inspiring details of how to become a restaurant reviewer with a national newspaper, and which brasserie was the best to visit in the entire W1 area might just connect with some of these lost young lives.

Day one of filming began in controversial fashion. Simon Bellow was taking an English class and took exception to some of the young chaps continuing to play "The Angry Birds" on their i-Phones while he was performing Hamlet's soliloquy. He flounced out of the classroom clutching his Yorick and took quite a bit of persuading back into the room. Professor Twinky then took a history class, and was thoroughly enjoying recreating the atmosphere of a gladiators dressing room at the Colosseum with some very muscular members of the class, when one of the young miscreants jokingly started calling him Professor Shirt-Lifter. Things got a bit heavy and would have got very unpleasant but for the swift intervention of Jamie Geezer and Daley Express. I was on next, and was more than a little nervous about how I would be received by these working class oiks.

I burst into the room, full of joie de vivre, and asked them to clear their minds and try to forget all their previous pre-conceptions on restaurant reviews, food writing and the general fusion food scene in Kensington in 2011. There was a short silence punctuated by a lone voice from under a hoody top who mumbled "Now what?" I turned to the white board behind me, untipped my pen and wrote "Reviewing a Restaurant - Do's and Don't's". I popped the lid back on my pen and lent nonchalantly on my desk at the front of the room. "Any questions, guys?" I asked.

"You is in the wrong room, innit?" Said one lad in a bandanna. I looked at the film crew at the back who simply gave me an encouraging thumbs up sign.

"I don't think so. What makes you say that?" I asked the bandanna boy.

"We got nuffink about no restaurant shit on our timetable, batty boy." He said. Some of the others snorted with laughter.

"It isn't shit - writing a restaurant review is a very difficult business..." The bandanna raised a hand to silence me.

"Yeah, right. Sure it is, blood. But what does dis mean?" He held up his own timetable for my perusal. It simply said "9.30am-10.30am - The Unfair Side of Life - Giles London explains nepotism - when you don't have to worry about getting a job thanks to Daddy." What could they possibly mean? I stormed out of the classroom and confronted the producer in the staff room. He was already deep in discussion with Professor Twinky and Simon Bellow.

"This whole thing is a sham!" Professor Twinky was wittering, as I entered the room. "These yobs don't want to learn - and as for the quality of some of the teachers..." he looked at me and raised his eyebrows dramatically.

"Indeed!" Boomed Simon Bellow. "One feels like Hermes, called to the battlements of Troy, only to be confronted by a dunce in a hat!" Once more he looked to me and I nodded in agreement.

"The elderly poof and the luvvie have a very good point! No wonder all the inbred scum next door hate their boring lessons..." And that's when the fight really started. Channel 4 are delighted by the very high viewing figures for the series, but it was a shame they had to spend so much of the budget rebuilding the school after my lesson.

Still - if I have touched at least one young life, and shown them the mad, intense world of restaurant reviewing, then my work here is done. It will have been worth my sacrifice, and some of the punches I took from Jamie Geezer. And Kerry Katona.

If you want me to review a restaurant near you, ensure you live within 500 yards of the W1 post code and drop me a line at gileslondongetsstuffed@yahoo.co.uk and I shall come and bring some star quality to your local eatery! Bon appetite!

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.

Mostly Haunted - Live!

Hello food fans. I had taken a break from writing the latest Earth-moving chapters of "Yankee Wankler" to fulfill a commitment I had made some months back. You have probably seen the TV programme "Mostly Haunted" on the "Just About Living" Channel (Sky 394053) - you know the one, moody northern Flopsy with blonde hair, takes load of ugly chaps into an old house, turn out the lights and everyone starts screaming. Looked like super fun. When reviewing a little nose-bagger in South Kensington, I bumped into said moody northern Flopsy with her husband, turns out their names are Yvette Screaming and Karl Sweattie and they not only make this fun looking programme, but they also do a thing called producing it as well. They said I should come on one of their "live" shows and see how it is all made. Well, they were doing a new live show featuring some celebs broadcasting from a big old house that once belonged to someone called Mrs Beeton. Never heard of her, but she must have had something to do with food as all the celebs were from the world of cuisine. There was Brian Northern, the chef from Ready Steady Burnt; Rick Shagger, from his famous fish restaurant in Cornwall; yours truly; Delia Smashed, from Norwich City FC; and Suzie Sweet from Balamory. We had a briefing session with Yvette and Karl at the beginning of the evening, which seemed to consist mostly of the pair of them arguing about who hadn't done the washing up that morning.

