Good afternoon. I am writing to you from my hospital bed.
I’ve been shot.
It has to be the mafia, doesn’t it?
Surely?
First there is something more important to tackle, which is a review of The Reformation in Gallowstree Common. Recommended to me by a reader – you may have noticed that I have recently visited a few places on the advice of readers instead of random number generator.
I’ve just had a thought. Do you think Get Reading had me shot? Maybe them stopping publishing the reviews was their way of telling me – NO MORE? Perhaps I was negating onto their territory and they wanted the local food review business for themselves. That and I’ve been a little rude to them occasionally – almost accusing them of publishing 100 stories a day about IKEA in return for some nice funding. That was a bit out of order from me.
But then again they were nice about me yesterday, and published a roast dinner story using mostly my photographs, and also linking to my page.
Cover up? If I survive my ordeal, maybe I should change careers to be an investigator? It looks like my modelling days are over.
The journey yesterday started with the bus driver trying to extract £36.50 out of me for a return journey which took about 15 minutes. I refused to pay it – maybe that’s who it was? I didn’t pay the protection money. It was a different bus driver on the way back. Fuck.
The pain is coming back. The drugs are wearing off. Help me. Nurse? Nuhhhhhrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrssssse?
I must dictate what I can whilst I can. I feel so weak. I might not survive.
The pub was very welcoming – with around 50 houses in a village that I have never heard of, it must be doing something right. It even had a wall of graffiti on the inside as if it was considering a move to Dalston. Some cute and friendly blonde girls – wait a minute – could it be a feminist that shot me?
I sat down outside in the sunshine, and waited around 10-15 minutes for the roast to arrive. I wasn’t that hungry which was a good job as there wasn’t much food in the oversized half-plate half-bowl that arrived. I had ordered the lamb, but there was also chicken and beef available – they do recommend that you order the roasts in advance as they only make so many. I cannot remember the price – somewhere around £15.00.
It could have been IKEA themselves after I uncovered their plan and laughed at their car park problems. You know what the Swedish are like.
There was one carrot, pompously cut lengthways into 3 strips, including the green roots which is a nice if hipsterish touch. Speaking of hipsters, maybe it was the guy behind This Is Reading? Someone told me that he is now the executive director of Sky News, but I always thought that he was slightly unhinged, and after I made a rude comment on his page a while back, maybe he has found out who I am?
Actually I need…aaaaaarrrrrgggghh. Ugggghhh. Delete that. No delete. How do you delete on a dictaphone? Oh I give up.
Actually I am going to talk about the gravy. It is the most important part of the dish and I might not make it to the end of my review. And this gravy ruined the whole meal. I was promised “proper gravy”. And it was gravy – a very rich gravy. It tasted of red wine, perhaps some nutmeg but it was just utterly overpowering and I simply didn’t like it. Southerners may like it. I did not. I felt it was quite a risky gravy – I am in no doubt that some people would be impressed but it simply wasn’t for me.
Maybe Farage has bumped me off? I forewarned you all not to vote Brexit but yet look what happened. Maybe he knows that I am going to fight and reverse the decision as the next Prime Minister (assuming the drug laws are overturned before then) and that he simply had to have me bumped off. Eeeeeeuuuughggghghgh. Pain go away please…I mean Farage go away.
There were two sticks of tenderstem broccoli. Firm yet not overly tough and apart from the horrid gravy were pleasant and edible enough. Edible Reading. Could it have been he/she/heshe? See my first thought was that they had also been threatened by Get Reading, hence the recent lack of posts. But then maybe that is a cover up to bump me off, and be able to claim the crown of number 1 food reviewer in the area. Maybe with me gone, he/she/it will then feel able to start reviewing roast dinners too. Oooooh. Aaaaaarrrrrrggh.
There were 4 mange tout. Tough and very crunchy. Or were there 5?
I mustn’t forget the couple of withered bits of floppy dark green cabbage. Thinking of withered bits, could it have been the local LGBT society that arranged for me to be killed off after seeing how I rejected my sex change within 24 hours. One day I was a straight man, the next a lesbian, then back to being a straight man with both a vagina and a penis.
My plate was also blessed with one piece of cauliflower cheese. Nurse? Nurse, I need some drugs. Over here. Nuuuuuuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrssse. It was good, creamy and a touch cheesy and simply not anywhere near enough.
Could it have been Wendy 87-last-names from whatever that pub was next to The Crown in Playhatch? She really took offence to a decently average review – calling me an idiot and a tin-pot-trip-adviser-reviewer. Though surely she would not have waited this long? And to think that I really wanted to go back there, I might never have the chance to now.
Sniff, sob, sob. Oh why me? Why did I have to get shot?
I love you mum.
And dad. And grandma. And sister. And all my friends. And Blanca Suarez – I love you the most. Get the nurse. GIVE ME DRUGS.
Surprisingly there was more than 1 roast potato – 3 in fact, all on the large size, all allegedly roasted in duck fat – they probably were but sadly the gravy overpowered any taste. The potatoes certainly had the sense of having been cooked some time ago and were a touch on the chewy and dry side, but not overly bad.
Unlike my crystal meth dealer. She is bad. Evil. I haven’t mentioned her until now but maybe she is worried that I have loose lips. It isn’t Blanca, before you ask. Blanca is the nurse this afternoon. And my future wife.
Ahhhh nurse. About time. I need some drugs. Yes, morphine, Tramadol and ketamine please. And some crystal meth. Oh, wait, wait, do you have any mescaline?
Shit, could it be Blanca? But I haven’t even started stalking her yet (by the way don’t watch I’m So Excited – an absolutely abominably gash movie that the nurses played to me last night after my emergency operation).
The lamb shoulder was a decent cut, it fell apart quite easily though was cooked rather well done – too much so for my tastes. That said, like all the ingredients to the meal it was of a high standard, yet ruined by the gravy.
Speaking of high quality ingredients, a ha ha ha ha ha. Wetherspoons. The CEO been so ashamed by the dreadful review that I gave his establishment that they had to stop doing roast dinners. Maybe this was the only way back – have me killed then start serving roast dinners again. Maybe the food processing factory owner is so angry about the lack of roast dinner sales?
The pain is so much now. Unbearable. I have almost made it to the end of my review but it is unlikely I will live long enough to see the visitor statistics.
The highlight, ouch. I cannot…I…the welcome. The welcome was so warm and friendly. The lowlight was being shot. I stepped outside, looked at the sunny skies, and walked towards the bus stop. I saw the bus heading towards me. It was a different bus and a different driver. And the next thing I saw were these walls.
5.9. Out of aaaarrrrghghhh 10.
Dear readers. If you love me like I love you, I ask of you two things:
- Avenge my death.
- Don’t forget me. Don’t let my hard work for the community go in vain. Make sure everyone knows where to go and where to avoid for their Sunday lunch.
Maybe I will see you in the next life.
Ahhh nurse, the drugs. It’s been hmmmmmmmmmmmmmm I mmmmmmmmmmmm think I l………………………………mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
love hhhhhhhhuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuum. hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Floating away.
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