An Apology

I have been contacted by Messrs Pulham Wright-Downe & Showmee, solicitors of the esteemed British character actor Mr Armitage Shanks, demanding an apology from myself and Mr Russell Bland for our behaviour on Mr Bland's BBC Radio Show this morning. They have brought to my attention that the reason Mr Shanks was not in when we phoned this morning was that he was attending his wife's funeral after her death from lung cancer earlier this week. Upon his return to his Maida Vale home he was horrified, upset and angered by the 37 minutes of messages Mr Bland and myself had left on his answer phone regarding the sex life of his 23 year old grand daughter, Ms. Melindra Shanks. Young Ms Shanks is now receiving counselling for the hurt and distress caused and to help cheer her and Mr Shanks up, I have arranged to send them both signed copies of my new novel "A Load of Wankler" (£17.95 in Waterstones). Therefore I apologise unreservedly for any hurt or upset caused by my appearance on the Russell Bland Show, and I hope that when Mr and Ms Shanks are feeling better they might listen to the broadcast again, and appreciate the genuine comedic thought that went into the calls.

Will this do, or do I have to crawl some more? Edit that last bit out of course.

Russell Bland Show

Bonjour my little petite fours. I have just had the most scintillating day, you cannot imagine the amount of fun I have had. I was asked to appear on BBC Radio 2's flag ship filth and humiliation programme, the Russell Bland Show. It features Russell Bland as the host, a man so crazy he back combs his hair! I kid you not folks! And he then sprays it so it stays there. And, get this, he then talks about his sex life, really openly and explicitly! The man is a bloody genius, so it was surely only a matter of time before I was invited on his show.

I was there to help plug "A Load of Wankler" again, which has sold nearly 100 copies now. I am down to my last few sea worthy cargo container fulls now, but I still think I know what most of my friends are getting for Christmas!

The show itself? Well, what can I say? It was a HOOT! Russell and I are obviously cut from the same cloth when it comes to humour and we had a right old time of it. When we were reviewing the papers and drawing knobs on all the men, we suddenly came across this picture of a real hot Flopsy. She was wearing black and looking quite solemn, but she looked like a goer. It said her name was Melindra and she was grand-daughter of British comic actor Armitage Shanks. Someone from the production team had worked with Armitage and had his home phone number! So Russell and I, on the air, only go and phone him! BUT HE'S NOT IN! It is so screamingly funny! So we leave a load of lurid messages on his crappy old answer phone telling him what we have done to his grand-daughter and what we'd like to do to her next time we get her hands on her. We laughed and laughed, in fact I nearly soiled myself it was so funny! If you missed the show "live" then please go to the BBC Radio i-player and listen to it back. You will howl!

Russell Bland is a comic genius and I can't wait to work with him again. HA!

Sub-Editors - An Apology

It has been brought to my attention that an internal memo from my desk here at The Clarion office has somehow found it's way to the pages of fellow broadsheet paper The Sentinnel. The memo is purported to have been written by me to four of the sub-editors on my weekly restaurant review page in The Clarion colour supplement on Saturdays. The memo in The Sentinnel reads thus:

Look, you dim-witted, fuck brained fuckers. Sub-editors are supposed to do what sub-editors do without pissing off, annoying or butchering the work of the TALENT - i.e. ME! The people who's brilliant writing, like what I always do, sells mucho editionos of the fucking paper and keeps Neanderthal fuckwits like you in fucking jobs!

My final line in my previous review of Los Cobblas Tapas Bar and Taxidermy Collection was: "OK, so £561.58 might be viewed in some quarters as a little steep for two garlic fried tiger prawns and a glass of Rioja, but so exquisitely does the chef at Los Cobblas put this sort of stuff together then a Tapas Bar and Taxidermy Collection is obviously the ideal place for me to come and...wait for it, brillianto jokeo on it's way mi amigos...get stuffed! (Get it?)." And how did the article look when published? Like so: "OK, so £561.58 might be viewed in some quarters as a little steep for two garlic-fried tiger prawns and a glass of Rioja, but so exquisitely does the chef at Los Cobblas put this sort of stuff together then a Tapas Bar and Taxidermy Collection is obviously the ideal place for me to come and get stuffed!" Yeah, a hyphen suddenly appears between "garlic" and "fried" without clearance from me, and then my brilliantly humourous aside at the end gets BUTCHERED by some ill educated FUCKING FUCKETY FUCK FUCK FUCKER! Do YOU get paid to go and review restaurants? NO! Is your Father editor of a national newspaper? NO! Do you have an assortment of random Flopsy's you can take to impressive restaurants every week? I don't actually know. But you probably haven't. I HAVE THOUGH. And this may seem petty and you may call me a bit of a pratt, but when I heard what you had done to MY ARTICLE, well I was awake all night. In a RAGE! A FUCKING RAGE MAN! And I know a man can get verbose when he is angry and sometimes I am guilty of using several hundred words when only one will do, and I.... (continues for another 12 pages in a similar manner) ....until I was spent and just lay on the floor next to the toilet gasping for breath, but it certainly stopped the conversation in the Vicarage I can tell you.

