Wow your guests by serving the ultimate party food, with Colin the emotionally unstable chef

PARTY food needn’t be uninspired fare like crisps and pizza. Make an effort to really impress your guests, even if they are slavering human dustbins who drink you dry then bitch about you behind your back. I’m talking about you, Fiona, you rancid cow.

Quail’s egg blinis

Ditch predictable smoked salmon and serve a hardboiled quail’s egg on beetroot pureed with cream cheese. It’s these little touches that make a gathering memorable, although not as memorable as the one when I walked in on Nathan saying ‘Colin? The only thing he fucks is the Christmas turkey’ and they all laughed. I’ll be making a special batch of party punch just for him. I’ll get next door’s dog to piss in a bottle.

Sausage rolls with a twist

What could be better than fresh flakey pastry and a quality cut of wild boar minced with redcurrant sauce? Although when Lucy had one she shrugged. Because she’s a fucking philistine who’d be happy with Greggs’ minced anus slurry pumped directly into her stomach with a hose.

A home kebab ‘van’

A small vertical rotisserie is very affordable if you’re fucking rich, so make a kebab cone with minced lamb and spices. Put out pittas, salad and sauces, and soon all your guests will be having an amazing time assembling their own kebabs.

Although Fiona’s got a fucking nerve showing up after that drunken one-night stand we had in 2015 when she gave everyone a ‘hilarious’ blow-by-blow account of my non-performance, as I later discovered. ‘Like trying sit on a dead worm’ was, I believe, one of her choice phrases. While taking no responsibility for it.

Go retro

For a witty saunter down memory lane, serve 80s favourites like Space Raiders, Monster Munch and Twiglets from childhood. Mine was ruined by my ‘friend’ Gareth ruined by claiming I shat myself during a maths test.

Total lie, of course, but kids don’t care. That followed me around for years. I ought to smash your fucking face in Gareth and stick the Monster Munch up your arse.

Oh and a quick note to Jules. If you don’t like Twiglets, or indeed Marmite, it doesn’t make you interesting. It’s not a fascinating character trait like psychic powers. Shut the fuck up about it or PISS OFF.


Incredibly easy to cook – you just need to source some small buns – and very in right now. Yes, you can bet the twats I’ve invited will ignore the proper food and wank on excitedly about what is, literally, a burger… but SMALL! What a fucking mind-blowing concept! Einstein would have difficulty getting his head around it! God I hate people.

Fuck it

While compiling my party menu, I’ve started to question whether my friends truly merit the effort. So here’s the recipe I’ll be working from:

Go to Iceland

Buy a load of crap like chicken doughnuts, nacho cheese bites and 32 cocktails sausages for £2

Watch your guests stuff their gaping maws like pigs at a trough. In fact, why not serve it in a trough with a bucket of leftovers? The wankers will probably think it’s some trendy new dining experience. I’d laugh if humanity wasn’t so fucking depressing.

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Let's move to a blighted post-industrial Midlands city! This week: Stoke-on-Trent

WHAT’S it about? 

Decline, both physical and moral. A byword for British mediocrity, Stoke-on-Trent is a city made of six towns, all of which are shit individually before they form together to be shit collectively, like a shit Voltron. It used to make pottery but hasn’t really for half a century and hasn’t come up with any other reason to exist either.

Any good points? 

It’s very handy for other places, which is why its landscape has been blighted by massive distribution warehouses staffed by workers on minimum wage. Football fans mainly know it as a place that will break fancy skilled foreign players, hence the catchphrase ‘yes, but can he handle it on a wet Tuesday night in Stoke?’ To which the real answer is ‘can anyone?’

Arguably it’s the last stop of the Midlands before the North; arguably it’s the first of the Northern cities. The reason both those points are arguable is neither the Midland nor the North want Stoke on their team, and these are regions that contain Nuneaton and Bradford.

In the halcyon days when Brexit was the major issue facing the nation the BBC based a team here to get the bigoted-man-in-the-street vox pops they relied so heavily on. Have they been since? Have they fuck. Who’d blame them?

Wonderful landscape? 

Post-industrial is the kind way to put it. Fucking horrible is more accurate. There are nice buildings, but they’re in the middle of blighted town centres with failing charity shops and chemists that supply methadone to smackheads. One road has so much fly-tipped shit on either side driving down it is like a theme ride through the end of capitalism.

Johnson’s levelling-up cash is being spent on a whole load of massive hotels in the city’s leading shopping town Hanley, as if the only reason Britons aren’t saying ‘You know what? I think we’ll treat ourselves to a fortnight in Stoke this year’ is a lack of accommodation.

Hang out at… 

When Stokies want a night out they go to Newcastle-under-Lyme, a town which is right next to Stoke but pointedly not part of it. It’s a bang average small-town Wetherspoons-Yates-Revolution Friday-night circuit, and it’s way better than anywhere in Stoke.

Otherwise there’s the Sugarmill in Hanley, an indie venue that hosts indie bands that can’t do any better with a floor so sticky you have to pull your foot up with both hands to take a step. Pete Doherty used to love playing here in his most flagrantly addicted days which speaks well for the availability of hard drugs.

Where to buy? 

One of those cities that habitually offers up terraced houses for £1 as long as you live in them for five years, turning getting on the property ladder into a survival challenge. Perfect if your idea of local amenities includes hard drugs, the sale of sexual services and race-based violence. Though non-race-based violence is also available.

From the streets: 

Anna aged 29: “Loads of famous people were born here: Lemmy, Slash, Phil Wang. What they all have in common is they got out of Stoke as soon as they fucking could and never came back.”

Alan, aged 42: “We Stokies consider ourselves to be very friendly, but that’s because we’ve never met anyone from outside Stoke. When we encounter someone from an exotic location like Rochdale we’re wary, distrustful and hostile. And proud of it.”