The website: Is here.
The Sunday dinner: Burger and fries in a box
The price: £9.95 or thereabouts.
Another week, another late offering. I’d apologise if I owed any of you anything, but I don’t. I’m still grumpy, by the way. And tired. So very, very tired. I guess it’s partly down to blood loss from my legs.
Let’s cut to the chase. The meal I’ll go on to review is burger and chips, served in a box on Brighton seafront. The venue is billed as a nightclub on its website, so if you’re hoping for a climatic culinary crescendo, you’ll be sorely disappointed. However, if you’ve visited to see some alliteration using the letter C, you’re in for a treat. I’ve already thrown one in and we’re only in paragraph one.
I was hoping to review fish and chips, so I could complain how expensive and shit they were in comparison to their Cleethorpes’ counterparts. Some more alliteration for you, right there.
We all recognise that I write a food review blog without the requisite skill set, but I do know good gravy and I know good fish and chips.
I’ve worked at Steels and Ernie Becketts, which are both world-renowned establishments in the seaside town of my birth. I imagine that you’re scoffing at that claim, you cocky cunts (more alliteration). You shouldn’t be. It’s true. Unfortunately the venue, chosen by one of Mr Jus’ friends, served hotdogs or burgers only. Oh and nachos. So it’s not my fault that I’m bringing nothing more refined to this week’s table. I had no say. Cyclists are bossy.
Let’s cover last week VERY quickly, because it’s already this Tuesday.
On Monday, I got my first Trello message from Mr Jus. If you haven’t heard of the app, here’s a description.
You did dare say it, LIFEHACKER. Dare I say you need to get a life? No. I dare not. Especially as I’m a black pot in a glass house. Still, I’ve always wanted perspective over all my projects and a sidekick, so this sounded great. However, I soon discovered there’s nothing ‘awesome’ about receiving a notification from your partner that you need to buy dog poo bags.
I wrote back to Mr Jus to remark upon how thrilling Trello was.
On Tuesday, my tights got stuck to my open sores, which was rather unpleasant, even before I started worrying I’d develop denier poisoning, if there is such a disease, on top of my rampant sepsis. That evening, I made a collage of some of my favourite leg bites to post on Facebook, because I still don’t have children (that I know of) or a hobby. Here it is. What I find most attractive is the coarse black calf stubble in image two. It’s a route my blunt Venus Breeze was not prepared to negotiate. I bet Blow Job Barrymore’s kicking himself he rejected me and my weeping pins.
On Wednesday I washed my front bottom with Molton Brown shower gel to gain the trust and respect of the beautician who was to carry out intimate waxing on me. I wish I was lying, but I am not. She hadn’t returned my call at the weekend, you see, and I’d been worrying that she’d taken a dislike to my vaginal region during our inaugural meeting, or it had upset her in some way, and that she was avoiding me. So, when she confirmed our appointment I thought I’d make a real effort down below for her. I know that’s really weird, but I also always plan what knickers I’ll wear for my cervical smear test the night before. Not that the nurse gives a fuck, of course. I guess I’m just considerate.
On Thursday morning, I thoroughly enjoyed the distress in Mr Jus’ voice as he told me about his dream in which I was nonchantly having sex with another man in the house.
“HE WAS AN OSTEOPATH,” he wailed, still half asleep. “AND HE WAS TALL. AND HE HAD THESE STUPID FUCKING WIRE FRAMED SPECTACLES ON. YOU JUST SORT OF SHRUGGED WHEN I CAUGHT YOU.”
I decided not to ask what the osteopath’s cock was like, although I was, and still remain, rather curious. I could see Mr Jus was peeved by my dream behaviour, but I was happy he was bothered.
At work on Friday, I filmed Gary of ‘THERE IS ONLY ONE TYPE OF MONKEY’ fame, trying to guess what a ouija board is. He had no idea. Here’s a transcription of his best guess, which came after I’d spelled out the word ‘ouija’.
“Oh. So it’s Japanese. Because of the spelling. Oriental. You eat it. Like a Bento box. Am I close?”
“Only to getting the sack,” I told him. “This is worse than you not knowing what a corsage was last week.”
To be fair to him, he did come up: “A massage that you have around your body’s core” which I thought showed promise, alongside sheer idiocy.
I’d like to make it clear that I respect and appreciate Gary. And I don’t want him to take me to an employment tribunal. He’s very good at joining me in counter attacks against the not so mighty Skeletor. Sometimes we even high five about it.
On Saturday I told Facebook what I was up to as per usual.
They were confiscated from me upon arrival at Peckhamplex. Mr Jus felt embarrassed, but not embarrassed enough to take this grainy photo of me collecting them at the end of the film with the pink raffle ticket I’d been presented with when they were quarantined.
And no, they’re not extensions and I haven’t PhotoShopped this – it’s my real hair, and the lighting is poor, haters.
The film made me sob with sadness, joy, pride , patriotism and hope, by the way. Mr Jus didn’t cry because it “didn’t contain animals in peril”.
A friend suggested he should watch War Horse, but he told me he couldn’t bear to.
“I’ve seen the play, it was bad enough with puppets.”
Mr Jus has been cooking like a boss during what now appears to be his retirement. It’s great. I also do SHIT ALL housework. Sounds superb, doesn’t it? It is. And I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but I did whisper ‘Why me?’ when I learned this was on the cards for tea.
Which brings us to Sunday and our trip down to Brighton to meet up with some of Mr Jus’ friends, for I don’t have any, save a woman I worked with at Birmingham City Council in 1998.
Let’s have a reminder of the food at Coalition.
It looks like I’m having champagne, but it’s just an ice bucket with a bottle of house wine in it. It looks like there’s a brioche lid sauce, but it’s just the shadow off my phone strap. It looks like it’s warm and sunny, but it was as windy as fuck on that sea front.
The staff at Coalition were attentive and pleasant. I’ll give them that. But it’s a nightclub that serves burgers and hotdogs during the day. And I wanted fish and chips. Or even a Sunday dinner. It’s been a while.
At the end of the day, it was a decent enough burger and chips. It’s nearly 9pm and I haven’t got time to say much more. Let’s ask Mr Jus to do the honours. He’s going to say the burger was over-cooked. But remember he expects them rare, so don’t trust everything he says.
“Over-cooked burger. Too dry. But I did like my chips. And the wine. I like Brighton and I enjoyed seeing my friends. But we should have some gravy soon.”
I knew he’d come round to my way of thinking.
Final score: 21/33