Tuesday, 14 July 2009

Come Dine With Me

As I sit here, waiting for an ornery window-fitter with a shocking case of Short Man Syndrome, my mind turns inexorably to dinner. I have never thrown a dinner party – we don’t have a dining table, for a start – but I have planned my Dream Meal, the soiree to end all soirees.

Six is the best number of guests, I think, and there would be me and Fanny Cradock, Trimachio and de Sade, the ginger one from Girls Aloud and a man dressed as a dog. We would eat in a soundproofed room, the walls hung with black curtains. Every course would come with homemade Christmas crackers, each one containing a hat, a motto and something the guests thought they had lost forever. We would be served by gorgeous, greasy boys and we would eat only off Princess Diana memorial plates ordered especially from the Daily Express weekend supplement. As the plates were cleared between courses, there would be entertainment, songs and clowns and performing dogs, tumbling eunuchs and bears.

To start with, as an amuse bouche, we would have snails fattened on milk and ecstasy, served curled on kidney pillows, hamsters stuffed with insect forcemeat and crusted with breadcrumbs and tears, kitten tongues in fromage fraise, coxcombs, a Lucky Dip of assorted offal wrapped in skin and served in a tub of bran, cheese and pineapple echidna and delicate roses of tripe.

We would feast on The Monster Egg - a giant made from a hundred goose eggs and dyed the brightest blue, roasted mandrake roots dressed in darling bacon bonnets and hagfish fattened on virgins’ blood. In homage to Fanny we would have vaginas with mayonnaise, then progress to pig bags stuffed with marshmallows and hooves. A Spatchcocked Aviary – thrush, heron, owl, robin, tit, gull, jay, magpie, canary, parakeet – would be brought to the table in gilded sugar cages, only to be outdone by the elaborate and upsetting Meat Garden.

I am not a sweet-toothed person, but you must always serve dessert, and I have decided on sugar sculptures representing The Greatest Murders of the 20th Century, a chocolate cake with a stripper baked inside and thick, warming Sack Posset.

And nobody is allowed to leave the table until every last bite is gone.


  1. Jesus, I'd give you a 5. Barely. Not one mention of booze. And where are the mangrove worms?

  2. Delightful. I shall have to angle an invitation to the next one, unless of course I can find my three-legged dog suit.

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