Now get this fucking fuckers! MY DAD is Editor of this fucking paper and if you ever, and I MEAN EVER butcher any of my brilliant articles again I will KILL YOU IN COLD BLOOD WITH MY BARE HANDS! Or get you suspended on full pay. You just see if I don't.

Regards as usual, guys,

Giles London

Restaurant Critic #1

As you can see, The Sentinnel has just used my words out of context and have tried to portray me as a spoilt, psychotic, bully boy, but nothing could be further from the truth. Me and my close team of sub-editors get on like a close family and love each other very much. Don't you think that if they really hated me, they'd find a way to be-little me in these pages as well? Hello, my name is Giles London and I only got the job because of my father. I have a very small penis, no sense of humour and I am a total and utter twat. And by the time the posh tosser has worked out who put this on his copy I will be in my new job on the other side of the World. Stitch that, London, you prick.

On a lighter note, if you can think of somewhere cool to have dinner, then drop me a line at gileslondongetsstuffed@yahoo.co.uk and let's have some nosh. But I still won't pay as I am such a tight fisted donkey-raping shit-eater.

Six Random Things

A day of presents! After not hearing from Filly for such a long time, she posted me this new re-usable carrier bag (on the right) through the Royal Mail. How kind! Then I get to hear from my biggest fan out there in cyber world - the very brave Moonroot, who is STILL slumming it in Wales despite all my warnings to her. You can read all about her life on the lunatic Celtic fringe here: http://moonroot.blogspot.com/ and she has asked me take part in a Meme, which I always thought was a small Phillipino take-away in Notting Hill.

I shall let Moonroot herself set up the premise! Take it away, lady from the land of Charlotte Church:

Here are the Tag Rules:

Link to the person who tagged you. Post the rules on the blog. Write six random things about yourself. Tag six people at the end of your post. Let each person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog. Let the tagger know when your entry is up.

1. I am THE most powerful and influential restaurant reviewer in the whole of the UK. (Source: The Clarion Book of Influential Writers. ed. Alan London).
2. I have never learnt to drive! I have always found that the most interesting places to visit are within walking distance of mon abode, and most of them get more interesting when I get there. Anyway, should I need to drive anywhere I can call on a random Filly or Flopsy to drive me there. Tally-ho!
3. My brand spanking new novel, "A Load of Wankler" has been nominated for two literary awards already! The first is the prestigious Lumpensplatz Award, the highest literary accolade that Liechtenstein can bestow upon a writer. Apart from the winners cheque for £54.02, you are also awarded your own herd of cows, which might prove a tad difficult to accomodate in Kensington. The second prize I got is The Clarion Young Writer of the Year Award, a brand new award instigated by the literary panel of the Clarion Newspaper with a high ranking panel of judges including Alan London, Hypatia London and Victoria London - all well respected columnists in The Clarion.
4. I do not understand or recognise the concept of nepotism. And neither does my good friend Giles Coren.
5. I once had a date with Nicole Kidman. No, really, I did! It was really enjoyable, but my fingers got really sticky when I stuck them in her box. So I gave up on dates and sat eating dry roasted peanuts instead.
6. I have been asked to front a new TV programme called "Meet The Super Self Publicists" with comedienne Sue Androgynous. We have to dress up in silly period costumes, eat loads of horrible old food and appear on as many interview programmes as we possibly can. It shoud be a HOOT!

So there you have it! I am going to tag:

Alan London, Legionella Lawson, Gordon Sweary, Good King Hal, Jeremy Kyle & The Krankies.

More from the novel soon, Moonroot! Before that please email me to gileslondongetsstuffed@yahoo.co.uk and lets have lunch sometime! Bon appetit!

Second Sample Chapter From My Book

After such a great response from you lot, here is the second sample chapter from my great new novel. Again, feel free to comment on just how witty, urbane, clever, sexy and brilliant it is at the end. We whizz on to Chapter Twenty Six, and Guy's meeting with the glamorous and gorgeous lady you see here. Be amazed!

