Fucking restaurants annoy me. I don’t like formal eating. Mastication to me is a personal thing, I don’t like people seeing my mouth chewing, gulping, and glugging, and I don’t like seeing other people’s stupid cheeks blow up like a hamsters. Piss off with your eating, fucking do one with your three courses, stick that munching up your arses. I don’t like being waited on, I don’t like being around people sitcking shit in gob. Get it?

I don’t like menus either. Turning food into prose. It’s food, piss off. Don’t go all poetic with food. It’s food. My favourite menus are the ones written on brown cardboard, in crayon, with fading pictures of rotten potatoes. And mine would be worded like this.




Does exactly what it says on the tin. Man’s greatest vegetable invention, brought to England by that bloke what does bikes…Raleigh or something. Served raw with a fucking fork in it and some toothpicks to make it look like a fricking mine or something.


A meatball made from pure gristle and slammed onto your fucking plate. A foot spherical and boiled in mud. A disgusting mess of satisfaction for the fat. Eat it and shit off.


Actual dog’s dinner stolen from under the mouth of a canine and dumped under your fucking face. Served in a wooden bowl with no chips and the guilt of theft.



About neilstilwell

Abseiling into trouble, a sewer rat staring at the stars. Disgusting. You can assist my search for the one ring by buying a Kindle version of this diary from here. It has some other stuff in it, and a dreadful cover.
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s