Twenty Seven: Gaucho, Richmond, TW10 6UJ

The venue: Gaucho, The Towpath, Richmond Riverside, Richmond, TW10 6UJ

The website:

The Sunday dinner: Squid and steak on Saturday.

The price: £24.50 for two courses.

This week, I have been mostly thinking about Jeremy Corbyn. It’s safe to say that I’ve developed a love for him that is almost obsessional. I don’t fancy him or anything. It’s not that kind of love. Although he’d probably be a kind and considerate lover. Too gentle, perhaps. But let’s not go down that road. I’m not going to talk about sex this week. It’s crass and off-putting for readers. However, I do think it’s worth mentioning that I had an orgasm today that made my suspected bunion tingle. Bit weird and unpleasant, frankly. I hope it doesn’t become a regular feature. Anyway, I just think Jeremy is a good guy. Honest, down to earth, nice face. And while I’m not usually one for posting about anything serious or political on Facebook, I just couldn’t help myself. 

 I brushed out Robert James Fawcett’s name in the photo, so he couldn’t be identified. Not that he wrote anything bad – it was funny and has been an ear worm ever since – but he might not want his name associated with this blog. 

I’ve never really felt love for, or belief in, a politician before. I just feel in my bones that he needs to be given a chance. I think we need a step change. That’s right. I said ‘step change’. People at work say that. And “low hanging fruit” and “synergy” and “If you do that again Faye, I’ll report you to HR”. 

I just mean that I want him to get in on Thursday and shake things up. He has the heart, mind and morals for the job. I like all the ‘for the many, not the few’ stuff. And, as I’ve said, the additional bank holidays. 

I know fuck all about politics, by the way. Ask me who played Des Barnes in Coronation Street and I’ll say Phil Middlemiss. Quick as a flash. Ask me to explain economic policy and I’ll just stare into space. Perhaps a bit of dribble would come out my mouth. Let’s face it, I’m prepared to judge people and make decisions on who is fit to govern based on feelings and how pleasing I find their visage, in the main. I was still thinking, and posting, about Jeremy on Thursday. I was so pleased with my post that I liked it myself, as you’ll see. 

I also watched a video of him eating a Pringle a supporter gave him. It made me like him even more. I got so carried away (pissed) that evening that I decided to send him a tweet of support:

Like Spike from Hi De Hi and those NKOTB cunts before him, he ignored me. But that’s fine. He’s busy. Whereas Spike is only in some stupid play in Whistable or somewhere, so has no excuse whatsoever.   

Anyway, I’m sure you don’t want to read about my ill-informed political leanings. It’s just that it’s dominated my mind. I imagine you’re more interested in how Mr Jus has managed to piss me off this week. And boy, has he. 

We went to Bluewater on Bank Holiday Monday to look at, for the umpteenth time, mattresses and beds. I’m going to buy us a new one, you see.  After last week’s frame collapse, there’s now a pressing need. Mr Jus is all for this. The problem lies in convincing him we don’t have to have the most expensive set up. The mattress he likes best is £1,839. The pillows? £76 a pop. We could already kit out a small hostel for that. He also needs Egyptian cotton sheets (no less than 400 count). I wouldn’t be surprised if he wants the duvet stuffed with Dodo feathers. Well, stuff him. He needs to lower his expectations when I’m paying. I’m from Cleethorpes, FFS. 

Tuesday saw me ask Mr Jus which animals he thinks he could take in a fight. I enjoy having deep, sensible conversations with him, you see. He asked if any of the animals were on PCP. I assured him they weren’t. He asked if he could have a weapon. I said no. Based on this, he thinks he’d win against a rabbit and a swan. He believes he’d be defeated by a fox, gazelle and kangaroo. He’s unsure how he’d fare against a badger, and feels a baby chimp would dominate him in the ring. 

Wednesday and Thursday have been covered above, as those were the days when I was all over Jeremy. Friday evening saw us host a dinner party. I say us, but Mr Jus did all the cooking. He’s got all the time in the world, to be fair. It was delicious. We had creamy mushrooms on brioche, a lamb tagine and creme brûlée. He’s a good little cook is our Jus, so I just leave him to whizz up culinary treats, while I remained gainfully employed. 