Chapter Ventisei

Guy woke up and groaned. Where the hell was he? The top London restaurant reviewer (and remember REALLY powerful man) had no idea where he was – he certainly didn’t recognise the place, so it must be outside of London’s west end. Then it came back to him. He had just wowed audiences at the annual “Top Restaurant Reviewers Awards” at the prestigious Hotel du Très Snob, by picking up EIGHT awards. His acceptance speeches had been humble, witty, provocative and mostly under 25 minutes in length. He had gone back to the green room after the final award (“Britain’s Most POWERFUL Reviewer”) and had been approached by World famous celebrity chef Nigella Buxom. She was wearing a figure hugging black satin frock that plumped her udders up alarmingly.
“Oh Guy...” she breathed, clutching a large balloon whisk. “You’re so powerful; sometimes it takes a girls breath away…” He arched his eyebrow sensually and waggled his latest gleaming award in her face.
“Never wanting to fly in the face of popular opinion babe, but most of my contemporaries would concur.” He growled at her.
“Oh Guy, why don’t we grab a few bottles of Bolly and go somewhere and discuss just how powerful and commanding you can be?” If Guy hadn’t known better he would swear she was coming on to him.
Soon they were in a large stretch limo whisking through the streets of London. In fact Nigella was whisking some egg whites in a large glass bowl on the back seat. She looked up at Guy with her big brown eyes and heaved her udders at him again.
“Guy, have you ever considered publishing a book of your reviews?” She licked the balloon whisk provocatively. “I find writing books very cathartic. It can leave you feeling very open to your reader…” She looked coyly at him as she folded in some caster sugar.
“Are you sure there is someone who could handle my output?” He breathed, sipping luxuriously at his champagne flute. “I am very productive and regular…” Nigella shuddered as she undid a pot of double cream and poured it into her bowl with some raisins and a small amount of self raising flour.
“I’ve heard doing it regularly helps…” She dipped her fingers in the mix and licked the sticky concoction from them one by one. “Oh dear, I appear to have spilt some down my cleavage…” Sure enough, some of the mixture was trickling between her udders. “Can you help me, Guy?” He was just the man for the job as he always kept a packet of Handy Andies in his inside pocket, even in a top of the range Charmani Dinner Jacket. He dabbed away like a professional. “Not quite what I had in mind…” breathed Nigella. “But your touch is like an electric current through my body.” She hissed, arching her back to his masculine tissue dabbing.
“I thought they were raisins, not currents…” Smiled Guy, and grabbed her close to him. “Kiss me, you wench, you know you want to…” he growled.
“Oh Guy…” gasped Nigella. “What about Samantha Ferrari, the top model and singer, who’s your girlfriend and everything?” Guy thought for a moment. Dear Samantha, who had stood by him through everything, the court case, the bizarre fishing episode, that business with the enormous Pot Noodle stashed in his luggage and only discovered at Lugarno Airport. She was his life partner and went like the clappers if you gave her enough vodka. Then he glanced down at Nigella’s heaving udders, squashed between him and her and thought: “Samantha Who?” They kissed passionately, with tongues and everything, and remember this is Nigella Buxom, off the TV! Nigella gasped and pulled away from him. “I’ve never done it with such a powerful and thrusting reviewer like you before, Guy. But there is something coming between us I think…” Guy glanced down at her huge heaving udders.
“Not just one, old girl.” He smirked, but she was referring to something else.
“My cake mix!” She cried. “What am I going to do about my cake mix?” Guy took the bowl from her.
“Allow me to use my tongue for what it is best suited…” and he cleaned her balloon whisk in a jiffy. Nigella’s smile suddenly changed.
“Thank you, Mr Wankler. Just what I wanted you to do!” Guy was puzzled.
“Is something wrong old girl?” Guy couldn’t fault the mix, it was light, sweet and jolly sticky. Just what you needed. True the raisins appeared to have been soaked in Spanish Brandy instead of some nice stuff, but then they were racing through the streets of London at two in the morning in the back of a stretch limo and Fortnum and Mason’s was shut.
“Mission accomplished, Master!” Shouted Nigella. At that moment, the glass screen between the occupants and the driver silently slid open revealing… Nigel Crater! The restaurant reviewer from the London Evening Pennant.
“So, we meet again, Herr Wankler!” Cackled Crater, as he drove the limo through the darkened streets. “You must excuse Frau Buxom, she is doink me zer favour to pay off vot she owes me in balloon visks and garlic presses…” Guy could see his duelling scar and monocle quite clearly in the rear view mirror. “She is not naturally evil, like what I am, but can be quite malleable if treated correctly…” Guy gazed at Nigella’s heaving udders again.
“I should say so…” he hissed. “So, a bit disappointed at no awards tonight, eh Crater?” Crater thrashed his hands against the steering wheel.
“Damn you, Wankler!” He shouted. “All zose great reviews I write and people use zem as fucking fire lighters. Zey spend all day reading and discussing your reviews and no one else gets a look in. So you must be erased from zer equation.” He calmed a little, but then continued. “You zee zer cake mix Frau Buxom has been preparink has a little added ingredient to take away some of your legendary powerfulness…” Guy suddenly felt strangely tired and lethargic. “Plus I haff put two whole tablespoons of zer horse tranquilizer ‘Nighty-Night Nag’ in zer champers, zo you vill soon be in zer land of nod!” He laughed maniacally. “Say auf wiedershen to your career, Herr Wankler!” Guy’s head swam and the last thought that went through his head before sinking into blackness was just how big Nigella’s udders were?
So this is where he now found himself, waking up and tied to this bed in what appeared to be some dark and filthy garret. He struggled with his bonds, but they were tied hard and fast. Suddenly the door opened wide and in walked Nigel Crater and Nigella Buxom.
“Good mornink, Mr Sleepy.” Cackled Crater. “So vot vould you like to do today, hein?” He walked up and down in front of Guy, tapping a riding crop into his hands as he spoke. “Write a review of Zer Ivy? Maybe comment on Zer Savoy Grill? Dish up a damning indictment of portion sizes at Aldo Silli’s newest trattoria?” his voice rose to a maddening crescendo.
“Any of those would be fine after I’ve thrashed you to a pulp…” Guy struggled against his bonds, but they held even his manly torso firm.
“Oh no, Herr Wankler. I haff something far more suitable for you to write about in your next review.” He turned to Nigella. “Open zer window, Frau Buxom.” Nigella turned and did as she was told. Light poured in and temporarily dazzled the great man, but soon Guy could see. It was a sea of bland rooftops stretching away as far as his eyes could see. “Velcome to your new home, Herr Wankler.”
“Where have you brought me, you devil!” Shouted Guy, now panicked.
“Velcome to Harlow New Town!” Fear gripped Guy, beads of sweat leapt onto his forehead and a nervous tick played across his rugged handsome features.
“What do you want of me?” He genuinely feared for his life, but little was he to know of the horror to follow.
“See zat buildink zere?” Crater pointed his gloved hand at a larger roof that stood slightly out from the bland conformity of this non-London hell hole. “Zat iss your new restaurant to review. Say Guten tag to zer ‘Happy Hungry Hippo Tavern’. It’s a
Berni Inn!” And that’s when Guy started screaming!

