Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic who thinks it’s double standards for women to want time off work for their periods when men don’t get it for their nose hair.
NOTHING’S sacred anymore in this once-great country of ours. They let birds play darts these days, for f**k’s sake.
All the great cornerstones of our culture – smoking in pubs, wrestling on telly on Saturday afternoon, women not allowed to be Match of the Day pundits – have been cancelled by the wokerati. Soon they’ll ban meat, and you’ll have to get black market Halal stuff from a bloke at the mosque, where you have to go every Sunday by law.
At least for now we still have the greatest institution of them all – the full English breakfast. And there’s a new cafe opened opposite the flat, so I thought I’d give it a go before it’s all Quorn sausages and herbal teas. Wankers.
It claims to serve the ‘best full English in town’ – a foolhardy boast when there’s a Spoons just up the road. It’s an unpromising start, and it gets worse. They don’t serve Stella and ask if I want fried bread or toast. Stupid question. Do I look gay?
The food arrives and my worst fears are confirmed. Baked beans served in a little enamel pot. What am I supposed to do, f**king drink them? There’s hash browns too, another unwelcome American import along with trick or treating, Meghan Markle and shagging our women during the War.
There’s also a grilled tomato incongruously plonked on the plate. That has as much place in a full English as a vegan in a Beefeater. Did I ask for a hot salad? I’d kill myself first.
Mushrooms I can accept, so long as they’ve been fried in bacon fat so they taste of something. These bland, apologetic bits of fungi clearly haven’t. They call it ‘heart-healthy’. I call it ‘the worst kind of interference in our lives by the nanny state’.
The sausage is okay but there’s only one of them. And two rashers of bacon. Talk about rabbit food. There’s not even any black pudding and I can guess why: Black Lives Matter.
The fried eggs are a f**king disaster too. Nobody wants ‘over easy’ eggs with runny yolks leaking all over the plate like that cyst I had on my groin. Fry them until they’re set as hard as rubber, the proper English way.
It sort of does the job, after a fashion. I pay up and leave, but I’m in a pit of despair at how far our green and pleasant land has fallen. Would we have won two World Wars if we’d served our brave lads this bollocks before taking on the Hun? No, because the krauts aren’t stingy with the sausages.
