The Star, Belgravia

Skip The Nonsense

My pussy is so hairy. I hope you don’t find it scary…oh shit that was meant for Tinder. Erm. This Sunday I went for a roast dinner at The Star in Belgravia.

I was solo dining again for I am way too ugly for people to want to associate with me, however I was still determined to provide for you, my readers. After all, most women just want a good sense of humour and someone reliable, according to most dating profiles I read. Being fat and ugly is irrelevant, which is why every match I get on Tinder deletes me as soon as I message them.

The Star is a famous hangout of post-war criminals, and seemingly revels in being the main pub where the Great Train Robbery was planned. Normally I’d make some snide comment about it not being so endearing to celebrate robbery, but you know, it seems to be all the rage to steal things nowadays – like the sanity and future prosperity of a whole country.

My clit is so tight. I ride and ride. Until you come inside…for a Sunday roast.

This is a Sunday roast review of The Star in Belgravia. Honest.

After passing plenty of European embassies and also the country with the patchwork quilt flag that I didn’t recognise (anyone?), I turned into a road with a slightly foreboding archway – was I allowed inside? The street, that is. Fuck it, I was going in anyway.

Outside The Star in Belgravia was charming, inside was all kind of old worldy with minimal modernisation. I wasn’t in the mood for messing around so I went straight to the bar and ordered a beer and a chicken roast – at a pleasing £15.00.

The only single person tables downstairs were almost right next to family tables, which seemed a bit awkward for a loner and potential criminal (well, I did used to steal stationary as a teenager). So I headed upstairs to “the library”, to find an empty room. As the website says, “shhh, don’t turn around now…. who is that guy in the corner?”.

Just some tosser that reviews roast dinners. However the room was delightful – a really classy and classic feel, with paintings, chandeliers and proper furniture. Old world kinda music was playing – the bar lady suggested it was jazz but it didn’t sound like ear vomit so I disagreed with her classification – whatever it was, it suited the vibe of being alone upstairs in a pub on a Sunday afternoon. Though I was happy listening to DJ Assault on my earphones.

The roast menu also had dry-aged beef (didn’t sound too appealing) and lamb shoulder on it – all priced at a competitive £15.00.

A good 29 minutes passed before some cutlery turned up – I was starting to wonder if being the loner upstairs all alone (bar a wasp) meant that I had been forgotten about. Although someone did briefly come up to admire the artwork.

Robbed

Another 5 or so minutes later, a roast dinner turned up. Well, half a roast dinner…

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the Great Roast Robbery. It seems that The Star in Belgravia really do have an admiration of thievery.

I will say that I have had smaller roast dinners in my life. Albeit I can only think of one, Rabbit.

The two forkfuls of red cabbage were actually quite nice – I don’t like red cabbage but this was nicely done, and didn’t have loads of pollution seeping out trying to make the gravy purple.

I’m not a fan of puree either, but the swede puree was quite sweet and nicely done, if you like that kind of thing. I kinda liked my one solitary mouthful.

There was also one mouthful of something green – cabbage? Leek? Spring greens? So little of it and you don’t care for the details of what I’ve eaten anyway, you’re only here for:

My pussy is so sweet. It’ll make you nig…whoa I’m too white to be able to sing those lyrics…are you impressed with my new-found self-censorship? My pussy is so sweet. It’ll make you folk want to eat. A roast dinner.

Which is a great segue to carrots. Erm, they were roasted in honey and tasty. All 5 small slices of them.

Giving you dick by the pound.

The one, solitary floret of cauliflower cheese was also rather tasty. It was a tad tough but within the grounds of acceptability, and had a sticky outside and cheesy flavour. If only there was more of it…

The new Brexit reality apparently means that the new roast potato count will be just two small roast potatoes. They weren’t bad – a little solid on the inside, kind of crunchy on the outside but cooked today and seemingly fresh. Take your victories where you can, folks, like when Priti Patel next has to resign from government (please let this grow old quickly).

As relieved as I was to have received a suitably small Yorkshire pudding (that did say ‘roast dinner’ prior to the proof-read) – an Instagram-sized yorkie would have taken the piss with this small roast dinner, it wasn’t a bowl of joy. Are they ever, nowadays? It was a bit tough and greasy – not inedible – if you didn’t know what a Yorkshire pudding was, you might even like it. It did have a hint of factory-made about it.

Ummm…what to make of the chicken? Unsurprisingly it wasn’t the world’s largest half chicken and I was a bit perturbed about the idea of it having been done two ways. My clit is so tight…

However it was quite nice. The thigh was juicy, the breast was plump with only a hint of dry.

Sufficient gravy?

Even the gravy was good. I would have ordered more though there wasn’t exactly enough food to justify it, even for my standards. A good consistency, a slight red wine flavour to it (which is praise – too much can kill a roast). I’d be happy if this was the usual standard.

Then I started to think about whether to go for another roast dinner somewhere.

At which point, the chef walked in. Just me and the chef. In a room. Alone. My dick is so long. My back is so strong. And when it’s on bone. It’s damn near twelve inches long. Song lyrics, you morons. I’d be chuffed with twelve centimetres.

Need to think of a heading to put here so I can start the summary.

If I had have been served an adult-sized portion of the above, then I would have been pretty pleased with this.

The yorkie wasn’t that good – the roast potatoes were acceptable at best. But the vegetables were good and the gravy was tasty. It had the makings of a pretty good roast dinner. A pretty good child’s roast dinner.

My clit is so tight. I ride all night. The Metropolitan line. Because it is always fucking delayed like my cum.

Despite the small size of the meal – or because of the generally good quality of the roast, I am scoring this a 7.27 out of 10. An adult-sized portion would have scored closer to an 8 than a 7.

Next week I’ll be giving you dick by the pound. Though at the current rate of depreciation this might need to be reconsidered. I feel that I should re-write those lyrics for the 21st century.

So next week I’ll be going for a good roast dinner. I actually have friends again (the sooner summer is over and people stop doing fun shit the better), and I have promised them a good roast dinner. It will happen. It will be good.