Bloody London

“… because who wants to drink from a glass anymore?”

THE VAST MAJORITY OF THE POPULATION, YOU CRETINOUS HIPSTER ARSEWIPES.

A load of pretentious scollops

Served at a seaside restaurant. On a positive note, it’s better than driftwood.

“Chef, I have to say that looks awful.”

“Hmm… how about we shove a sprig of rosemary in it?”

“YOU’RE A GENIUS!”

The lack of a plate is the least of the worries here.

Pulled pork, bacon, beans and mash in a sundae glass at The Common Room in Sheffield.

It was only a matter of time before someone jumped on the Wimbledon bandwagon. In this case the Mercure Hotel in Bloomsbury.

Spag bol in a glass at Folie Douce Valdi. Even mixing it prior to serving was just *too* much trouble.

“What shall we serve bread on?”

“How about something with loads of holes to drop crumbs all over the table.”

“I’LL GET THE STEAMER!”

Cake and ice cream in a frying pan.

A FRYING PAN.

“What’s in your surf and turf, please?”

“Battered prawns, madam.”

“And the turf?”

“Some turf, madam.”