The venue: Goddards, 22 King William Walk, Greenwich, SE10 9HU
The website: http://www.goddardsatgreenwich.co.uk/
The Sunday dinner: Pie, mash, peas, gravy
The price: £5.10. GET IN.
How many of you can say that you’ve had Garry Bushell’s eel in your mouth? Not many, I’d wager. Well I can say that. My Facebook friends, who I now prefer to refer to as followers or fans – disciples even – have been quite amused by the turn of events which saw me dine with the TV critic, author, and part-time punk this week. Let’s remind ourselves how an “internet psycho” convinced a stranger off the telly to help her review a gravy-based meal. It all began back in 2014:
Then, in April 2017 (ignore my typo – I was more than likely pissed):
I liked that he acknowledged me, unlike all five members of New Kids On The Block, so followed it up two weeks later, because I was playing it cool, with this:
And finally, here we are on Friday. The photo is in black and white in an attempt to detract you from my old, haggard face, ‘interesting’ nose, and lack of eyelashes. Look how happy Garry appears, despite probably feeling frightened and wanting to go home to his family:
Now then. If you’re expecting a hard-hitting interview with the man some of you have WRONGLY described as an arsehole, where I delve deep into his psyche, you’ll be sorely disappointed. I rate gravy, folks – I’m not David Frost. I can’t do short hand and I didn’t have enough battery on my phone to record our conversation, so I just asked him inane questions and stole food from his plate. Like Mr Jus usually does to me.
But before all that, let’s quickly race through the week’s events.
On Monday, my mum told me she’d enjoyed last week’s blog but had to spoil it by adding that me and my sister were “shit at skipping”. She’d been teaching my niece, Elsa, you see, who apparently isn’t that good either. She has failed to notice that she is the common denominator in all this, the cheeky cow.
On Tuesday I ran a pop-up pie stall naming competition on Facebook, because I was still thinking about pies after last week’s fiasco. It really caught the imagination of some of the fucking idiots I know. Entries included:
- Pop Pie
- Pie Jesu
- Pie Carumba
- Fuck Off And Pie
- Pie Nipples
- Live and Let Pie
- Hello, Goodpie
- The Royal Courts Of Crustice
- 3.141592653589793238462643383279502884197169399375105820974944592307816406286 208998628034825342117067982148086513282306647093844609550582231725359408128481117450284102701938521105559644622948954930381964428810975665933446128475648233786783165271201909145648566923460348610454326648213393607260249141273724587006606315588174881520920962829254091715364367892590360011330530548820466521384146951941511609433057270365759591953092186117381932611793105118548074462379962749567351885752724891227938183011949129833673362440656643086021394946395224737190702179860943702770539217176293176752384674818467669405132000568127145263560827785771342757789609173637178721468440901224953430146549585371050792279689258923 542019956112129021960864034418159813629774771309960518707211349999998372978049951059731732816096318595024459455346908302642522308253344685035261931188171010003137838752886587533208381420617177669147303598253490428755468731159562863882353787593751957781857780532171226806613001927876611195909216420198938095257201065485863278865936153381827968230301952035301852968995773622599413891249721775283479131515574857242454150695950829533116861727855889075098381754637464939319255060400927701671139009848824012858361603563707660104710181942955596198946767837449448255379774726847104047534646208046684259069491293313677028989152104752162056966024058038150193511253382430035587640247496473263914199272604269922796 782354781636009341721641219924586315030286182974555706749838505494588586926995690927210797509302955321165344987202755960236480665499119881834797753566369807426542527862551818417574672890977772793800081647060016145249192173217214772350141441973568548161361157352552133475741849468438523323907394143334547762416862518983569485562099219222184272550254256887671790494601653466804988627232791786085784383827967976681454100953883786360950680064225125205117392984896084128488626945604241965285022210661186306744278622039194945047123713786960956364371917287467764657573962413890865832645995813390478027590099465764078951269468398352595709825822620522489407726719478268482601476990902640136394437455305068203496 252451749399651431429809190659250937221696461515709858387410597885959772975498930161753928468138268683868942774155991855925245953959431049972524680845987273644695848653836736222626099124608051243884390451244136549762780797715691435997700129616089441694868555848406353422072225828488648158456028506016842739452267467678895252138522549954666727823986456596116354886230577456498035593634568174324112515076069479451096596094025228879710893145669136867228748940560101503308617928680920874760917824938589009714909675985261365549781893129784821682998948722658804857564014270477555132379641451523746234364542858444795265867821051141354735739523113427166102135969536231442952484937187110145765403590279934403742 007310578539062198387447808478489683321445713868751943506430218453191048481005370614680674919278191197939952061419663428754440643745123718192179998391015919561814675142691239748940907186494231961567945208095146550225231603881930142093
- Pie Hard
I heard Mr Jus chuckling away merrily as he read one of my themed offerings:
“It makes me happy I’m with you, West,” he said, which was really sweet, if a little strange. Perhaps he thinks I’ve got a Food Hygiene Certificate or something.
