EATING in an ultra-posh restaurant is truly overrated. Recently, I had lunch in an exclusive, Michelin-starred glass museum in London. I was quickly reminded of the intensive-care unit in the Glasgow Royal Infirmary: all white floors and people looking sad and quiet. Never crack a joke with the waiter; he stares at you like you just peed on his leather scatter cushions.
The staff were the sort of people who never laugh loudly in case it breaks their throats.
The food was Russian doll-style, with things hiding inside other things. What you might have thought was a hunk of potato with ham turns out to be a bleached
beetroot slice wrapped in celeriac, with a tiny shallot tucked in the middle.
The potpourri that sat in the middle of the table was not colourful crisps, even though I tried swallowing them rather than admit my stupidity. I also realised that the crisp, thin bread was actually a menu. I discovered this as I tried to bite it. People stared as the anodyne waiter glared in horror and pointed to the faint words scrawled across it. I giggled and bit it again. I caught him pointing me out from behind the life-support machine which made coffee. The other waiters sneered.
The anaesthetist… sorry, waiter… presented me with a small, damp prawn sitting atop a needlepoint of pesto, which was accompanied by one solitary grain of sea salt.
This, I was told loudly in a manner that is usually reserved for semi-conscious people in a coma ward, was an “amuse bouche”. I looked at the evil shouty patronising waiter and thought about sticking a fork into his forehead, which would have amused my bouche no end.
The tiny morsel tasted like puddle water and cod liver oil. I wanted real food that made my ears hurt when I chewed. Images of pork chops and gravy came into my head. I was food-fantasising in a place where lunch cost as much as a mountain bike or an American bank.
My main course finally arrived: it resembled my very first jigsaw puzzle and tasted almost the same. Why did the chicken taste like MDF, rubber and lead paint? Why couldn’t the gravy – or “jus” – touch the spring onion? Was there a dysfunctional chef who couldn’t cope with different foods touching each other? Should he have been allowed near sharp knives?
Twenty minutes later, I went to a greasy spoon café and ate a scrambled egg roll with tomato sauce. The waiter was funny. He did a trick where he balanced a tomato on his nose. They sold Irn-Bru. I am truly a happy pleb when it comes to food.
Pop a cap in the mobiles, bro THERE can be nothing worse than having to share a train journey with a bunch of gangly schoolchildren who play loud, evil music through their mobile phones. Why can’t they wear headphones? Do they just assume that everyone else wants to listen to crap-rap or tinny, squeaky pop tunes?
My journey was pretty short but, by the time I was getting off the train at Glasgow Central, I was ready to suffocate the hoodie with a phone.
I reckon the best revenge we can inflict on these wee irritating spam-suckers is that the rest of the train passengers should have a big loud sing-song and drown them out.
You Canny Fling Yer Granny Off a Bus sung in big manic voices with clapping and foot-stamping will most certainly out-shout any wee fake gangsta rapper and his annoying songs. Music is known for its de-stressing properties. Let’s make this happen!
Keith Richards has nothing on me and my rock lifestyleI AM GOING through a clumsy stage in my life.
Last week I was gigging in Dundee. On the way to the theatre, I tripped over a kerb and landed on a big Alsatian dog. Luckily, he was very old with milky eyes and didn’t maul me.
Then, as I was about to go on stage, I slipped, fell forward and cracked my knee on a big crate.
I had to do the whole show with a big throbbing leg and could feel a light trickle of blood running into my sock.
It’s a rock’n’roll lifestyle being a comedian on tour, I can tell you.
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www.janeygodley.co.uk