Please note that due to Copyright Trolls, all images have been removed until I can manually review them, one by one, and ensure credit is appropriately displayed. So if the story suddenly makes no sense, then...well...soz.
This is a long process, so please bear with me...it will likely take until the end of 2024 until all images are reviewed and displayed correctly. Sigh.
Oh Iceland. So I put the destiny of my life in your hands, and you decided that there was simply no young woman attractive, funny and personable enough for me.
Or something like that.
A whole 50 people read my opportunity yet either thought that they were just simply not good enough for me, or didn’t know anyone quite special enough. Which is probably 50 more people than have seen my Tinder profile over the last year. I mentioned that I hadn’t had a match on Tinder since 2016 at work today, and two of my colleagues just burst out laughing at me. It wasn’t even with me.
Anyway, so instead of treating some young lady to the delights of a romantic meal at a chicken shop followed by a walk in the rain, a glance at my hairy nipples and a monologue about why we should remain in the European Union, I am sat here on my lonesome, again, on Valentine’s Day.
And there is only one way to mark such a lonely, misery-filled occasion, and that is with a special dinner. A special roast dinner.
What could be more befitting my ongoing status as possibly the most ineligible bachelor than a frozen chicken and stuffing roast dinner from Iceland?
Despite being a fat, ugly, smelly, hairy, poor, skint, boring, argumentative, annoying, traitorous remoaner with a small nob, strange hairstyle, a penchant for farting in public, a non-homosexual love of sequins and an addiction to gravy, I reckon I’d make a half-decent boyfriend for that one really weird, desperate young lady out there.
For a start, she would have received this romantic card with a picture of Theresa May on it:
Incidentally, doesn’t Theresa May do the most excellent range of gurns?
Also I would have made heart-shaped roast potatoes for dinner:
Then I would have played this song:
And then got my nob out.
Alas, my inspirational, romantic overtures will have to stay to myself for another year (well, probably a whole lifetime) – I do still have a life-sized cardboard cut-out of Margaret Thatcher in my room but she tends to ignore my romantic gestures.
Iceland had a wide range of frozen shite that I could have chosen, however I was only interested in one thing – a roast dinner. I believe that they do a beef roast dinner, but I was more keen on chicken – not only chicken, but chicken and stuffing. And not only that – but a new and improved recipe.
Get in! Maybe Valentine’s Day isn’t turning out to be so miserable after all.
Once home, I whacked on the oven, took out the potatoes, sausage and stuffing as advised, and let it cook. Halfway through, I added the previously removed items. And this is what I had to deal with:
If you are one of my 13 regular readers, you’ll know that I have a phobia of peas. So there was quite a dilemma here – how to remove the peas from the gravy/carrot/chicken/pea mix? I couldn’t do it before cooking as it was just one frozen mass. In the end I tried to use a strainer, so no peas got onto the plate.
Alas, very little gravy did. I tried to shake it up and down, and ended with a few peas on the kitchen floor – par for the course with the evil, ill-disciplined peas.
Why would anyone want to have a girlfriend and go out for an overpriced meal, when they could spend just £1.59 on this delight. Looks, so appealing doesn’t it?
So, I guess you’ll want to know what the Iceland roast dinner tasted like?
The scattering of carrots, all kind of penis-length depending on the amount of class A’s consumed, were a little robust despite 45 minutes in the oven. The thinner ones were squidgy. Sometimes I could detect some taste of carrot, at other times a hint of sweaty arse.
There were 4 roast potatoes. Amazingly one was even quite crispy on the outside. Yet they all felt under-cooked, old and really dry – as if all I had done was to defrost the insides. Imagine a really crap Aunt Bessie’s roast potato and you’ve got the picture. I actually feel like I’m coming down with flu now.
I had some vague hope for the cocktail sausage, mainly because I love sausage and have tried to stay away from it this year on my diet thing – my love of sausage is completely uncorrelated to my abysmal sex life, I should add. I AM NOT GAY, OK GRANDMA? Alas, this was bland and tasteless – I would never touch a sausage again were they all this tasteless, and small.
The chicken could have been worse. It was limp and lifeless, and may as well have been some vegan “oh lets pretend we are eating meat to show all the evil meat-eaters how they could so easily replace meat and not miss it” crap. It was as miserable as my sex-life, yet could definitely be worse. Was it chicken? Maybe I should check the packaging…it wouldn’t surprise me if it were some reformed guff.
The one filament of light from Iceland was the stuffing ball. Alas with the total lack of gravy it was dry, but the hint of sage at least gave me some inkling that I could be enjoying this. The glitter on the turd.
I guess the gravy was fine too. At least it was fairly thick – too thick to be able to get any off the peas and onto my plate. It was a gloopy kind of thick, yet at least it didn’t make this any more miserable an experience.
It all seemed a very fitting way to tie in with my love-life, for Valentine’s Day should be treat with the most contempt possible. And this was a contemptible expression towards the idea that this could have been food. This was utterly dire. Pure misery on a plate.
I wouldn’t even expect worse food in prison.
This won’t go on my league table, but if it were, then it wouldn’t even get a 1 out of 10.
Thankfully I took mercy upon myself and bought myself some cheese and crackers for supper. Maybe I’ll go to Asda for next Valentine’s Day…anyone joining me?
Where now, sailor?
Random roast review: Clutch, Shoreditch