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Another Great British tradition that's gone to shit: The gammon food critic's Sunday carvery

Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic who thinks we’d stand a better chance of winning Eurovision if we chose proper singers instead of poofs.

IF there’s one thing more quintessentially British than our victory at Dunkirk, it’s a Sunday roast. I know the French take the piss with their ‘les rosbifs’ jibes, but who cares about a nation who would’ve beheaded Princess Di?

Give me a proper roast any day of the week. Trouble is, when you’re divorced and living on your own it’s too much trouble to bother with. Like housework, changing your pants and washing your tackle.

So I’ve decided to treat myself and I’m off to my local carvery for a proper, slap-up lunch. 

The first thing they ask me, like everywhere these days, is if I have any allergies. Is this a Toby Inn or the doctor’s surgery? It’s all down to the snowflake generation, of course. You’re probably not allowed a dessert unless you support Hamas.

There’s a discount if you order two courses, so I go for the patriotic classic, prawn cocktail. I leave the lettuce though. I’m not auditioning for Watership Down.

Then I join the queue for the carvery. There’s a choice of three meats. Turkey – what, have they moved Christmas to May now? – pork or beef. Obviously I’m going with the beef. Stick that up your arse, Robespierre.

I stand proffering my plate as the chef – who looks about bloody 12 – carves slices of topside. He stops at three, so I stand there staring expectantly at him to keep going. He doesn’t. That’s alright, I can wait, nothing else planned this afternoon.

After a minute or two the mutterings of the greedy bastards behind me become more pronounced, so I bring our Mexican standoff to an end and go to the self-service veg. At least there are no teenage Hitlers here to decide how hungry I am for me.

And that’s when I remember why I never bother doing this any more. It’s bollocks.

Roast potatoes that have sat in a hot hold cabinet so long they’re more like tennis balls than the deliciously crispy delights you used to get before the country went to shit. Silly little carrot batons that are ‘al dente’, that’s ‘undercooked’ if you don’t speak Eyetie. Broccoli that’s just mush. It’s bizarre that in an age of faddish plant diets that leave you weak and effeminate we’ve forgotten how to cook veg.

They’re serving Yorkshire puddings at the end of the line. I love a mouthful of pud so I scuttle along eagerly.

At which point, the greatest modern cardinal sin to befall our beloved roast is committed right in front of me: they fill it with f**king gravy. When did this become acceptable? My Yorkshire’s gone soggy and looks like a paddling pool a toddler’s had an explosive dose of the shits in.

Having eaten unsatisfactorily, I ponder how many fine British institutions have been lost to political correctness and pandering to the whims of ingrates who, if they don’t like our culture, can always bugger off where they came from. Still, not letting it ruin my Sunday. Think I’ll go for a curry later.

Porn mags in bushes and other areas of British nature in crisis

ADULT magazines used to be a common sight in Britain’s bushes, but they’re just one part of the country’s nature that is in crisis. Along with these.

Traditional picturesque flytipping 

Illegally dumped furniture used to be a common sight in this once beautiful country. Tourists would travel from all over to marvel at a Parkinson Cowan gas cooker idly strewn in a layby, or torn, yellowing mattresses rolling across the Yorkshire Dales. Sadly, this quintessentially British spectacle is on the decline thanks to lazy twats sticking ‘free, please take’ signs to their unwanted goods and leaving them on front garden walls. Sadiq Khan is surely somehow to blame.

Porn mags in bushes

The internet has robbed teenagers of what used to be the biggest joy of adolescence: stumbling across sun-faded scraps of pornography fluttering on the branches of a bush. Where’s the fun in having endless filth at the tap of a button when they could be making do with the crumpled remains of a used Razzle? As well as being character building, foraging for smut outdoors is also a good survival skill and should be taught at the Scouts.

Fields free from the scourge of rewilding

Allowing the foliage in a nature reserve to get overgrown is one thing, but rewilding has been adopted by local councils who can’t be arsed to maintain their green spaces. Who cares if a field could support greater biodiversity? They only exist so kids can play football. In an ideal world every field would be tarmacked over before badgers and ferrets move in.

The dulcet tones of foxes shagging

The number of foxes in urban areas is on the decline, meaning the nation’s streets may lose the rich harmonies of their mating calls for good. Their frantic cries of passion used to piss you off when you were trying to sleep, but just like pigeon warbles you’ll miss them when they’re gone. Listening to their yelps on YouTube just isn’t the same and will seriously mess up your recommended videos.

Parks covered in dog poo

You’ve probably heard your dad wax lyrical about the mythical white dog poo of the 70s and 80s, and you yourself can recall the not-to-distant past when you couldn’t visit the swings without getting shit on your shoe. Nowadays, everyone is much more considerate around the foul excrement their dog produces, and bags it before hanging it on a bush instead. They genuinely think they’re being thoughtful, but they’re actually just being massive bellends.

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