Two of our guests were doctors so I instigated a role playing session with Dr A, in which I tried to convince him to prescribe me Diazepam. He was having none of it. He suggested we try and tackle my issues differently and look at the root causes and so forth. I kept at it, trying to reason with him, until I could feel Mr Jus reach out and touch my arm, in a way that said: “Please stop bothering my friends”. He can control me through the power of touch. So I did stop. But not before advising him that my next move was going to be smashing up his surgery in a tearful, frustrated rage. I’m not going to sign up at his practice any time soon. 

I followed the ‘beer then wine and you’ll be fine’ rule and I was. I did a little bit of sick in my mouth on the cross trainer at the gym on Saturday morning, of course, but that’s nothing to how it could have been. 

I even felt well enough to have a can of Grolsch on the train to Richmond – this week’s Sunday Dinner Diary location. I thought about how scummy I probably looked, but it passed. 

Mr Jus and I had a lovely stroll by the river. Here we are. I like how the sun makes it appear like I have a globule of snot on my nose. Sort of like a chilled out Blair Witch Project character. I do not like how my head is at least a third bigger than his. 

I suggested we go to Marks and Spencer and get food and booze to have on the grass. Mr Jus instead steered us to Petersham Nurseries, which was very pretty, but I kicked off about it costing £19.50 for what was essentially a vegetable wrap. I wanted to pay for lunch, because I like to pretend I’m Daddy Warbucks to his orphan Annie, during his times of austerity. A Daddy Warbucks who will stretch to an M&S picnic but not a £28 mackerel salad at a fucking glorified garden centre. 

He still wanted a sit down meal though, so I tried to coax him into the Slug and Lettuce. I could tell he thought we would be slumming it. 

“You need to start living within your means, mate,” I told him. To be honest, he has savings and has only been out of work for a fortnight, but I’m not one for random frittering in these situations. 

I’ve always needed to work. I’d be stressed if I didn’t have a regular income. It’s a shame, because it stopped me doing that travelling gap year thing. I worked in a fish factory in Grimsby instead. I didn’t see Thailand or Australia. Not even sunlight in there. Just thousands of fucking cod balls bouncing down a metal racked conveyor belt. And a grim future, if I didn’t get out of that town. No offence if you’re still there but I needed to escape. And move closer to Garry Bushell. 

So, we ended up at Gaucho, the Argentinian steakhouse. It had a lovely riverside location with crisp white tablecloths, which we all like, don’t we? It was sunny enough to sit outside, which you’d expect in June. 

Little Lord Fauntleroy felt he was with people more on his level and of his social standing; men who had salmon coloured chinos on, that sort of thing. 

Let’s have a look at the squid starter:

Two words: depressed coriander. Two more words: decent batter. I’ve not got a lot more to say. Squid is a bit shit in general, but the other set menu option was mushrooms on toast. Too soon. Here’s the main: 

You’ll note the wine has taken quite a battering already. That Grolsch made me thirsty. So. It was steak and chips. A decent piece of meat with 22% inedible fat. I guess I expect that from a rib eye. What I don’t expect is COLD BLUE CHEESE SAUCE, GUYS. Even if it does come served in the cutest little tiny saucepan ever. 

It was congealed, folks. Did a bit of chippery dippery and then sent the bugger back. It returned in decent time, but had halved in volume. It played on my mind so much that I forgot to steal the baby pan at the end of the meal. Mr Jus said he’ll get me one. I just hope it’s not as my main Christmas present. It will be.

The chips were crisp and generous in portion with what I’ll describe as a rustic charm. By rustic charm, I think I mean a bit overdone, but rustic charm sounds nicer and I don’t know many describing words, which are called adjectives. I do know that.

We were asked if we wanted mayonnaise. We did want mayonnaise. But the mayonnaise never came. 

The cheapest bottle of wine was £28.50, so dinner came in at just over £87 with service. Pfft. 

Think how much shit we could have had from M&S. Including puddings. And probably a new blouse. It sickens me. I asked Mr Jus what he thought: 

“Reports of my austerity have been greatly exaggerated,” he claimed, as I paid the bill in full. “The food was ok. Overpriced for what it was, but it was a lovely location on a sunny day.”

Final score (Gaucho Marx): 19/33


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