On Wednesday, Mr Jus told me that my lack of eyelashes made me look “not quite human” which was comforting, the nasty little bastard. I also thought about dressing Ripley up as historical figures but realised I didn’t have any costumes, and that perhaps I’d better revise for a second interview.
On Thursday, I attended that second interview. It began badly when I got trapped in the revolving doors, and then, on the walk to the room, was told by one of the panel members to go right at the end of the corridor. This was clearly a test. How did they know I struggled with left and right? I had to jiggle the hand I write with to be sure of the direction I should walk in. It probably went unnoticed, but what didn’t was me saying during the interview: “I just don’t know if this kind of corporate environment is ready for Faye West.”
Jesus. What kind of utter prick would:
a) speak in the third person?
b) say something as fucking idiotic as that?
The Faye West kind. That’s who.
I attempted to explain myself, but it wasn’t even the most ridiculous thing I said during the hour. Needless to say, I don’t expect to be offered the role or allowed back into the building.
Thursday morning saw Mr Jus do some sleep talking, which I always enjoy. It wasn’t as good as the time he was mumbling about hiring Busta Rhymes to clean the house, but here are some highlights:
- They’ll tax us on what we have in the car.
- 3% of the population get maths wrong.
- The dog is called Romeo. He has stroking instructions. He likes playing.
Sometimes I think he’s not even asleep when he does this and is just doing it for attention. But then I realise that it’s me who’d pull those sort of stunts. When he woke up, he would only converse with me using the medium of Gregorian chant, which I quite enjoyed.
On Friday, I met Garry Bushell in a Wetherspoon’s pub. It couldn’t be more poetic if it tried. But we’ll come on to that.
On Saturday, I took Mr Jus to Super Hero School, but he just came across all ‘Eddie The Eagle’, and it hasn’t done anything for our waning sex life, quite frankly. In this first photo, he looks 82 years’ young, clinically depressed, and appears to have his cock out:
In Photo Two, he is flying, and looks cute, but then you just remember Photo One, and wonder why you’re fucking – albeit rarely – a sad pensioner.
On Sunday, which is today, Mr Jus presented me with A TANGIBLE BIRTHDAY PRESENT. Look.
That’s right. It’s the compartmentalised prison plate of my dreams. Full of random muck. I was delighted. However, I overheard Ripley say to Toby, which is captured in the above photo: “While it’s thoughtful, I know she paid £329.99 for those Bose headphones. Which was just one of the many gifts he received. He doesn’t deserve her. I seriously hope she fucked Garry Bushell.”
Well, did she? Let’s find out. I’m doing that third person thing again, aren’t I? Yes, she is.
Here’s the dinner again. Note how Garry Bushell’s fingers are teetering at the edge of his plate. Chill out, G-Man. There’s cutlery. He chose eels and liquor. I went for peas and gravy. We both chose minced beef pies to help us bond further, although we’d got already got off to a flying start…
We’d already shared a special moment upon discovering the price of a pint of Doombar at the ‘Spoons we visited for an aperitif. £2.95 a pint. Our eyes danced and sparkled in glee. I asked if he enjoyed drinking.
