Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic who is somehow convinced that Nigel Farage will be in Number 10 in 2025.
IF you ask me, New Year resolutions are just an excuse for the fun police to suck the enjoyment out of life. It’s like living in Nazi Germany, apart from the war, death camps and entirely different society.
It’s always the good stuff they want you to give up, like fags and booze, not colds or lettuce. But I’ve decided 2025 will be the year I pay more attention to my health. All things in moderation, I say, especially ones that are a pain in the arse to stick to. And just so it’s documented, here is my official Day One Diary.
I’ve decided right from the off I’m not giving up drinking, but I’m only going to drink in the pub. Except when I drink in the flat. However more time in the pub will be so bloody expensive I’ll practically be teetotal, I’m sure of it.
But now it’s time for breakfast. No bacon sarnie and tea with three sugars from the cafe over the road, something more ‘wholesome’. The health gestapo on the internet suggest muesli with ‘plant milk’.
Plant milk? What the f**k’s that about, apart from pandering to lefty vegans who think normal milk means you’re making a baby cow die from malnutrition? And how exactly do you milk a nut? I milk my nuts in front of Pornhub several times a week but that’s a different story.
I’ve got some semi-skimmed in the fridge, so I’m bending the rules slightly and going with that to pour over my ‘delicious, healthy muesli’. Which is indistinguishable from those bags of shit you feed pet rodents on. I quickly decide it’s not for me. But since nuts are good for you, I drink my milk to wash down a bag of KP Ready Salted. I’m feeling fitter already.
The Day One lunch suggestion is smashed avocados on wholemeal toast, so I snuck into a Tesco I don’t normally go to late on New Year’s Eve and bought a couple. Bit of a hassle but better than people thinking I’m gay.
And I’ve already learned something. Avocados taste like shit. Not literally, but it might as well be. I’ve slathered it in Tabasco to disguise it, but there’s no getting away from the disgusting texture. Like dining on a tin of concentrated magnolia emulsion. And there’s so much hot sauce I’m getting crippling sodding heartburn. I always said faddy diets are bad for you.
Dinner time and as you can imagine, I’m f**king starving. It’s poached chicken breast with boiled potatoes and green beans. I can’t get that in a tin, so I wisely planned ahead and bought a WeightWatchers chicken dinner for one.
But for one what, exactly? It’s so tiny it’s all but gone in two mouthfuls. Much more of this and Bob Geldof will have to do another Band Aid for me. I stick it out until 10pm, then cave in and order a pizza. Finally, sustenance.
Well, I tried at least. If nothing else it’s proved to me my body needs more fuel than that of woke, heart-healthy bores who, while they might live to be 100, will have spent the whole time shrouded in abject misery. And seeing as I’ve failed now, I reckon there’s just time to make it for last orders.
