The venue: Chez Bruce, 2 Bellevue Road, Wandsworth Common, SW17 7EG.
The Sunday dinner: Chicken.
The price: £39.50 for three courses.
Hello. I hope you’re well. I know Sunday evenings can be depressing, but I hope to soothe and comfort you before it’s time to spend another seven days doing the same inane shit all over again. I’m quite tearful and pissed, because we had two bottles of wine. Just so you know.
This week saw Mr Jus complain to eBay about their misleading postal costs and receive his precious £4.40 back.
It hopefully means he’s no longer plotting the murder of the poor, innocent buyer. But who knows what goes on his mind? He was muttering something in his sleep about Mary J Blige and tractor parts, so it’s safe to say that he’s troubled/pyschopathic/really into R&B and farming.
By the way, it was fantastic to see so much overwhelming support for the first Sunday Dinner Dilemma (SDD) on Facebook, and I’d like to thank all those who responded. As a reminder, you were basically asked to decide which of us was being the biggest twat.
Mr Jus won by a landslide. He did manage to drum up two supporters, even though he published the buyer’s name and address and publicly called him a prick, which, of course, made him look like a venomous nutjob. One was an American who thinks Oreos are great, so clearly doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about, and the second was a friend who (admirably) hasn’t had a drink for six months, so must be going completely out of his mind.
Anyway, we’ll have another SDD later in today’s episode, but first, as is customary, I’ll review my week, mostly rehashing the shite I’ve already posted on Facebook, for I have no new material or fresh ideas.
I know that sounds lazy, but I hope you’ve noticed how I’ve been hard at work developing and honing my persona over the past three months. You surely must now view me as:
- A revered food critic
- A relationship expert.
- A champion of consumer rights.
- A captain of industry.
- An anxiety-riddled, attention-seeking, foul-mouthed, working-class, middle-aged, boyfriend-bullying, sex-obsessed, hyphen-obsessed, delusional fantasist, who has made this final bullet point far too long.
So, let’s give you an example of me executing point 3. I am, again, at war with Asda. I foolishly used its home delivery service again to spend my £5 voucher after Shirazgate. Here’s how it arrived:
Not packed, basically and I’d paid 40p for bagging. Not a lot, granted, but more than I’d give a sea cadet to do it at the till point,
Zoom in and have a look at my purchases if you want. It’s like a Fortnum and Mason hamper with its bleach, sprouts and cheap cat biscuits.
Mr Jus made a face of disgust when he saw the biscuits and moaned that I’d bought him two small bottles of Ribena (saving 52p). I looked over at him but didn’t utter a word, even though voices in my head were saying bad things, such as: ‘You don’t have to eat the fucking cat biscuits’, ‘What an ungrateful cunt’, ‘You should definitely renew your Ashley Madison membership again, Faye’.
Anyway, the next day, I complained to Asda, while remembering that I hadn’t reached out to any celebrities for blog endorsement this week. Here’s part of our exchange:
They haven’t responded, which means that Asda can go and suck Boycie’s cock, while he continues to suck Jordan Knight’s. Whereas the blog’s celebrity respondents – Tom Kerridge, James Purefoy and Julie Peasgood -don’t have to fellate anyone unless they actually want to. It’s not a bad roll call, truth be told, and this week, I shall add an Oscar winner to that list. Just you watch me.
I’ve been to the gym four times this week, which is excellent work on my part, although my legs feel like they’ve come out of their sockets and it has affected the way I walk, which has hampered my modelling and dancing career, but won’t stop me.
I go in the morning, despite a poo often being imminent. It makes the experience slightly uncomfortable, but I tell myself it must be a bit like those endurance runners who pack a rucksack with bricks to give themselves a more challenging workout. I therefore view it as a good thing. Plus, I’ve only started crowning twice while on the cross trainer, so it’s nothing to be unduly concerned about.
Because attention was squarely focused on Mr Jus’ eBay quandary last week, this photo of Ripley didn’t get the recognition it deserved. Look at her face. She’s like Nookie Bear for the WhatsApp generation.
