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.

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!

Wankler is BACK!

Hello food fans. Following the massive success of my first novel, "A Load of Wankler" (currently retailing in the more select branches of Lidl for 99p), I have been asked by the wonderful publishers London Books to produce a follow up. I have been offered a five figure sum to produce a similarly searing insight into the exciting, sexy and exotic world of restaurant reviewing in national newspapers. In the new book we follow our brilliant hero, Guy Wankler, leading restaurant critic in the City of London, as he finally goes outside the confines of the great metropolis and heads Stateside! The book, as you can see from the cover here, is called "Yankee Wankler" and is destined for greatness. Sample chapters will be placed here on my brilliant, informative blog over the next few weeks. Please let me know just how fantastic it is and how many Booker Prizes it should win.

And don't forget, if you still want me to come and review a restaurant or eatery near you (as long as you live in central London and lets face it, who doesn't?) then drop me a line to gileslondongetsstuffed@yahoo.co.uk and lets chew the fat (get it?). Ciao, fans. Giles x

Chips With Everything...

In recent weeks you may have seen quite a bit of my sister, Victoria London, on your TV sets after her appearance in an international poker tournament that she actually won. Amazing really as the only games I used to play with her when we were home from boarding school was the “How Many Earth Worms Can I Stick In their Knickers Before the Owner Pisses Themselves” game. But then, it never lasted that long as I was always terrified of worms.
Anyway on winning this game of poker young Vic has only gone and got herself a healthy pile of dosh, a TV series and a higher media profile than yours truly. So what’s sauce for the goose is you-know-what for the gander and when an invite to the “World Super European Pro-Celebrity Poker Tournament Super Stakes World Masters To The Death 2009” competition arrived on my desk at work I was in no position to decline. Admittedly I had never played poker before (I am much more of a canasta man to be brutally honest).
The event was being recorded ready for broadcast by UK Gamble Till Your Wallet Screams For Mercy Channel (Sky Channel 342932). I arrived at the recording studios which were in an ex-meat packing factory near Plumstead in South East London. My fellow celebs were waiting in the green room (formerly the ladies toilets) and I found that my competitors for the crown were ex-hurricane cock up weather man Michael Fish, religion disbelieving anti-God preaching clever chap Professor Richard Dawkins, ex-Iceland advertising coke snorting professional chav Kerry Katona and wee Jimmy Krankie.
We were soon summoned to the table and in secluded lighting and with hushed air of intense tension we settled into our high backed stools. Jimmy Krankie had a quick suck on his/her bottle of Irn Bru but it was time to go to business. Our jolly attractive Asian Flopsy croupier began shuffling the cards. She explained in her funny ying tong voice that we were playing something that sounded like five card stud and something else about “East End Geezer Rules” being in full effect. She dealt us all two cards each – I sat and waited for my other three but none were forthcoming so I asked her for three more. Everyone else round the table looked at me a bit strangely. She asked me slowly what steak I was interested in. I asked for a nice fillet, blue and with a mild peppercorn sauce. Even the film crew were looking at me now, obviously overwhelmed by my knowledge of good food. The croupier looked at me for a long time, then said “No, what chips”. I snorted derisively. Chips? How passé can you get! Next they would be offering me dauphinoise potatoes and a bottle of Blue Nun. She pointed at the round plastic discs piled up in front of me. “Yours!” She shrieked. I pushed them all towards her. “Not mine, dear” I crooned. “You look after them for me.” Jimmy Krankie dropped his bottle of Irn Bru and even Richard Dawkins said “Jesus Christ!” The Oriental Flopsy paused for a moment then gave me the three extra cards I wanted. I looked at them for a while. There was no denying it, I was in trouble. I had gone well over 21 and there was not a sign of Mrs Bunn the Baker. I spread the cards out on the baize in front of me. There was a long dangerous pause. “Bust” I eventually blurted out.
Not long after this I found myself in a foetal position outside the back of the factory being kicked viciously by two TV Company Execs. Victoria may have won the money and the competition in her appearance but we know who will be remembered the longest for sheer TV presence and memorability!
If you have a fine little diner you’d like young Giles to check out for you, then drop me a line at gileslondongetsstuffed@yahoo.co.uk and I shall see what I can do. Bon appetite and good luck gambling fans!

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!