Twenty Six: The Lion, Farningham, DA4 0DP

The venue: The Lion, High St, Farninghan, Kent, DA4 0DP

The website: http://www.vintageinn.co.uk/xy/east/thelionfarningham

The Sunday dinner: Beef, pork, turkey combo

The price: £12.50

Summer is finally here it seems, although this week’s best weather happened while some of us were trapped in offices, offering an excellent,  dynamic and delivery-focussed service, and just generally supporting the economy. 

Others, such as Mr Jus, were able to while away the sun-kissed days riding bikes, stopping off to sit in fields to make daisy chains and watch highlights from Giro Italia, before heading home to relax, have naps and think about cycling a little more. 

I worried that I would grow jealous, bitter and resentful of his freedom and lack of gainful employment after a few weeks, but I was wrong. It took three days. 

He started the week well, undertaking several chores, which he kept me well-informed about on Monday:


Note how supportive and impressed I appear, even throwing in a ‘WOW’ and an exclamation mark. The old me would have replied: ‘WELL THIS IS A FUCKING RIVETING PRÉCIS’ but I’m much nicer these days.

On Tuesday he was still at it. Note again how I appear gracious and grateful:

I didn’t write: ‘CAN’T OR WON’T?’ and I even threw in a kiss for good measure. Fuck knows why, as this was my bird’s eye view at 9pm that very night after a day of executive stress: 

Didn’t last long, did it? I also helped repair our collapsed bed, although I fell asleep clutching the headboard, fearful it would happen again. It wasn’t conducive to a restful night’s sleep, but we’re both quite shit at DIY and it’s better to be safe than sorry. It meant my anxiety levels were at critical, upgraded from their usual severe rating. 

They’re all over the place at present. Mr Jus is doing another endurance bike race next month, you see, and it makes me rather stressed. Now that my eyelashes are growing back with aplomb, I thought I might get to live a couple of care-free hours, but there’s always something to be worried and concerned about. 

He told me off for writing a Facebook post about how his penis went numb for several weeks after completing the Transcontinental Race last year, rendering him useless to man and beast. Both of whom get more cock action from him than me, I’d wager. 

Turns out he was only annoyed I’d got my facts wrong. His penis went numb following a cycling holiday he had PRIOR to the race, apparently. I didn’t apologise – it’s difficult to keep up with his excuses.

To be fair, and to continue in the vein of presenting too much information that could make readers feel ill, his unemployment has done wonders for my sexual frustration. He’s even on the verge of getting a certificate this week for his efforts if I can locate my calligraphy pen. 

“I’d rather be a dead James Dean than an ugly alive person,” he proclaimed on Wednesday when I told him he looked like the recently exhumed corpse of the actor. He was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans and an air of defiance. He’d revealed he’d used my razor to shave his legs, you see, and it pissed me right off, so an insult was in order.

He’s not a drag queen or anything, by the way. The leg shaving is something he does for cycling, or so he tells me. I’d stroked his pins the night before and felt jealous of how smooth they were. After marvelling for minutes I asked why he’d left his pubes like the bloke out of The Joy Of Sex book, which he took offence at. 

Similar to the offence I took after he’d read a Stockport restaurant review on Thursday morning. 

“Can you imagine waking up every day and being there?” he asked, after discovering where Stockport was. He started naming places from my beloved north while looking at a map of England, exhaling like someone under a great amount of stress and pressure, even though he was merely thinking about what it’d be like to live in Goole. 

On Friday, I posed a very important question to some friends and family. Here are some of their answers. I’m clearly struggling for material this week, having done fuck all of note. I’m sorry. Here’s what the lovely Laura McDonald chose:

Fair enough. Tinface went for:

My sister’s choice? 


And Bushell offered up three possibilities:


Trust Garry, eh? Shamelessly publicising his own work, but also sort of proposing to me with that second answer. Seems he must like “quite tall” women who are “certainly not grotesque”.

On Saturday, I felt a bit annoyed that my mum decided to cut our telephone conversation short. That’s my fucking job. I also spent some time, but not half as long as Mr Jus, poring over penises to guess which one belongs to our friend, Karl. He’s one of the subjects, or members, in a book called ‘Manhood’, which examines the relationship 100 men have with their private parts. We think we’ve spotted him, although he’s yet to confirm. I hope that the research gave Mr Jus ideas for tidying up his own thatch, and not just a hard-on.

Anyway, that’s quite enough dick discussion for one week. I apologise. 

On Sunday we took Ripley for a lovely walk in the countryside. It pissed it down. Here we all are. Ripley and I are drenched and despondent, at best, while Mr Jus appears to be both dry and delighted. Perhaps he used his abundance of pubic hair to fashion himself a waterproof shelter. Who knows? 

“Oh no! Look at the poor wet dog!” proclaimed several people as we entered The Lion, our venue for this week’s Sunday Dinner Diary. I was a bit narked that she got all the sympathy, until Mr Jus said they could quite easily have been referring to me. I pretended to be hurt, and vowed to myself to mention his unruly pubic mass at least three times in my post this week, which I have achieved, much to his anger. 

I was surprised and delighted to see a meat three-way option on the menu, allowing patrons to check out the beef, pork and turkey in one go. Excellent stuff. Five points added just for offering it.

Mr Jus and I had a little tussle over whose turn it was to pay. He was keen to, but I insisted I would, what with him being out of work and a burden on society. I handed him my debit card. The cheeky bastard took it upon himself to order a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape to go with his fish and chips. 

Here’s my meal again. Look how precariously my plate is perched on the table and the J2O product placement. I’m not a brand ambassador for Schweppes, regardless of what you’ve heard.

The meat mash-up wasn’t as successful as I’d hoped. The pork was a little dry, the beef slightly over-cooked, but the turkey was tasty enough and sort of saved the day. The Yorkshire pudding was decent and I’d like to give a special shout out to the carrots, which blew away their closest rivals and plate-fellows (cabbage and parsnips). The roast potatoes were plentiful, which is always a pleasure, although a couple proved slightly al dente, which was a bit of a shame. 

Gravy-wise, I was pleasantly surprised. It was of decent thickness and had a rich, meaty quality which, in the 26 weeks I’ve been reviewing Sunday dinners, has been a remarkably rare feature. I won’t lie – it’s been pissing me off a treat. 

The service was sound and the setting was scenic enough, but I was soaked to the skin, which made things a little uncomfortable. Ripley had the audacity to bark for meat at one point too, which was a bit pushy and not the sort of table manners I expect or will tolerate. I made the decision to tie her to a gatepost in the village and have left her there. 

But what did Mr Jus make of it all?

“You seem to be under the misapprehension that you’ve got to be cruel to be funny,” Jungle Pubes began. “You’ve gone too far this week. However,  I did enjoy the wine. It was excellent value.”

Final score: 24/33

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