I decided to use the photo to randomly respond to status updates on Facebook, what with having nothing better to do with my time. Here I am at work:
I contemplated playing a Ripley Russian Roulette game, vowing to post the image as a random response, regardless of whether the next Facebook update related to the death of a relative or a missing child, before realising it was the just the bad voices again, who should generally be ignored.
Another story hot off the press is that I sewed a button onto Mr Jus’ jogging bottoms today. I wanted to tell you because I hoped you’d view me as a down trodden, subservient, Victorian scullery maid and general martyr. I bought him the jogging pants, which were reduced from £115 to £15 on the Flannels’ website. I suppose because there are only so many Hobbits and Borrowers in the world who need extra small. He wanted some, and I knew he’d appreciate their original price point, so took advantage of the offer. I seriously don’t know who, in their right mind, would pay £115 for trousers that are basically for painting and farting in.
Anyway, let’s eat. Today’s venue was a Michelin starred restaurant in Wandsworth. Wherever that is. It was £39.50 sans (it was a French restaurant) wine, so we were signed up for a big spend. I just tell myself it’s what I’d have spent on nappies in a month if I wasn’t barren, which softens the pain. Or it’s the price of a night out on drugs and a topless hand shandy from a prostitute, going on my 2015 rates.
As you’d expect, the service was impeccable, although it took a while for the first course delivery to kick off. It didn’t matter, because I was embroiled in a solo contest to see how fast I could drink the wine, and was doing a brilliant job, until the waitress disturbed me.
“Your starters are being prepared,” she told us. “But the chef wants to ensure they are extra special for you.”
I felt annoyed, because this was just the kind of bullshit story you’d tell a child about why their father never visited. It was unnecessary and weird. Two points removed. Here’s the main course again:
It looks meagre, but it was rich, guys. The gravy was granule free, but it was mighty fine. The roasts were pure filth, which is a compliment. The stuffing, sat on top of a mushroom, was decadent and delicious. The green beans were green beans – nothing much can go wrong there. I don’t know how you expect me to jazz up a report on green beans. They’re green beans. I guess I’d have liked a second veg. Wouldn’t be asking too much. The chicken was moist, but the skin could have been crispier. I shall, possibly unfairly, award extra marks for additions like Parmesan biscuits (+3), truffles (+2), my starter (+2) and pudding (+2). I feel sick, folks.
“Don’t you dare mark this gravy down,” Mr Jus warned me, in that menacing manner of his, which made me decide to learn how to swim, like Julia Roberts in Sleeping With The Enemy before me.
“I won’t,” I cried, before bursting into tears at the table, because I appear to enjoy getting pissed and emotional in public from time to time.
I pulled myself together and ordered a £3.95 flat white, which, on reflection, was one of the most reckless decisions I’ve ever made, other than that time I was 19 and me and my mate let some blokes drive us to a club in Sheffield from Cleethorpes at 2am, and I started crying uncontrollably on the M18, like I ended up doing at Chez Bruce.
Before I give my final score, it’s time for Mr Jus’ comment of the week. He’s going for:
“You looked very nice this afternoon, despite your fake eyelashes. I enjoy my Sundays with you.”
And, while it sounded stilted, and not at all like a proposal, unless I decide to treat at as some Ted Rodgers 3-2-1 clue, I suppose it’s pleasant all the same. He must like me. Plus he didn’t mention the tears, because he’s used to dealing with how fucking crazy I am. Which is nice.
I suppose I’d better add my Sunday Dinner Dilemma. It’s this.
If a NASA person knocked on your door and said ‘HEY. YOU CAN COME ON A TRIP TO THE MOON, BUT ONLY IF YOU COME RIGHT NOW AND IT’LL TAKE THREE MONTHS’ would you:
A) Take this once in a lifetime opportunity and don your spacesuit, or
B) Say no because you can look at pictures of the Earth from the moon on the internet if you need to.
Final score: 28/33