Friday, 27 November 2009

Great British food

I don't think you can get such a thing here (France).
2 slices, beans and a pint mug of creosote.
An example example. Flabby buttery toast, beans nicely aged for that extra sweet flavour, and neon ketchup.
This was in the Sorento cafe in West Norwood where I had the misfortune to live for several years after college. (Sorry Chris and Emma if you read this). I house-shared with another ex-student who never washed himself or anything, a photographer, my film maker partner at the time and Boz . . . 
It was a horrible house: dry rot, a loo that froze in winter and a overgrown garden in which we discovered four bin liners of orange pills which the police removed before anyone had had the chance to try any of them.
Our landlord was the wheezing, Mr Bellamy, who must have been the model for the Leonard Rossiter character in 'rising damp'.
I went back on this sketching trip to see if the area had changed much. Our local pub had become a Tesco's, and the other greasy spoon cafĂ© had changed hands to a chinese take away. Otherwise the same houses, some familiar shops, the evangelical church still asking 'why are we here' and 'what happens next' on lurid posters.
What happened next was I went 'up west', saw a play starring John Simm, and ate liver and onions in one of the 'Stockpot' cheap and cheerful restos that are dotted around central London.

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