“Well, I try not to drink during the day,” he began, before I rudely interrupted him.
“Oh God, I’m glad you said that, because I thought you were going to say ‘I try not to drink during the week’, which is a bit too disciplined. I can last until Wednesday at a push. I sometimes think I’m a functioning alcoholic.”
He went on to tell me he enjoys a drink too, and then I did some waffling about how I think my drinking is a sort of self medication to escape my anxiety, before asking him if a man from NASA rocked up at the table, and said he could go to the moon, but he had to go right now, and it’d be for about three months, would he go?
Garry Bushell would go, ladies and gentlemen. There’s your first fact. Want some more? Well suck on these:
- For his final meal on earth, Garry would have a steak. It’d be cooked medium to well done. This disgusted Mr Jus as he wants a law introduced to ban anything above medium rare and almost starts crying when places won’t do him a rare beef burger. The little fucking vampire.
- He wouldn’t bother with a sauce and would have an Eton Mess for pudding. I don’t have much time for meringues, so he lost a point for this. Which he could have won back if he’d said peppercorn or truffle in response to my first question.
- Garry refused to use a local shop because its sign did not have an apostrophe in the right place. This made me admire him greatly.
- Garry wishes he’d carried on working in the music press.
- Garry tours with a punk band. They are called The Gonads. I know nothing about punk and find it a bit too shouty, to be honest, so I moved the conversation on to Line Of Duty which we both enjoy.
- Garry’s best ever Christmas present was his granddaughter. He didn’t get her as a gift, wrapped up, in a weird ‘Please look after my child, Dad’ way. She was just born on Christmas Day.
- Garry’s legs are thinner than I imagined they’d be. I told him this.
I also revealed that him many of my friends were amused he’d agreed to meet me. I added that some thought he was an arsehole. He asked why. I told him.
I can’t quote him, because I didn’t write stuff down or record it, remember. But let’s just say that I think he’s a pantomime villian and not a real one.
He was smiley, friendly, warm, jovial and chatty. I liked him.
The only thing I found remotely suspicious about him was when he used the toilet and was gone ages. He said there was a queue, but part of me keeps questioning whether he actually had a massive shit and was lying about the queue. I guess I’ll never know.
The staff at Goddards were friendly and efficient. There’s no pissing about. Order your food and it’s there within seconds. I didn’t even need to do my Oliver Twist impression. They got the gravy portion right first time. They also got their prices right. Less than £20 for both meals and two beers. I was ecstatic.
I tried my first ever piece of eel there too. It was quite tasty. I thought it would just taste of ‘muddy water evil death snake’, but it was more fishy than that.
The pie was actually a pie this week. With sides and a base. Its guts were finely minced and gristle free. The mash – a smash. The peas – more, please! The gravy – Oh.
It was the perfect consistency. It just needed a bit more depth of flavour. I tried to tell Garry, but he was too busy banging on about how I’d put too much pepper on my dinner.
We talked about all manner of subjects as we ate, and he answered all of my ridiculous questions. He was good company, really open and I’m just chuffed he agreed to come.
I asked my new Mr Jus, Mr Bus – pronounced like jus and not the number 37 bus to Acocks Green – what he thought of the meal. This is the only thing I wrote down, so can quote him. I think. I haven’t asked for his permission in writing though. Oh well. It’s not controversial. Garry Bushell said of his dinner at Goddards:
“I’m something of a pie aficionado. I’ve eaten pies all my life and I can honestly say that this one is as good as any I’ve had. The liquor was particularly fine. Superb.”
High praise indeed.
Later that day, Garry thanked me on Twitter for essentially completing his life.
This acknowledgement saw a surge in my Twitter followers, steeply climbing from 119 to the heady heights of 120. FFS. I’m hoping to get three more when I post this tonight while I plot my next move…
Final score: 27/33
The Sunday Dinner Diaries 