Reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic, who is convinced everyone on The Traitors is shagging like they do on Strictly.
I’VE been in hospital. Had my varicose veins stripped and they kept me in a couple of nights. After 40 years of paying taxes, I was expecting some nice pampering. How wrong was I?
I was stuck on a bloody trolley for hours like an abandoned big shop on an Aldi car park, and it was ‘nil by mouth’ so I was already starving when I got there. Then again, I’ve had ‘nil by mouth’ for decades, if you catch my drift. Not that my ex-wife was generous with the blowjobs, the lazy cow.
Anyway it’s ten hours before I get to theatre, probably because they were treating asylum seekers first on the direct orders of Starmer. They wanted to keep me under observation after ‘because of my age’. Cheeky bastards, I’m only 62.
The next morning I’m famished, so I’m expecting a full English before I waste away. Then they bring the menu. Toast. Fruit. Yoghurt. Bloody cereal. Do I look like a budgie? I suppose they can’t offer the ‘full English’ in case it offends the staff. Did I mention all the nurses on the ward are brown, shipped in from God-knows-where to take the jobs of British people. But I’m not racist, so I don’t bring it up.
I have a couple of slices of toast, which is dry as f**k and stone cold. And no proper butter, just low-fat margarine because it’s ‘healthier’. It’s no exaggeration to say the NHS is like living in Nazi Germany.
Lunchtime arrives but there’s little to cheer about. Boiled egg sandwiches. Cheese sandwiches. More sodding fruit. It’s no wonder people die in here when they’re being fed this shite.
And it’s made the nurses pissed off with me. Apparently pressing my emergency buzzer to ask one of them to pop to Maccy D’s and fetch a quarter-pounder with cheese is not what it’s intended for. I’d get better treatment if I was in an asylum hostel – all the pizza I could eat, plus I need a phone upgrade.
Finally it’s dinnertime, and another uninspiring choice of fare including curry – probably for the staff’s benefit – baked potato, or cottage pie.
I opt for the pie, which I’ve never understood the name of. Shepherd’s pie I get, but since when did cows live in cottages? It’s tasteless mush with a bit of minced beef and carrots in, topped with dry mash you could use to re-point a gable end wall.
I eventually fall asleep stone cold sober for the first time in years and have confused dreams about being chased by a giant Domino’s Meat Feast.
Finally they let me go the following morning after seeing the doctor, who, unsurprisingly, is also a foreign. I’m told to stay away from fatty foods and excessive alcohol. Me? I’m practically a teetotal vegan. You have to play the game, don’t you?
My verdict? Mass immigration has turned our once-great NHS into Guantanamo Bay. I can’t wait until Nigel becomes PM and sorts it out. There’s still the £350 million a week from Brexit they’ve not spent yet, so we could have nurses like Barbara Windsor bringing you a mixed grill from Spoons. I’ll email and mention it to him.
