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).

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!

I'm A Tosser!

After my appearance on Gordon Sweary's programme the other night, I have been all over the newspapers! Headlines such as "There's a Prat In My Kitchen!" and "Wot a Tosser!" made me the talking point of all the breakfast TV shows this week! It was shortly after this I was approached by the well known advertising agency, Swarm Locust and Parasite, to front a new campaign to promote Kortright and Aitchison's Salad Dressing. A nice chap from the agency called Tarquin Highgate called me. Apparently his father was at Westminster Boys School at the same time as my father, and this is why he was giving me a call.

"Giles, at the moment you are seen as the premier tosser in this country..." He said. I was flattered. I had no idea that many people knew of my salad preparation skills. Tarquin continued. "Our new slogan for the Kortright and Aitchison account is 'I'm a Tosser - Are you?' It's a real winner. We did have Timmy Mallet lined up for this one, but as soon as he announced he was unavailable for filming due to his committments with Radio Berwick-upon-Tweed's "Wake Up Both of You!" breakfast programme, you were the first person on our list to replace him." An honour indeed. I caught a cab to a small studio just off Covent Garden and was greeted by Tarquin himself.

"Ah, the tosser has landed!" He joked.

The filming was relatively simple. Dressed as a comedy chef, I had to stand in front of a fake kitchen set up, holding a bottle of the Kortright and Aitchison dressing, say "I'm a Tosser - Are you?" at the camera and then pour it liberally over a green leaf salad before tossing it with some salad forks. People who tell you acting is easy are liars! After I had fluffed the first 20 or so takes, one or two words of encouragement began coming from the cameraman, but he said them so quietly and through gritted teeth I could hardly hear them. When I finally nailed it, my words of "I'm a Tosser - Are you?" had barely left my lips and the director had yelled cut, when the cameraman looked me in the eye and said slowly "Never has a truer word been spoken." I was glad to have touched him in such a deep way with my acting skills. Tarquin suddenly appeared and put an arm round my shoulder.

"You really are a tosser, aren't you?" He smiled at me. "Still, don't worry old boy. As long as Daddy is about you won't want for work, will you?" I wasn't really sure what he meant as I have never met his father.

I phoned Filly when I got back to the flat to tell her about my hard day giving my all for the unforgiving lens, and she just laughed stating she had been having some very demanding roles of late.

Anyway, back to the reviewing again this weekend. If you know of a fine restaurant you'd like me to review, drop me a line to gileslondongetsstuffed@yahoo.co.uk and maybe we can have lunch together soon. Bon appetit!

Gordon Sweary's F-Off, Soho

Just earlier this week I was phoned by a television producer for Channel 4 who said "Sorry for bothering you, Giles, but your father has been somewhat forthright in his views that you should be on our new food programme by Gordon Sweary. Are you interested?" Gordon and I go back a long way and he really is an old mate of mine, so I was thrilled they had chosen little old me to be involved. I was instructed to get to Gordon's Soho eatery "F-Off" by 5pm for the filming to begin.

The programme was called "If U Can't Stand the Heat - F-Off" and Gordon was cooking for a host of celebrity guests for the evening. I immediately called Little Dozey-on-the-Wold, but after the phone rang for about 20 minutes her Mother answered in her amusing slurred voice. As soon as I knew Filly wasn't there I hung up. I tried her on her mobile which was answered by a gruff male voice who told me I must have the wrong "f-ing" number and hung up. I tried again and this time Filly answered. She sounded a little flustered, but when I told her something big had come up she murmured "you can say that again!" and hung up. I despair of the woman sometimes, I really do.

I got a cab to Soho and arrived at Gordon's restaurant bang on time. I was really looking forward to this culinary evening. A large Channel 4 bouncer on the door put a hand on my chest as I tried to walk in.

"Where do you think you're going?" He growled. I laughed.

"Giles London. Here for the filming..." He looked down and consulted a long list of names on a computer print out.

"Oh yeah" he finally said. "Got you down here, Sir. Not this entrance, round the side." I was ushered down an alley that ran along the side of the restaurant until I came to a dark doorway marked "kitchen". I walked in to be confronted by Gordon Sweary himself.

"WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU COMING IN MY KITCHEN?" He screamed in my face from all of five inches. I told him with my favourite comfortable smile on my face. "WHO?" He yelled even louder and closer. A young girl with a clipboard and headphones on ran up to him and put an arm round his shoulders.

"Giles London, Gordon? Reviewer with powerful Dad? Remember? Suggested cannon fodder for opening scenes?" As she whispered this a smile spread across Gordon's creased up face.

"Ah yes. The rich arrogant tosser." It was gratifying the great man remembered me.

I was soon dressed in kitchen whites with a large hat on my head. Apparently I had been invited on the TV show for my cooking prowess as well as my reviewing skills. Gordon began ordering me round the kitchen stating that all the most important people from the gastronomic world were going to be dining at F-Off tonight. How nice he regarded me so highly. It turned out he was right, as aside from yours truly there was going to be Aldo Silli, Gary Hairgel, Rick Shagger, Anthony Gollom-Thompson, Ainsley Gurning, Lesley Flirty, Brian Northern and many other great TV chefs eating here tonight, plus assorted celebrities from the worlds of sport and entertainment, such as Frank Limpass of Chelsea FC, Chris Gobshite from Radio 1 and Jodie Thrush the model.

The fiming began in earnest and I was surprised how few kitchen staff Gordon seemed to need. In fact it appeared I was the only one this evening, and soon Gordon was barking orders at me. I took his comic threats and occasionally throwing of sharp objects with good grace and we had a good laugh, particularly when I dropped a whole batch of foie gras on the floor. I burnt the Salmon fishcake roulades and then set fire to the beef wellington. When my terrine de rustique flew off the plate and landed in the sink with the washing up, Gordon took the whole comic timing of the evening to a next level. With the camera crew constantly circling us and filming everything he began to try and stuff me into the industrial plate cleaner. I just managed to flit away from that when the kitchen door flew open and in strode George Cantakerous, the independent Respect Party MP and Brian O'Thug, Irish international rugby player.

"Who prepared that fucking lobster?" Yelled Cantakerous. All eyes turned on me.

"Is there a problem?" I asked, with a nice open smile on my face. I felt I should go along with their joking.

"It was fucking raw you prick!" Yelled O'Thug.

"I am surprised your palates are refined enough to be aware of such subtleties..." I began. But that was when they jumped me (as the picture above shows you). A brief but brutal thrashing later, I was lying down gasping for breath when the producer shouted that there had been a problem with the sound and they would have to film it again. Several more celebs swarmed into the kitchen at this point and offered to help out. So we filmed the scene again. And again. Finally everyone was happy. Gosh, aren't TV people perfectionists?

As I limped back to get my cab I could hear all the other celebs singing and laughing in the restaurant. I was proud to have been part of such a good nights gastronomic TV. Back at my flat I phoned Filly again and told her about the hammering I had taken in the cause of other people's entertainment. She told me she knew exactly how I felt and the best thing to do was just lie back and think of Bermondsey. I told her surely she meant England, but she said she knew what she meant, and then hung up.

So another hard evening for me and Filly it seems. If you know of a great restaurant you'd like me to review then drop me a line to gileslondongetsstuffed@yahoo.co.uk and let's have lunch sometime. Just don't sit on my head and punch my cobblers. Bon appetit!

Capital Kebab House, Deptford

Since setting up this cyberspace blog, one has received many emails. Several largely anonymous ones have come from someone signing themselves as "Furious Filly of Rural Hampshire" and if you remove all the swearing and threats only run to about two sentences. I have also received one or two more interesting pointers, vis-a-vis top eateries. One in particular caught my eye for it's splendid and frequent use of colourful Anglo-Saxon colloquialisms. It said "Oi Giles you big fucking poof. You is all well and good going round them poncy west end gaffes, when r you gonna come down Deptford and try some real food you fucking tosser. Signed Nobber and Bermondsey Dave." Luckily they had left a mobile number on the initial message and so, tempted by this wonderfully earthy spirit of theirs I took the plunge and called them. What they lacked in charm and sophistication, they more than made up for in swearing and laughter. I was warmly invited to come down for a "DONNA" and a "rumble" should I so wish. This sounded like possibly an Italian evening and so I called up the Filly who was once again bawling her eyes out as her Mother had had yet another stroke in Little Dozey-on-the-Wold (surely having more than one is just attention seeking), and offered her the chance to join me in what appeared to be an evening in a trattoria.