We would be going "live" at just after 9pm where we would have a seance in the main living room of the big old Georgian house with famed TV psychic, Derek Ascouser. Then the celebs would pair off with one of the Mostly Haunted regulars and a small film crew and...well, see what happened. The seance was a scream. Derek is a very sweaty man from Liverpool with lots of nice 9ct gold jewellery. We all had to hold hands - I was next to moody Northern Flopsy and she has quite a grip I can tell you. Derek kept asking for a sign that someone was there. He ignored me when I waved at him, so I asked him loudly for his mobile number. Moody northern Flopsy then stamped on my foot under the table. Derek then asked if his guide was there. I snorted that he had better not ask for a boy scout or people will reckon he's worse than Gary Glitter. This time moody Northern Flopsy elbowed me savagely in the ribs. Suddenly Derek went into a trance, sweated more than normal and then started speaking in a strange voice. Apparently he was being possessed. His new voice asked to speak to the most famous food writer in Britain today. I knew my moment had come. I sprang to my feet. Funnily enough so had Delia Smashed. She glared at me. All the people behind the camera were gesticulating at me, motioning downwards and then pointing at Delia. I inclined my head in Delia's direction to let her know she should stop making a fool of herself and all the TV crew wanted her to sit down, but she continued to glare at me. Derek repeated his request and the moody Northern Flopsy tried to grab my hand again.

"I am here!" I declared in a strong positive voice.

"Not you, you daft southern twat!" Hissed Derek. I looked closely at him.

"Aren't you possessed any more?" I said loudly. " It's just that your voice has changed back to normal..." I only got this far as just then Derek got seriously possessed and lunged across the table at me. His first two punches caught me in the face, the third and fourth seemed to come from Delia's direction. After this we had to go to an advert break as Derek had lost his connection with the spirit world and was calling me a "spoilt southern shit bag who only got the job thanks to Daddy". What a strange possession he was enduring. I had a rest in the green room with a skinny latte while things calmed down. When I was called back to the set the seance was over. It was time to go ghost hunting!

I was paired off with Rick Shagger and the moody northern Flopsy. We were in the attic of the old building. There were boxes and boxes of old books and lots of dusty old furniture. I was just about getting my bearings when they turned all the lights off. Moody Northern Flopsy obviously was feeling a bit amorous. She stood next to me and asked if anyone was there who would like to make contact with her. I was a bit taken aback. Wasn't her large sweaty husband still in the room? It was so dark it was hard to tell. She asked again in a breathy little voice if anyone would like to make contact with her. One is a man of the World and knows what Flopsy's like. So I did what any romantic young chap would do when asked for a sign of his desires by a Flopsy, even a slightly ragged northern effort like this one. I gave her buttocks a subtle little tweak. The effect was electric. The Flopsy screamed like a banshee. Her husband asked what happened. She said something had brushed against her. I told her it hadn't, it was more of a tweak. She asked for another demonstration of the presence being with her. This time I went for her udders.

Well, if you saw the programme last night you'll know what happened next. I was victim of a severe poltergeist episode with much violent manipulation, telekinetic shocks and a right good leathering from moody northern Flopsy's enraged husband. The film crew were very excited at the end of this due to the appearance of what appeared to be a huge amount of ectoplasm, but I had to own up to having soiled myself during the poltergeist section. The whole evening was a terrifying experience, especially Derek Ascouser's perma-tan.

If you want to review a restaurant - who you gonna call? Not Ghostbusters, that's for sure! Drop me a line at gileslondongetsstuffed@yahoo.co.uk and lets get in touch with the living. More from "Yankee Wankler" soon. Promise!

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