The land of potatoes, pissing rain and terrorists: The gammon food critic visits an Irish pub

28th November 2023

Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic who’s actually googled whether great white sharks could survive in the English Channel

I’VE never had time for the Irish. A race of gypsies who are either flogging you lucky heather or strapping a bomb under your car. But there’s a lads’ piss-up in Dublin in spring, so before I commit I thought I’d see what I’m letting myself in for culinary-wise. Mostly bloody potatoes at a guess.

So it’s off to a traditional Irish pub that does food in Birmingham’s Irish Quarter. Just hoping my English accent doesn’t get me blindfolded and executed.

I know some topics of conversation are best avoided. Brexit. The IRA. That potato famine they’re still trying to blame on us. I’ll probably keep my thick Paddies jokes in the locker too. They’re hardly known for their sense of humour are they? Sinead O’Connor. Gerry Adams. Roy Keane. All miserable as fuck.

First things first, I get a drink in. And when in Rome – well, Digbeth – I decide to keep it authentic and order a Guinness.

I’ve not touched the black stuff in nearly 30 years. One sip and I remember why. Like gluey, cold soup that tastes predominantly of soil. A few too many of these and I’ll have a shit like treacle in the morning, like the first one newborn babies do. That’s what my ex-wife told me, anyway. I never did nappies.

I ask the barman for a ‘proper English pint’ of Stella instead. He smirks for some reason. There’s a live band on too. All that diddly-aye shit about binge drinking and getting dumped by your woman. I can relate to that but I’m worried they’re going to start singing about Semtex.

I peruse the menu and my initial fears are confirmed – potatoes with fucking everything, and not even as chips. And everything’s ripped off from us English. Irish stew? That’ll just be stew then. Colcannon? Potatoes and cabbage, or as we call it, bubble and squeak. Boiled bacon, which is nothing more than classic English gammon. Talk about cultural appropriation.

There’s also a choice of either black pudding or white pudding, and frankly I’m impressed there’s a savoury pudding for people like me who are sick of having Black History Month rammed down our throats.

I decide to go with the stew and, by now, my fourth Stella. It comes accompanied by soda bread, which I’ve never tried before, and won’t be doing again. Like trying to eat a fucking brick.

The stew is so bland it makes English cuisine look adventurous. At least there’s no garlic or chilli or any of that other foreign bollocks in it. Small mercies and all that.

It’s a passable meal if you’re into hospital food, but hardly fills me up. Looks like the chippy on my way home again. Sensing I’m rather pissed and a bit off my guard, I decide it’s prudent to pay up and leave before one of them tries to steal my wallet.

Verdict? Let’s just say I’m skipping that trip to Dublin. I’ll spend the weekend in Blackpool instead. Feels like I’ve dodged a bullet here. In more ways than one.

Let’s move to the Kent town which isn't as racist as it used to be! This week: Tunbridge Wells

27th November 2023

What’s it all about?

Royal Tunbridge Wells, known simply as ‘TW’ by the twats who live there, became popular as a spa resort after a young Queen Victoria sampled its calming and regenerative delights. It might be a very different place today if Her Majesty had just stopped off for a quick slash behind a bush.

Despite its reputation for middle-England bigotry, Tunbridge Wells is more woke than you might imagine. Cosmopolitan couples looking to start families have migrated from London, gradually displacing the indigenous racists. These days, the only residents to be viewed with hate and mistrust are those who don’t have bifold doors.

The town displayed its surprisingly progressive credentials by being the only place in Kent to vote to stay in the EU. However, it remains a Tory stronghold and is still whiter than Antiques Roadshow.

Any good points?

The numerous large parks are an undeniable boon. Dunorlan is perhaps the pick of the bunch, with its expansive boating lake and picturesque Victorian follies. If you hear somebody shouting ‘Tarquin, don’t be so silly!’ they’re probably talking to their cocker spaniel.

Dunorlan’s playground is conveniently situated on a spring, so even a light drizzle will turn it into a horrifying mud bath. The local children don’t complain though, they just don their Kath Kidston wellies and get stuck in.

Tunbridge Wells is on the train line between London and Hastings. The southbound route tends to get disrupted if there’s any kind of weather, so if heroin on the beach is your thing, best hop in the car.

Wonderful landscapes?

Much of the historic architecture of the town has been preserved, and the Edwardian-baroque design of the Opera House is an undoubted highlight. The elegant features even survived an interior fire during World War II. It’s now a Wetherspoons.

The town centre is disappointingly generic, with more empty units and charity shops than the locals would care to admit. Wealthy housewives enjoy donating though, competing with each other to see if they can get something in the window display.

Venturing out of the built-up areas, High Rocks is a stunning sandstone formation of, er, large rocks. It’s a Site of Special Scientific Interest but the rocks are mainly great for climbing up, walking on and jumping across. Situated next to a pub for maximum peril.

Hang out at…

The Pantiles is the Georgian colonnade where the ‘wells’ of Tunbridge Wells are located. Now a row of independent shops, bars and restaurants, you can no longer ‘take the waters’ but you can certainly spend eight quid on a coffee and buy a designer gilet for your dog.

A branch of The Ivy offers pricey brunch and a fleeting feeling of superiority. The perfect place for mums to compare their house extensions and children’s eleven plus scores over a smoked salmon bagel and glass of fizz.

Sankey’s is a fish restaurant downstairs and a boozer upstairs, so you can pretentiously eat a whole lobster before letting the façade crumble and downing shots of Sambuca until you puke. Sort of a metaphor for Tunbridge Wells as a whole.

Where to buy

If you have more money than God, why not purchase a mansion in Camden Park? Nobody really knows what it’s like inside this mysterious gated community aside from the residents, their cleaners and Ocado delivery drivers.

With its proximity to the prestigious Claremont state primary school, Farmcombe Road offers incredibly overpriced semi-detached properties, partly thanks to parents renting second homes to get into the postcode. Somewhat hilariously, Claremont was recently downgraded from ‘outstanding’ to ‘good’ with catastrophic consequences for local house prices.

Tunbridge Wells also has its fair share of social housing, it’s just hidden away like a mad old aunt who’s not allowed out of the attic. If you don’t fancy competitive chat at the school gates about how stressed and high-powered you are at work, head on over to Sherwood where you’ll be able to have a couple of tinnies and a fight instead.

From the streets:

Eleanor Shaw, 54: “I’m from Tunbridge Wells but I don’t think I’m ‘disgusted’ about anything. Apart from the fact that Crowborough has a Waitrose when we don’t. Who can I write to about that?”

Nathan Muir, 35: “No, I don’t live in fucking Tonbridge!”