Sexy scary stuff, what? Drop me a line and tell me how exciting and brilliant this chapter was. Come on guys, be brutal with me! gileslondongetsstuffed@yahoo.co.uk I reckon I can handle it! Ciao!

First Sample Chapter From My Book

To all my fans out there who have been crying out for this, especially Moonroot in South Wales, you groovy Celt you (look you! Borra Da as you funny chaps say), then here it is, in it's entirety - the first chapter of my new novel "A Load of Wankler". Enjoy!

A Load of Wankler
By Giles London

Chapter Uno

A strong smell of freshly ground coffee pervaded up from the street near the Kensington town house of one of London’s most powerful men. Yes, he was powerful alright. His forthright views on London’s restaurant scene had shaken the media world to its very foundations. That is of course if it had any, but it didn’t, it was just a figure of speech and not a great big building somewhere. But it would be funny if it was wouldn’t it? Anyway, this powerful chap was Guy Wankler, top restaurant reviewer and critic from the world renowned London paper called “The Daily London Paper”. He stirred in his sleep and turned over in his really big bed with the black satin sheets and his sleepy eyes opened on a vision of beauty. It was a mirror. After looking at this for about 15 minutes he turned back the other way and there she was Samantha Ferrari, the top model, singer and expert on Japanese shitake mushrooms. And she was completely naked. Totally. Guy pulled back the black satin sheets and had a really good look. Good udders and child bearing hips. Perhaps he’d pop the question one day; he knew she was dying for him to do that. This top catwalk model who only ever travelled in the top floor bit of 747’s and was frequently placed highly in “Nuts” magazine’s “most shaggable looking birds” contests was his and his alone – and she adored him and wanted to have babies with him. But not right now. She was asleep.

