MeatBlog

As a Meat Club virgin, fresh meat so to speak, the proceedings went by with great curiosity.

Alas mine and Sam Ball’s (my virgin partner) debut happened to be on the 7th birthday of Meat Club. Which meant that our naive visions of rare steak with chips took a kick in the (sheeps) bollocks.

The pre feast email banter did nothing to quell the nerves. Mention of the menu sparked up more bravado than Olly Reed after a barrel of Babysham.

Funny thing email, as once people started arriving the bravado had turned to trepidation and some slightly unnerved faces. I was finally in good company.

On to the venue, the last time I was on the street it was a shit hole. But The Boundary had polished it.

The interior looked just like a real restaurant, in fact the people in it looked like normal people, not one looked like a brain muncher.

We finally reached our section at the back behind curtains. Behind beef curtains.

All the regulars got out their chef coats, which made me feel like I was in a fraternity similar to Laurel and Hardy in the ‘Sons of the Desert’, we even gave song. I loved it. I could see Sam’s beaming little face on the other side of the restaurant. We were feeling strong.

The first course came and went Charcuterie, Terrines, Pâtés, Rillettes, which was nearly good enough to make me forget what was next.

When the brain did arrive it actually looked far better than how it looks inside of a calf’s split open head.

I was sat opposite Igor. A delightful chap but not the best person to have your debut in front of. I’m not sure anything would phase this man, a baby served on a bed of Noel Edmonds would get the same enthused thumbs up.

There was no option, I chuffed it down. It had the consistency of philadelphia cheese mixed with tofu, without the taste.

With that course gone, I had an epiphany of what a cock I’d been (and how thankful that wasn’t on the menu) worrying about the brain, I felt I’d breached my Meat Club hymen.

The fine wine flowed and to be honest I can’t remember in what order things happened so I will just go with what fragments remain.

We had Meat poems, an absolutely devastatingly original one written as if by Linda McCartney by some enigmatic ginger fellow. He was subsequently booed off the floor for a crap meat story. Mr Davidson got on a chair and shouted stuff about chickens, Mr Farnhill announced his riding around mongolia on a donkey and before the red wine took over I’d counted around 324 shout-outs for El Presidente.

My last memories are of a fine fine desert which was, what else, Roasted Longhorn 8 week hung fillet.

I know I can speak for myself and Sam when I say thank you President for the invite and thanks to all the esteemed members for allowing us to pull up a seat to your meat table.

Words by Bedwood, his meat hymen well and truly popped.