by Miles Brackon
I have been sent to Coventry. Literally. I have literally been sent to Coventry. Fucking Coventry! Of course not the city of Coventry - I'd have quit my job at The Plodder in an instant. You know full well what I mean. South of the river. The darkest reaches of London. The Shitty of London as Roger Black famously labelled it. "Please, please, please review The Spiteful Farmer," implored my editor, whining and tilting his panama hat nonchalantly. Looking at the garbled words on what purports to be a website, I am disturbed to find that it is based in 'East Dulwich' and is the prime gastroteque to the Dulwich hoi-polloi (surely only rag and bone men live there?). My atlas informs me of the exact location. I recoil in horror.
I fear for my life. If I weren't a peace lover I'd arm myself judiciously. Then again, if I wasn't a gay woman, trapped in the body of a straight man, my life might have turned out quite differently to how it is now. I imagine I would be working in a small shop, cutting keys, scratching my testicles with a plastic fork and drinking bottles of stale Australian lager.
Who on earth will accompany me to the scum-riddled tenements of South London? Jade Jagger? She said no. Busy waxing her dog. Quick peddling cancer battler Lance Armstrong didn't return my calls. The ingrate. My agent provides me with a name. Henry Luxembourg. What the hell is that? WHAT! A Hollyoaks legend, apparently. I don't know what that is. The man has no idea what this game is all about. No idea at all. He's a bloody liability. He's from the regions. He hasn't worked in over two years now. I throw his CV down in disgust. I absolutely despise his tiny little eyes. I will sack my agent.
Parking my four litre converted turbo-diesel Toyota Prius in a conveniently located disabled parking bay, I find myself right outside 123 Blackheath Road - the home of The Spiteful Farmer according to their nauseating promotional material. I stand waiting for Luxembourg for nearly 3 minutes. I have no desire to tolerate him recounting tales of fingering a sweaty Mancunian actress who unconvincingly portrayed a date rape victim. Damnations to him. Giving up, I step into the establishment which is framed with a desperately cheap red facade.
I'm hungry. I look around the restaurant. It is a truly spartan affair. The bar staff are enclosed behind plastic screens. Horse racing dominates countless television monitors. A man sits shovelling great paws full of wheat crisps into his greedy mouth. How sinister. Large electrical machines whirr continuously, images of fruit spin around hypnotically and occasionally money is dispensed. The sign by the counter reads 'Ladbrokes'. What is this ghastly holding pen?
The restaurant appears to be cunningly disguised as a working class gambling den. The gentleman wearing a fluorescent bib really does look like he lives in a high-rise flat. He really might work on a building site and battle a discount alcohol addiction. I can imagine he steals rum from his local Co-Op. I hope he's sterile.
A man coaxes me outside and wills me to head across the street to a warm and inviting public house. I have found the dining chambers of the restaurant. My satellite navigation-enabled Tag Heuer timepiece beeps gleefully in agreement - it knows too much. We are there. Thank goodness - no Luxembourg. I hand the security guard a photograph and tell him that Luxembourg is a genuinely bad person.
The first thing I notice on entering the restaurant is that everybody is standing. There are no tables or chairs. In fact not a single item of furniture. There are no lights except for the glare of the jukebox, where all the diners are standing huddled together for warmth. Nobody comes to ask for my ticket. Or my cloak. "What shall I do?" I cry. "Where must I hang my cloak? Where ought I store it?" Nobody comes to my assistance. I wait.
"FOOD NOW" I bark desperately at a passing member of staff. My hunger is all-consuming. "I desire to place my order forthwith." I order the first starter I read which is cannibal porcine fois gras. Of the two main courses I am informed they will only serve me the one I don't choose. I am dispassionately allocated spatchcock boar. Moments later sickening, horrifying noises begin to emanate from the kitchen. Shrill, piercing shrieks and howling cries. The volume of the background music increases but cannot adequately distract one from the brouhaha. This experiment is quite intriguing. I wish I could sit down.
My starter arrives. It has the outward appearance of a sweaty grey football. I am informed that a pig has been force-fed bacon at gunpoint until it's belly literally burst. I am served a sickly, distended pigs liver. How adventurous! It is ironic and post-modern. I can't eat it though - it sickens me. I send it back to the chef with my compliments.
A gentleman wearing an ornate silk kimono takes it away and returns immediately, dragging behind him a flattened heap of bones and gristle. He dumps a badly beaten boar at my ankles where it lets out a loud bloody sigh and dies on my foot. My white Yavush Vaahddy canvas winkle-pickers instantly depreciate to the tune of £635. Kimono-man unleashes a flurry of blows to the boar using a metal croquet mallet. I weep uncontrollably. The poor creature dies it's last death.
I am no longer hungry. The Spiteful Farmer has achieved it's aim. It has won. This is undoubtedly the finest example of dining without eating I have ever experienced. Boar shrieks still ringing in my ears I stand up to leave. Damn. It's that clown Luxembourg. He's waving at me like a thoroughbred prick. I sigh. Instantaneously the security guard launches a worldly-wise, swollen fist directly into the idiot man's throat. I slip past him lying on the pavement where he sobs, moans and begs for scraps.
Sadness is an appetite suppressant. At The Spiteful Farmer you pay according to how many tears you shed and how little you are able to eat. A sensitive, artistic soul such as myself can expect to pay a handsome price of around £208 for the experience. For the more Teutonic amongst you, expect to pay around £14 for a starter and £22 for main courses, whatever they decide to serve you.
Barely a day goes by without the emo youth of Britain dominating the headlines. They carry knives, bend genders and listen to the miserable pro-suicide sounds of Funeral For A Friend, Dashboard Confessional, Green Day and The Kaiser Chiefs.
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