The Filly arrived with a somewhat wild look in her eyes, and seemed thrilled at the prospect of the evening ahead. She said that dining with me after looking after her frail mother put her whole life "in a new perspective". She simply adores me, and who can blame her. We jumped in her Mercedes and trolled on down to South London where Deptford was supposed to be. Now I had imagined some Putney-esque riverside development after what Nobber had told me on the phone, but this was much more gritty and urban. To get the full flavour of our experience I urged The Filly to put on "Straight Outta Compton" by NWA on the CD, but she only had Katie Melua, and it really didn't suit the ambience. We stopped at the correct address, according to The Filly's sat nav, and there it was. The Capital Kebab House. So not a trattoria at all - more like a pocket sized Greek Taverna. As I stepped from the car, there was Nobber.

"Fuck me!" He yelled. "That posh twats only gone and turned up!" He slapped me on the back with all the ferocity of Gordon Sweary tenderising a steak and offered to let me wear his Burberry Hoodie, I declined. Bermondsey Dave was a very big chap as well and seemed to take a shine to The Filly and insisted on putting a protective arm around her. He led me into the eatery - it has a sort of quaint English working class seaside feel to it, with formica everywhere and a fruit machine in the corner. A man that Nobber insisted on calling Stavros, even though he later told me his name was Ahmed, showed me his menu which was for once not handwrittedn in finest copperplate and sealed in a leather binding, but in pictures placed on a light box above our heads. Everything looked the same, so I turned to Nobber for a little help. He highly recommended the "Extra Large Doner, all in and chilli sauce" - I thanked him for his astute help. Bermondsey Dave and Filly were busy chatting by the fruit machine and so Nobber and I ate alone at the counter - standing up would you believe! My meal was gargantuan - no nouvelle cuisine here my valued reader. More meat than you can shake a stick at, fresh salad and a chilli sauce that Nobber described as "nuclear" and with pickled jalapeno's that he called "kinansom", though I am at a loss to know what that actually means. After four mouthfulls I had lost the feeling in my palate and was sweating profusely, but Nobber told me this was normal. He recommended putting the fire out with some imported Danish pilsner lager called "Spesh" - it arrived in golden chilled cans. So hot and thirsty was I by now, that I immediately downed six of them and felt most refreshed.

I woke up in my bathroom in Kensington. I had been to the toilet at least eight times during the night, but appear to have been only mildly accurate twice. I looked in the mirror to see that I had a pickled jalapeno stuck to my forehead alongside the words "POSH TWAT" written in permanent water proof ink. I stumbled into my bedroom to find Filly sitting up in bed with a big smile on her face.

"Feeling better, darling?" She asked, giggling quietly. I slowly peeled the pepper from my forehead which for some reason caused her to explode into uncontrollable manic laughter. After five minutes she eventually subsided.

"That was some hot stuff last night..." I mumbled. Her smile returned even brighter.

"You can say that again..." She sighed. I was at a loss to put together the final parts of the evening. How on Earth had we got home?

"I feel pretty rough..." I lay down next to her on the bed.

"And it was pretty rough last night..." She sighed. Just then her mobile rang and she snatched it up, probably her Mother or sister wanting to know why she wasn't back at the maternal bedside. She trotted out of the room to the landing and I could hear her giggling and going on about Bermondsey a lot. She was obviously filling in her family with her escapades last night. What a girl.

So have you got a local trattoria, taverna or other ethnic fusion food outlet you'd like me to experience? Then drop me a line at gileslondongetsstuffed@yahoo.co.uk and maybe we can have lunch together! Filly has requested a few more eateries in the Bermondsey area - she'd obviously got the taste of some rough stuff now! Tally-ho!