Guy sniffed the air in his room and that smell of the freshly ground coffee reminded him it was time to get up and hit the world, before it hit him. He stood up and stretched and admired his naked body in the full length mirror he had opposite his bed. He was 6 feet tall with a carefully toned body and a brain educated at Westminster School and Cambridge University. He had the sort of rugged suave looks that drove Fillies mad with desire and didn’t require him to have a John Thomas the size of Canary Wharf when it came to getting some (even though funnily enough he was enormously endowed in that department – genitalia that is, not with skyscrapers in Docklands). Just then the phone rang. Guy snatched it up.
“Yellow” he said, mimicking that really funny American chap in the cartoon with the horrible son. He liked people to know he had the pulse on modern youth culture as well as knowing such high brow University Challenge stuff like what Vivaldi’s favourite flavour yoghurt was when he was painting the Sistine Chapel. It was Gordon Ruffty, the famous swearing Scottish TV chef.
“Guy…” he began. Guy cut him short.
“Look you Caledonian Neanderthal, how many times must I tell you – it’s GUY (pronounced GEE) as in Ghee which is a class of clarified butter that originated in the Indian Subcontinent, and is important in Indian and Egyptian cuisines and in Ethiopian/Eritrean cuisines and not Guy as in a gorilla from London Zoo yonks ago…” The savagery of Guy’s riposte to Gordon’s faux pas was like a French sirocco only a bit more savage and less blowy. Gordon whimpered his simpering apology to Guy. “OK, but don’t forget it…” hissed Guy and admired himself in the mirror again. “What do you want then?” he asked.
“Och, hoots mon, my braw bonnie new restaurant is doing good with a Michelin Star and all that but I desperately need a new one and I could only possibly get it with help from you, Guy. You’re so powerful and all the birds want you and whatever you write in your column makes everyone sit up and take notice and makes such a difference to the entire British economy…”
“I know that. Just get to the fucking point” Guy bellowed, doing a couple of squat thrusts while his expensive top of the range telephone was on digital loudspeaker. Ruffty squealed like a big girl.
“Och, hoots mon, please will you no come and review ma braw bonnie wee restaurant – and be kind. I couldnae stand a bad review from you. You’re so powerful and thrusting…” Guy jumped back to his feet from his mini-workout.
“That’s just what Samantha said last night…” he arched his eyebrow seductively, but of course Gordon couldn’t see it as he was on a telephone and wouldn’t have been impressed really as his bread isn’t buttered that way, and neither is Guy’s. Not at all and no matter what old “Stumpy” Massingbird says in the Old Boys Newsletter each Christmas.
“Please!” Whined Gordon. “You’re ma last hope, Jimmy, och aye the noo.” Guy let him sweat a while, and then said:
“See you soon, Gordon. Be on your best behaviour if you want that star…” and he slammed down the phone like a real man. Because he is one. Samantha stirred in the bed.
“What’s going on, darling?” she asked sitting up and letting Guy see both her udders really clearly.
“This condom!” Yelled Guy, and leapt on top of the completely naked top international model and had her. Every which way. You name it, he did it and she loved it and wanted more, and what’s more he used his old chap really cleverly and properly. A bit like Zorro really.

So there you have it fans. Don't forget to email me at gileslondongetsstuffed@yahoo.co.uk and be frank - tell me just how marvellous it is. Ciao!

A Load of Wankler

I am soon to be immortalised in print, and not just newsprint! I have wanted to write a novel for some time and so this weekend just gone, I sat down and bashed out my first effort. It took me most of Saturday AND Sunday would you believe! When I had finished it, I sent it over to Daddy for his perusal and do you know, I had a publisher phoning me up almost immediately with an offer to print it! How lucky was that? Here you see a mock up of the front cover and dust jacket blurb of how it will look (of course in full colour when it does come out). Please click on the pic for a full look of it in all it's splendour.

It is called "A Load of Wankler" and revolves around a suave and sophisticated restaurant reviewer based in London called Guy Wankler (Guy pronounced "GEE" in the French idiom). It follows his adventures and misadventures as he reviews some of the finest eateries in London. The reviews of this book have all been marvellous so far and I am indebted to some of the finest writers on The Clarion for their honest and forthright views on my writing style. Guy is a renaissance man who loves fine food, classy women and talking about himself, but then who doesn't? It is being published through a subsidiary of Clarion Newspapers called "Alan London & Son Publishers" and retails at a very reasonable £29.99 from all good booksellers. It is thought provoking, humorous, forthright, feisty and very sexy in places, if I may say so. I shall publish a couple of sample chapters on here in the next day or two and would love some of my fans to leave their reviews of this, my magnum opus.

Let me know what you think of my book. Email me at gileslondongetsstuffed@yahoo.co.uk and be honest and tell me how wonderful I am and how much you loved it. Bon appetit - and happy reading!