The Morbidly Obese Gannet

Greetings Earthlings. Giles is back, and so is my good friend Heston Bloomingtwatt (pictured right). After my visit and review of his charming avant garde eatery in dear old London, I hadn't heard much from Heston, apart from through his solicitors. So when I received a hand written invitation from the experimental wunderkind to visit his rustique eatery dans le countryside, well one jumped at the chance. Heston has been much in the news recently with his televised series trying to improve the reputation and menu of well known motorway food outlet "Little Fat Git". His re-branding of their "Titanic Breakfast" to "The Hardened Arteries Breakfast" was inspired! So a chance to come and sample his more artistic side at his new rustic eatery called "The Morbidly Obese Gannet" was just too good an opportunity to pass up.

The Gannet is an old 18th century coaching inn nestling in the sleepy commuter town of Much Dribbling-on-the-Velcro. Heston has brilliantly re-designed the interior to look like a 19th century coaching inn instead. He welcomed me warmly with a handshake so strong it brought tears to my eyes. The place was packed full of eager diners and I was eager to sample their fayre.

"Oh, you don't need to see a menu, Giles!" Beamed Heston. "I've got something very special lined up for you, after all the nice things you've said about me in the past!" How nice my modest reviews of his establishments have been remembered and cherished by him. I settled myself down in a corner of the main dining area and sipped at a little something Heston called "Ditch Water". It's taste was earthy, served chilled with much dark sediment floating in it. Heston soon appeared with my first course - a large selection of very ripe looking foreign fruit. He swatted several large bluebottles away from the main pile of putrefying bananas. He then thumped another, obliterating a starfruit. "Ooh, another pregnant female" he remarked. "Dig in!" he urged. The fruit had been aged for a while, approximately 2 to 3 months I would imagine, and required little or no chewing. One particularly slimy piece of guava went down in one blob. This was imaginative cuisine at it's very best. Heston then produced a main course he called "Thawed Heated Frozen Thawed Cooked Re-Frozen Cooked Frozen Chicken Surprise" Again little in the way of chewing was required and the whole ensemble had a distinct gamey flavouring. Heston's crowning glory was his sweet! He called it his "Botulism Sorbet Avec Cascara Jus" and it tasted astounding. I was so impressed that I immediately wandered around the dining area allowing all the other diners to sample this fine dish. Heston looked a little shocked as he wandered in from the kitchen.

"What the hell are you doing, London?" He grabbed the sorbet from me. "Are you trying to get me shut down?" I grabbed the sorbet back off him and ran laughingly through the restaurant liberally flinging spoonfuls of the delightful tasting jus at surprised looking fellow diners. Heston then requested I leave as I think some people were having too much fun. In the taxi on the way back to London, something alarming began happening to me. There was a titanic struggled going on in my bowels and unfortunately I was so immersed in keeping them under control that I didn't notice how much I needed to vomit until it was far too late. The taxi driver was very sympathetic and only hit me once on the way to the hospital.

I was in a coma for three weeks apparently and broke the world record for the number of saline drips needed to keep one person alive. Or as the Australian Doctor who was looking after me explained more succinctly - "you'd virtually shat yourself inside out, mate." The London Pennant Newspaper mocked me somewhat and had managed to photograph the inside of the taxi after it had delivered me to the hospital with the headline "Giles London Really is Full of Shit". Heston Bloomingtwatt is in big trouble as The Morbidly Obese Gannet has been closed by the food standards agency, local trading standards officers and even the UN. It would appear that all of Heston's guests were as susceptible to his Botulism Sorbet as I was. However it would seem that Heston doesn't blame me as he sent me a garland of very nice black roses with the promise that he would buy me dinner next time we met. Well it actually said "I'll get you next time, London. You just see if I don't. HB." which was lovely and a real tonic - but oh, for some gin!

If you have somewhere you'd like me to try then please drop me a line to gileslondongetsstuffed@yahoo.co.uk and let's have lunch together. I might see if Heston is free too! Bon appetit!

A True Stuffing.

It had been a while since anyone wanted me to review an eatery, particularly after the Russell Bland debacle. Therefore, when I was commissioned to write a review of my latest random Flopsy's home Christmas dinner, I jumped at the chance.

Her name is Miranda (I think this is correct, can the sub-editors check) and she hails from some ghastly little town that isn't London (I think it's in Wiltshire somewhere). We travelled down by train which was most relaxing in 1st Class, Flopsy was a little more constrained in her movements down in cattle class, but she seemed relatively jolly every time she brought me a cup of coffee and a brioche! We eventually arrived at aforementioned ghastly little town and Flopsy moaned a little carrying my cases to the taxi rank, but we were soon arriving at the rather gauche entrance portals to her parent's farmhouse. Her parents seemed pleasant enough, if somewhat limited in their knowledge of Japanese Noh Theatre, the works of Thelonius Monk and also, sadly, the preparation of an alternative Christmas Dinner.

The starter was a rather plain choice of homemade tomato soup or a dull homemade Brussel's pate. I plumped for the pate and was greeted by a pink, smooth nonsense of dull taste and inept seasoning. The turkey was huge, over basted, too dry at the top and stuffed with sausage meat of all things! Flopsy's mother, who's name completely eludes me, served this abomination with sprouts (how five minutes ago!), roasted potatoes, parsnips, cranberry sauce and a gravy so thick you could have re-pointed your pied a terre in Kensington with it! This was followed by a Christmas Pudding like a cannon ball served with thick skinned custard. Enough to make one's homeopathic therapist gibber with horror! She finally committed good taste suicide by serving me INSTANT coffee afterwards! Quelle horreur! I had made notes during the meal and as we sat in front of the roaring log fire of their tasteless ignlenook fireplace, I read out my review of the meal we had just enjoyed. Everyone was obviously thrilled to have such a reknowned restaurant critique in their midst as they listened in increasing silence. When I finished they were all just staring at me, aside from Mrs Flopsy, who appeared to be weeping with joy into her handkerchief. Flopsy's father then stood up and said he wanted to introduce me to another local Christmas custom. This seemed to consist of him hitting me repeatedly in the face as Flopsy's 18 year old brother held my arms behind my back. These rustic lunatics and their little foibles! Their local custom concluded with Flopsy's father then throwing all my cases on the front lawn and setting fire to them, before frog marching me down the muddy lane they call a driveway and throwing me in the main road. When I got back to their front door, I found it locked and had no way back in.

My mother drove me back to London before a brief stop at Portland Hospital for a check on a broken nose and mild hypothermia. What a Christmas!

Anyway, if you have somewhere you'd like to recommend I should check, then please mail me the details to gileslondongetsstuffed@yahoo.co.uk and I shall give it the once over! Bon appetit, mes amies!

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!