Here is a little amuse-bouche I wrote for Noble Rot Magazine. Illustrations by Gary Taxali.
When the sane and rational Liz Truss started ranting about not getting invited to dinner parties. I had the strange urge to invite her to one. I live in North London after all, I could rustle up a few gawpers. What would I cook though? Something suitably retro? Defrosted prawn vol- au -vents would have to come into it surely? Would the food even matter?
I find myself drawn to bad dinner parties as I am to the terrible recipes that pop up on my social media feed . Yes, I know I shouldn't have clicked. But now I'm inundated with horrible things to do with Frankfurters. All kinds of tinned stuff globbed on top of each other, much of which looks frankly poisonous. But at least I watch these horror shows in the privacy of my own home. The dinner party is the place where these malign fantasies are acted out on hopeful but unsuspecting guests. I should know. I have been that guest all too often and still I go back. Sensible friends of mine refuse to go to them anymore. But they are not investigative journalists like me. Or masochists.
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