Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic who reckons those women Andrew shagged were pretty fit, actually.
BONFIRE Night, what a load of fuss over something that never happened. Although God knows we could do with a modern-day Guy Fawkes to get rid of Starmer, as I cleverly keep telling people.
Of course the explosion would have to be when our heroic Reform MPs aren’t in the Commons. Although that might not be hard now I think about it, as they hardly ever turn up. Out with boots on the ground doing real work in their constituencies, I expect.
Anyway, there’s a new neighbour in the flats, Jeremy, and he’s throwing a bonfire party to ‘introduce himself’. I’ve been invited, although as it’s in the communal gardens I’d have been well within my rights to just turn up anyway.
There’s a modest bonfire already on the go when I turn up with two four-packs of lager, just to show how community-spirited I am.
Alarm bells start going off when I notice there’s no other booze. It’s an alcohol-free gathering, ‘so as not to set a bad example to the children’. F**k’s sake, they must be easily 12 or 13, I’d have been puking my guts up in the park at their age. Typical Woke Britain, stopping kids having fun.
He’s invited his ex-wife over too, who his two little darlings live with. He explains they’re still best of friends despite the divorce. Weird. I’m not allowed within 500 metres of my ex’s house because of all her lies in court about how I ‘hassled’ her.
But I digress. On to the food, and it turns out they’re bloody vegans. There’s baked potatoes with baked beans which I could have done at home in the microwave in the warm. Sausages and burgers on the grill are soya protein bollocks. It’s no wonder their kids look so pasty. Give them a large doner before someone calls social services.
There’s toffee apples too, which I eschew as they’d break my sodding dentures. And parkin, rich in molasses. I’ll skip that too, because I don’t fancy the shits in the morning, I explain to everyone. Still, I’m surreptitiously downing my beers, so at least I’m getting tipsy quickly on an empty stomach.
After ‘dinner’, which is just lager for me, it’s time for the fireworks. ‘Hope you’ve got some really loud buggers,’ I slur, only to be told they’re ‘silent fireworks’ so as not to scare nearby pets. More political correctness gone mad. In my day kids could stick bangers up cats’ arses and no one batted an eyelid. Well, apart from the cats, obviously.
Realising what a woke pile of bollocks I’ve ended up at, I decide to make my excuses and leave. Then all hell breaks loose. Little bloody Ollie has picked up a half-finished can of Special Brew I’d left unattended, downed it, and is now vomiting profusely all over his brand-new, ‘vegan leather’ brogues.
This is what happens when you mollycoddle your kids and deprive them of rites of passage like their first taste of beer. I’ve done little Ollie a favour, but do I get a word of thanks as I leave for the pub? Do I f**k. That’s what’s wrong with Britain today: bad parenting.
