Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic who’d always assumed Russell Brand was a poof
I FUCKING hate cats. Haughty bastards that sleep where you want to sit or rimming their own arseholes. On a scale of pointless animals they’re one step down from wasps.
Still it’s my niece’s birthday, she loves them and she’s having her party at a cat cafe that used to be a Chinese. Back then they had these little bastards on the menu.
It’s six quid just to get in, ‘to help keep our furry friends looked after and give them a happy life’ it says, idiotically. Really? Don’t they know if a cat wants a happier life it fucks off to the neighbours?
But they’re keeping them in here, with a double security entrance and a revolving door. Like these pampered little bastards would make a run for it even if they could. Surely they need to change the line-up now and again to keep the punters interested, like in a strip club.
The cats are everywhere. Under the chairs. On laps. Up on the table. Does environmental health know this shit’s going on? Do they take anonymous tips? Because this is unpleasantly unhygienic, and I still go to Kebabylon despite the multiple health violations.
My brother informs me I’m late and ask where the present is. I whip a generous tenner out of my pocket, clock his expression, and grudgingly pull out another to keep it company. Apparently that’s the going rate for a seven-year-old.
The menu has all the imagination of a school canteen. Baked potatoes with cheese, or beans, or both. Shitty frozen pizzas. Paninis with chicken and salad. All garnished with generous servings of cat hair, none less than ten quid. Fuck off.
And so commences an orgy of crappy food, delighted childish squeals and cat-stroking. if you’ve never seen a child break from eating frozen chips to stroke one of their furry, disdainful overlords, you’ve not lived. I keep hoping one of them will get scratched.
Waiting for my tuna melt, a sniff of catshit takes me back to the days when my ex kept the litter box in the kitchen. Eating every meal in an animal latrine. And people say bachelors have low standards.
The food arrives, I’m surrounded by scrounging vermin who seem to think they’ve some right to it, and apparently I’m in the wrong by telling them to piss off. Nor does my ‘I always considered myself a pussy magnet’ gag prove popular.
Wolfing the food while shoving the mewing masses away with my feet, trying to bat away their inquisitive paws, just trying to eat a fucking sandwich I snap and punch one of the bastards off the table, along with a couple of drinks.
Could have happened to anyone, but I’m very curtly asked to leave. ‘My bloody pleasure,’ I retort. ‘This place is a health risk, you need shutting down.’ Fucking cats.