Once more with feeling

I am starting a new diet, vitamin b12 and green powdered stuff shakes from Wholefoods. Solid food is just a trigger for me, once I start I just can't stop.

Hello carbo my old friend

God I can’t stop eating – the cold weather seems to have inspired another layer of fat I could do with out. People keep telling me I look nice but I think they feel sorry for me. Two men (one gay) told me my tits were getting bigger which is true. I actually bought a bra in Liberty sale that says its a Double D – its Elle Macpherson and they come up small but all the fucking same! I pointed out to them that actually my whole body has got bigger as a set. I can’t stand it I don’t want to look like some Carry On outtake. Its not that I eat that much really – I just eat medium amounts of the bad food groups that I love. Its a bore trying to diet, I just can’t say No – not to myself anyway. I want to go on a Valley of The Dolls sleep diet – you just get sedated until you are at your target weight - fabulous.

Hell is other people

I would like to call for an end to all shared dining tables in restaurants. I have just endured the most distressing lunch ever. In Divertiment on Marylebone High Street I was forced to share the community table with the most disgusting old crone ever – she had slabs of grease literally hanging from her ancient nose. I shouldn’t have kept looking but I had to keep checking it was as bad as I first thought. On the other side of me I had dopey pseudo intellectual (wearing polo neck obviously) discussing ‘prose’ in a loud voice and across from me a self absorbed girl who was just plain ugly who was talking at her mother with her fat mouth full. Why can’t they quality control people before inflicting them on others. Are you clean, not a loud bore, do you eat nicely and are you able to not blow your vile nose for the duration?

The India Club

Not so much a review as a warning : Up two flights of filthy stairs above a Bukowski style flop house laughing called The Strand Continental Hotel. The India Club restaurant marries third rate food with fifth rate service. Ancient Formica tables, filthy stained purple velvet seating, yellow bug splattered walls and a few pictures of Ghandi under a fluorescent strip make for a startling ambience. The less than jovial staff insisted we have a set menu. The food when it finally arrived consisted of one poppadom for each guest, various chutneys, lime in battery acid, damp desiccated coconut, and mango sludge, followed by battered whole chilli’s - our host described seeing stars and flashing lights as he munched through a plate of these – after all it was his idea, and onion slices. The fire alarm went off a couple of times before the main course showed up. An unispired selection of curries and mountain of dull as dishwater white rice. Finally they dimmed the lights and brought the birthday boy a flaming Kulfi in place of birthday cake, the guests perked right up at the thought of sugar and cream ‘can we all have one of those?’ some would be Oliver ventured ‘No’ came the reply .