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!

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!