The Prince Bonaparte, Notting Hill

What am I doing sat here on a Sunday morning writing about my previous roast dinner? Why have I waited so long? My crystal-meth addled brain can barely remember what I did yesterday let alone 7 days ago. That’s right – I went to the British Museum yesterday…what a yawnathon that is.

Oh yeah, and my previous draft disappeared into thin air. Not just any old draft, but my birthday roast dinner review draft. Disappeared. On my birthday. Well, on the Tuesday.

I am over my strop. Unlike one assumes some blogger bint from Bolton (the Bolton bit might be made up) who had been mortified by one of the responses to her request for collaborative working. Save.

This part of my original draft was just hilarious. Well, to me it was. Am I going to rewrite it anywhere near as well?

Anyway, tuck into this video whilst I try to remember. It’s 17 minutes long, and badly edited. I made it to 3 minutes.



Basically this woman’s “job” is to have a YouTube/Instagram profile and propose collaborations with businesses. Are you laughing yet? Save.

So she decided she wanted to go on holiday to Ireland, and proposed collaborations with some of the most beautiful hotels in Ireland. Let me put it another way, she asked for a free stay in some beautiful hotels, in exchange for a good review on her social media. A business proposal, yeah?

And can you believe it, when one of the hotels made people aware of her “business proposal”, she had some negative comments. Incredible – how could people be rude or nasty towards someone proposing a free stay in a hotel.

Of course, she then required medical help for anxiety.

I am trying to be nice. Save. It’s her job.

For my birthday roast we went to The Prince Bonaparte in Notting Hill. Bit of a tricky one to organise is the birthday roast, as I need a large enough table but also a flexible venue that can handle the idea of somewhere between 6 and 16 people turning up. But would it have a good roast dinner?

The options on the menu were beef, chicken and vegetable wellington, at £17.50, £16.50 and £15.50.

Yeah, I know what you were thinking. I haven’t finished. Blogging is not a fucking job. It can earn you money and it can earn you free stuff – I am yet to be offered a free sprout so said blogger may be right in her opinion that people like me are just bitter. But I don’t want free stuff. I don’t want anyone to think these reviews are paid for by anyone other than myself. Integrity is key to my life.

Sure, if someone wants to offer me a free roast then I’ll accept, and make it clear that I have done so. But if the roast potatoes are solid and the gravy is jus then they won’t get a good review just because it is free. In fact I would probably collaborate with anyone – if Visit Holland want to work with me and give me a free holiday to Amsterdam in exchange for a review of smoking weed and trying to find a roast dinner, then sure, I’ll work with them. If Toby Carvery want to give me a free carvery in exchange for me writing about how everything on my plate tastes as bland as everything else, then sure, I’ll collaborate. Hell, if Wonderbra want me to write about how uncomfortable and embarrassing wearing one of their bras is whilst eating a roast dinner, then send me a proposal.

But you won’t find me asking for freebies. I am a blogger, not a blagger.

Now where was I? SEO plugin not going to like this post. Oh yeah, Notting Hill. The Prince Bonaparte. Surrounded by a selection of some of the most beautiful people I know, with the rain beautifully pouring down outside, and a young Seth Troxler lookalike behind the bar. It was a fairly large and open-feeling establishment. We were sat on a large table near the window (yes I do have enough friends to need a large table, despite Brexit), and I believe that there was some sort of fire on the other side of the pub.

Oh one more thing before we go on, 1.8% GDP growth for 2017 is not a Brexit success. This is the lowest rate of growth since 2012, when the rest of the world economy is booming. This is a failure. Not a success. I’ll get my bra.

Right. Roast dinner time. I ordered the beef, which was a rump cap. And I paid for it. Yeah it’s going to take me a while to get bored of this one.

So I managed to remember most of my ranting, but can I remember the roast? Thankfully, my Galaxy S0 can still just about take a photo and send it.

There was some kind of puree on the plate, but barely a half-arsed swipe and I couldn’t distinguish anything over the taste of gravy, it was so minimal. So I make no comment. Puree isn’t real food anyway.

Then we had carrots. Nicely roasted with herbs. I thought I detected some thyme, and something similar to fennel but not fennel.

There was a small portion of green cabbage which tasted nice enough with the gravy. Save.

Also there was a slice of beetroot. Again fairly little I can say about this. I know it’s my job and I should be able to describe beetroot more fluently. OK. It was purple. Happy? Sometimes when I have beetroot, it can spill its colour into the gravy, which thankfully it didn’t – it was tender enough but not so juicy as to be ruinous.

The roast potatoes were too large. They were definitely doing something right, as they were becoming crispy on the outside, but were just too tough on the inside. Again some herbacous hint – I’d suggest thyme once more, but lets face it, it was 7 days ago that I ate this so I might just be making this up. I am over 30 and don’t understand social media. Had they been cut in half again, I suspect they would have really hit the spot. Alas, too tough inside.

The Yorkshire pudding reminded me of Elle Darby (that’s the blagger girl…I mean businesswoman). I am going to be so rude, nasty and disrespectful here, but it was flaky, dry, chewy and fairly pointless. It wasn’t without merit but…nah.

Thankfully the beef was really nice. It wasn’t breaking any boundaries, but was a nice cut of beef, tender and fairly rare (despite Brexit…I mean despite my poor photography). In an ideal world I would have liked more than 3 fairly thin slices, but perhaps I should have written to them in advance and informed them of my 84 Instagram followers.

I am informed that the chicken was decent enough, if a little dry.

Finally, the gravy. I’m struggling to remember this. It certainly wasn’t offensive, we can scratch that idea off. I think it was a red wine gravy, it had a bit of consistency to it, and quite a chunk of flavour – but nothing overpowering. It was decent enough.

So. Scores on the doors. It was all fairly around average – a respectably decent enough roast, yorkies and roasties could have been better – the beef was particularly good though.

It gets a 7.09 out of 10. Very OK really but nothing more.

One of my accomplices also received the wrong meal. The vegan meal rather than the vegetarian roast. And it did look a little like a cooked vegan (possibly killed by the hotel owner that refused the blagger, as he did once semi-famously threaten to shoot any vegans that attended his hotel…I may have a new hero)…not that he understands social media because he is over 30. Once her correct dinner arrived, after we had all finished eating, she thought highly of it.

I don’t know what to say now. Which is probably because I don’t understand social media being over 30 years old. Like me. Follow me. Share me now. Share. SHARE YOU BASTARD. Make me rich and famous, and give me lots of free stuff, for I don’t fucking understand social media because I am too old. Yes I know I’m old. And I’m getting older. I do have nicer lips though.

Welcome to the Crystal Meth, lets go to the medieval zone because we are so old and don’t understand social media. I’m sure that she is a really nice person. Maybe we could collaborate?

Yeah nobody is going to share this shite.

I’ll be back next week. Going on a mystery tour which is utterly exciting not knowing where I am roasting. See ya!

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