Roast Dinners in London

Man up, time to snort testosterone, eat all the meat and have a roast dinner at The Hunter’s Moon in Chelsea.

Are you really man enough though?

Hegseth now wants taxpayers to pay to give testosterone injections to troops to make them better warfighters.

— Ron Filipkowski (@ronfilipkowski.bsky.social) 2026-07-15T17:09:13.098Z

Clearly the reason why Trump has won the war in Iran only 182 times this year is the lack of testosterone in the US army. Anyone who’s knows anything about the US army knows they are well known for being shy, retiring and reluctant to use weapons.

Curious that MAGA have taken a liking to gender affirming though.

Also, how manly is this?

Andrew Tate. Arrested, and being charged with seven further counts of rape, as well as charges relating to sex trafficking and indecent images of a child. Yet this happened in…Trump’s America. Is he…Mexican?

Where’s Hunter

Maybe the world is turning, maybe people have had enough of corruption. Hell…Europe…we finally got some balls.

And fucking hell, we are actually granted society-wide permission to consider ourselves European, in this aspect and this aspect only. Don’t even think about travelling in kilometres. But we have fought back against FIFA’s corruption (finally) and the extended Trump Crime Family.

Maybe, just maybe we are past the worst of the MAGA corruption.

Maybe, just maybe, I won’t get another roast dinner like last weeks’s again.

Well, maybe I can go a couple of weeks anyway. I’m actually confident next week’s will be in the 8’s.

This week I was planning on going to The Landseer Arms – you cannot book in advance, plus the website nor socials mention anything about a roast dinner – the last post on Instagram about a roast dinner was from last summer.

So I was half-expecting to turn up and there not to be any roast dinners, or it to be full, and having to find a last minute change of plan.

Except I found out on the train on the way there.

Hunter’s Laptop

Cue panic re-planning, multiple spins on the random number generator in between 1-2 minute slots with no reception on the train, trying to come up with a plan, before I just picked a pub and booked a table at The Hunter’s Moon.

Except I got to The Hunter’s Moon (in Chelsea) and realised I’d booked a table at another pub in Stoke Newington.

Urgh. Said pub received a message saying “oh I’m so sorry I meant to book for September” so now that’s one Sunday next month booked. By accident.

So here I was. Hang on…

Do the heels make him look more manly?

Anyway, The Hunter’s Moon is a fine-looking gaff – pubs tend to be in Chelsea, or they close down.

Split into two parts and rather quiet, the back is a tidy white-walled restaurant, the front had darkish-green walls with solid furniture.

Hunter Failed Drug Test

Beer choice was bang average at The Hunter’s Moon – so boring I actually had a protein shake. Maybe. Possible it was cider. Not sure I’ve ever had a cider on duty before. I must have done. Maybe I did last month actually.

Anyway.

On the menu was sirloin of beef at £28.00, cauliflower steak at £23.00, pork belly at £26.50 or cornfed chicken breast at £24.00. They did also have sharing roasts on the chalkboard…sorry that’s not MANLY enough, the BLACKBOARD RAAAAAAA SO MANLY where they had a spatchcock chicken, or lamb shoulder, or the ultimate for real men out there, a Cote De Beouf.

The latter could actually have tempted me out of my “I don’t eat beef because I had all the wagyu in Japan” phase but it was £120.00 and there were two of us to share 800g of steak – one refined lady, and one man not even manly enough to work at Kwik-E-Mart, if Hegseth was judging. And sharing roasts are effort.

So it was pork belly. For both of us. Given that I’m vaguely (and poorly) using the manosphere as my theme this week, it would have made it more linguistically amusing to order the cauliflower steak, but hey. I don’t plan any of this shit, it just happens, a bit like the Orange Manbaby’s stream of un-truth. But with less opportunity to defraud anyone.

So the carrot was soft.

Hunter’s E-mails

Fine, the carrot was long, soft and didn’t really taste of much. You actually want me to write about the food?

The cabbage was rather small in volume, there was a bit of a fruity vibe going on with the cabbage – though it could well have been just from the apple sauce under it. It probably was from the apple sauce under it.

And that was it for vegetables.

Tate arrested…who says we cannot have nice things. And crispy roast potatoes too. Not quite gold-standard, one was a bit tired and made earlier, but the other two were fresher – they had been chuffed properly, outsides were all crispy, insides were fluffy. Silver medal, perhaps.

The Yorkshire pudding was a bit overdone on the outside, not by too much, but the inside was nicely fluffy – one of the better ones.

I actually had steroids once. Alas, this isn’t a story from Ibiza, but I did once get lifted high into the air by some steroid freak at a techno party at 5am in Ibiza when I was, erm, delicately minded, which didn’t amuse me. Anyway, I had steroids after a spell in hospital 30 years ago, and even now I miss them. Meat?

Like the roasties and yorkie, the pork belly was a good effort but wasn’t perfect. The bottom was quite tough – assumedly it had been standing in the kitchen for a while, but the meat of the meat bar the bottom 10% was really juicy and succulent. Damn good. The crackling again not perfect, but quite crunchy.

Finally, the gravy was a red wine affair – Chelsea-ish gravy with some oily influence. Decent.

The Hunter’s Moon

Hunter Biden’s going to be the next president, isn’t he? Or at least the next Democratic candidate, against one of the Trump Crime Family. Sigh.

So after two pretty crap roast dinners in previous weeks, we are back on form.

Some imperfections – not enough vegetables, one of the roasties tasted tired, the yorkie a bit overdone on the outside, the pork belly tough on the bottom 10%. Better knives would have helped.

But most of the pork belly was properly juicy, the roast potatoes were nicely crispy on the outsides and fluffy inside – along with the yorkie being fluffy inside.

My accomplice scored hers a 7.30, and my score is a 7.80 out of 10. Healthy.

I actually have high expectations for next Sunday’s roast dinner. Which is dangerous.