The venue: The Crooked Well, 16 Grove Lane, Camberwell, SE5 8SY
The website: http://www.thecrookedwell.com/
The Sunday dinner: Chicken and tarragon ‘pie’
The price: £29.95 for ‘pie’ and mash for two. You had to buy the vegetables as extra dishes. So another £5.90 for those guys. We came here because Mr Jus didn’t like the font they’d used on the menu at the first place we passed.
Hello. I’m sorry this is late. During these troubled times, I lose track of time, although I count it in weeks since I haven’t received a tangible birthday present. So it’s five and counting. AKA 5 BTBP.
Thanks to those who’ve asked after Ripley. Her condition remains undiagnosed as the sample taken from her front bottom proved inconclusive, so it’s about looking at what we do next. She’s happy in herself though. Here she is at the park, looking positively perfect in every way.
She seems much perkier. As long as she is not in pain, still tries to steal things off my dinner plate, and barks at squirrels, I shall be relatively calm. Plus, the vet is quite hot, so although I have to pay to see him, it’s not all doom and gloom. Arms like fucking He-Man, that guy. And he can probably get his hands on good drugs and stuff. And, if he’s not a drug-taking party vet, he’d probably give me a discount on worming tablets if we were fucking. Only about a 10% reduction – I’m not trying to say I’m brilliant in bed or anything. Although I am.
Worrying about pets, being an old slag, and having a much more important, challenging and stressful job than some people, such as Mr Jus, doesn’t stop me being coarse and vulgar. I’m quite capable of multi-tasking.
Monday was another bank holiday, which I wasted crying. The day’s highlight involved sitting the other way round in the bath, just to mix things up a bit, and using Mr Jus’ razor again, which he’ll read about here and get a bit narked about, no doubt. Venus Breeze heads aren’t cheap, you know, and I think of it as retaliation for his failure to tidy his desk area, despite promising to sort it in February.
As you know, I try not to nag, and instead pop subliminal messages in these blog posts, such as: DESK YOU TIDY FUCKING THAT CUNT LAZY.
I don’t want him to view me as a moaning cow, you see, so just hold my pain deep inside and quietly build up a burning ball of rage and resentment, that I shall release upon him, in apocalyptic fury, when he least expects it. They do say you should surprise your partner from time to time. Although not necessarily with baseball bat blows to the temple.
My working week got off to a great start on Tuesday when I tried to use Apple Pay in the lift, instead of my security pass. On the way home, a man offered me a seat on the train, but I declined. I thought it was kind of him, but then worried that he thought I was pregnant. Or old. Or both. I decided to ask him, across the packed carriage, if that was indeed the case. He assured me it was because he was getting off at the next stop. I’m not convinced.
Mid week arrived, along with a calling to go to the pub after work. I drank excessively, despite this instructional text from The Jusmeister:
There’s something of a theme here. Needless to say, I slept in my clothes on Wednesday and threw up my Ribena in the sink on Thursday morning, which I imagine is what most successful women in business do. I only had Lucozade on the train as I still felt ill. Plus I needed a clear head to teach my mum the importance of using punctuation in texts.
I arrived in Birmingham that evening at around 8.40pm. But guess what I forgot to pack? THAT’S RIGHT. MY FUCKING EYELASHES.
You may recall that all my crying was affecting the glue on the false ones I’ve stupidly had on for six months. My lids went all red, sore and puffy. I ended up picking them off at my desk, stopping only when I was confident that I resembled an albino rat. Skeletor found it highly amusing, of course. I could clearly see that he did, because I didn’t have any eyelashes to obscure my view.
There are a few real ones left, to be honest. Little stumps of nothingness. It means my eyes look like pissholes in the snow, made from the pathetic dribbles of someone with cystitis.
On Friday I purchased a product called RapidLash for £38. That’s how desperate I am. It had better work.
Despite having nothing to keep dust and debris out of my eyes, I went to my sister’s house and danced and sang with her in her garage, drinking Malibu and Coke.
“Isn’t the human brain an amazing thing?” I asked her in awe, after we performed a flawless rendition of Two Princes.
“Some people use their brains to send people into space, Faye,” Amy replied. “Others use their brains to take a beating heart from one person and actually put it into another person so they can keep living. They put their minds to a greater use than memorising Spin Doctors lyrics.”
Still, I was chuffed with, and proud of, myself.
On Saturday I looked through some old photos with my mum. Here’s my nanna, putting it about a bit. She’s the one who the blokes aren’t chatting to, mind. I think the man in the middle had a lot on his mind that day. Anyway, I’m sharing it because my mum and I got a bit angry because her hair looks thick.
It was soon time to return home to the love of my life – Ripley. And to see that tiny man again.
I got angry within the first half hour of being reunited with Mr Jus, when he told me he wouldn’t donate his eyelashes to me. I argued that it was far less invasive than a kidney transplant and that I need eyelashes more than he does. What a tight bastard. They could have been my tangible birthday present.
I sulked as we headed to The Crooked Well, but was soon delighted when I saw this sign:
One of my many pet peeves is having to negotiate stairs in public houses. They’re dangerous. I laughed that drunken blokes were being sent upstairs to potentially fall to their deaths. Then I opened the door.
If you paid attention at the start, you’ll know we had a ‘pie’ meal for two. If we hadn’t paid extra for the veg (£2.95 a dish), it would have just been the ‘pie’ and that little scored dish of mash. Pathetic for almost £30, really. Mr Jus asked for extra mash for free, which they gave us without question. I was stressed that he was so forward and demanding, but I suppose when you ask in a posh voice, it seems less like begging.
I still felt short-changed, though. But then Mr Jus cut open the ‘pie’ and I transitioned from feeling short-changed to feeling like the victim of a violent mugging.
Turns out it wasn’t a pie at all, you see. It was a bowl of chicken in aniseed sauce, with pickled onions and a pastry lid. The misleading swines. Lie Pies are everywhere these days. I know you already know this. But a £30 pie should have a base as well as a topping. And maybe a piece of jewellery inside, to further warrant the extortionate price.
Being presented with a Lie Pie, is like taking a Wonderbra-wearing prostitute home, I imagine. You get her top off, ready for some action, and the fundamental things you’re expecting (big tits, if I need to make myself clear) are missing. It’s disappointing at best. Especially if you’ve paid £30 for her company.
Here’s what my Google search revealed about pies:I’m not happy with the inclusion of the word ‘typically’ as it makes me think the legal action I’m planning against The Crooked Well might not hold up in court.
The missing base didn’t seem to bother Mr Jus, who sat stuffing his face and fluttering his eyelashes. Here’s what he had to say:
“I know you’re going to complain about this pie because it only has a pastry cover but it’s really nice and you should say so in the review.”
No I fucking shouldn’t.
Final score: 17/33