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).

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!