I Know EXACTLY What Samantha Brick Is Going Through.

People like myself, and poor old Giles Coren, we suffer for our brilliance, good looks and modesty.

There has been a real explosion of gossip this past week since dear old Samantha "Thick-as-a" Brick published her very genuinely heartfelt piece about how much she has suffered over the years as she is just so much better looking than everyone else in this blighted country of ours. And I know exactly what she is going through, this poor tortured soul. Don't you think I haven't suffered as well? When you have the looks of a God, a wifey who all men want to sleep with and you're without doubt the most powerful, important and epoch making restaurant reviewer in the whole of the London area - you become a target. That's right - a target, for every jealous, ugly, poor, unimportant little troll who blathers through their worthless pointless lives, producing ugly poor children, living in squalid little houses MILES from the west end, filling their pointless miserable lives with take aways, beer and Britain's Got Talent.

Many is the time I have arrived at vastly important openings of desperately needed sushimi restaurants in Chelsea, to be greeted by the maitre 'd with a "oh it's you - get him in before the press see him", obviously knowing full well that seeing a man of my stature entering their modest portals would drive some of the gathered paparazzi insane with jealousy. Knowing that I, Giles London, have it all, and they have nothing. Aside from a camera with a big lens and a conspicuous talent for accurate long distance spitting, the dirty bastards.

On many occasions I have entered high class eating establishments not a stones throw from the King's Road, and before I have even reached my table the head chef will have pushed a large bottle of Bolly in my hands and said such charming words as "here's a free drink, don't write anything shit about us or I'll cut your balls off, you pampered little Daddy's boy prick". And you know it is just plain jealousy. Jealousy of a career I have forged with my own bare hands, fighting my way to the very top of the restaurant reviewing world, appearing in my own TV specials about silly old food with Sue Dyke, a career of blood toil and tears. When Daddy first offered me the post when I was sent down from Cambridge, I knew I had earned this position. Worked hard and earned it. And with my chiseled good looks, impeccable taste, dazzling wit, brilliant reviews, stunning sexy wife and overall brilliant wonderful jet set life... well, some people just can't hack it. And that jealousy rises like bile to their unimportant talentless craws, and they feel they have to vent it. And it manifests itself in so many little ways - being pointed at in the streets, a small barbed remark overheard in passing, being pushed down two flights of stairs on the underground, a savage kick in the cobblers in Maiden Lane etc. etc.

I was with Samantha the other night at Twats Nightclub in Soho and as we entered one of the other guests shouted "Christ! Look! It's the Brick and the Prick!" and my heart went out to poor old Sam. She didn't deserve that...

On a happier note, if you wish to recommend a good restaurant for a bit of nose bag (as long as you don't get jealous) then contact me at gileslondongetsstuffed@yahoo.co.uk and let's eat. Bon appetit!

Super Injunctions

Despite having spent ones entire brilliant creative career dans le echelons of power of the food media and restaurant reviews world, even I am sometimes at a loss for words when confronted with the lengths some people will go to, to protect their identity. For instance, this latest fad for "super injunctions" some stars have been using to stop the hoi-polloi from finding out about their petite peccadilloes. As I read the latest news in the Clarion the other morning I happened to mutter to Hortence that if I was having regular sex with someone good looking I'd want the whole world to know about it. For some reason she poured an entire tetrapak of Covent Garden ham and pea soup over my head, and then stomped upstairs slamming several doors behind her. Must be her time of the month, or something.

Anyway, upon signing in to pen my latest epoch making restaurant review, I was first confronted with several emails and messages from senior editors at The Clarion, Papa included, which basically said if you are going to mention anything about anyone, please ensure you get it cleared by the sub-editors and editors before it hits the news stands, or else. Well, they know from experience that I am a "safe pair of hands" and am never one to drop names in that are likely to cause fuss, distress or even legal action for anyone at the paper. For instance the other night I was having a bit of late night nose-bag at Gordon Sweary's new outlet in swinging Soho, when who should walk in but D**** B******. There was no sign of V******* on his arm, and I wondered where the Posh old bint was. In her place was none other than K**** K*****, still clutching her Prawn Ring from her latest demanding roll advertising the vile food served up by I******. If Mum really has gone there, then God help her taste buds. D**** B****** was a little bit worse the wear for drink, but then so was K**** K***** and things got a bit rowdy. On an adjoining table was sat A***** M*** who's political sensibilities and big ears were somewhat assailed by the vocal onslaught, and he and his dinner guest, B****** W****** were not looking happy. Rather than be the usual calming political anchorman, A***** M*** allowed B****** W****** to reprise her most famous roll, and she bellowed at D**** B****** that he could take his golden balls and "GET OUT! YOUR BARRED FROM THIS PUB!" Quick to D**** B******'s aid came P*** D******, who said he liked it, but "not a lot" that B****** W****** was shouting so much while he was having dinner with A******** J****. B****** W****** looked quite contemptuously at the small magician in front of her, then at A****** J****. "I see you're still into being a Tomb Raider then, dear!" she spat, cattily. A****** J**** punched B****** W****** clean across the table she had been at and spilled wine all over A***** M***. At that very moment who should walk in but R*** G**** still with a football tucked under his arm and with grass stains down his shorts. He urged everyone to be calm, but unfortunately just at that second in came A*** S****** embroiled in a massive punch up with a kilt wearing K**** L**** who's charming wife G**** L**** was following them down the steps into the restaurant screaming "THINK OF MY SPORTS BROADCASTING CAREER, K****! CHIN THE BALDING GEORDIE BASTARD!" Then all hell broke loose as actor O****** B****, former MP L***** O*** and his girlfriend, the pretty one out the C***** G****, Dame H**** M*****, several leading actors from popular soap C********* S*****, the entire West End Cast of L** M*********, former pop singer and hamburger magnate D**** V** D**, Sky Sport's very own J*** S******* and I**** P*****, U*** D****, M**** P****, the T********* and narrator Sir D**** J***** fresh from their latest CBeebies DVD launch, all joined in the fray and much damage was done to both the restaurant, and some bodily parts.

I didn't even get a chance to finish my review of the restaurant properly, which was very annoying as I said to K**** K******** in the shower this morning...oops! Anyway, if you know a good London based restaurant you'd like me to review, then drop me a line G**** L***** here at the Clarion, or email me at gileslondongetsstuffed@yahoo.co.uk and let's have l**** sometime. Bon a******! (To all subs, I am pretty sure this is tame stuff, but if you need to block any names, just asterisk them. Can't see there being a problem. Ciao, GL).

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.