My Evening with Katrocket: Reviewed!

A while ago, excellent fellow Torontonian blogger Katrocket posted a competition on her blog, the prize being a custom beaver belt buckle from her good pals at Barbie’s Basement Jewellery. Entrants were asked to say what they’d do to win such a prize, and my entry – coming to meet Katrocket in person (thus saving her the price of postage) and reviewing the meeting – was deemed worthy of a second place prize. My reward: custom cufflinks of my choice.

Well, this weekend our busy schedules were freed and I met up with Katrocket and the Beevers, owners of and geniuses behind BBJ. I was given my excellent Tom Petty cufflinks, and my review follows now.

I will admit, first of all, that it was not without trepidation that I ventured across Toronto to the Beeverdeck. The city has been in the grip of a garbage collector strike for many weeks now, and our raccoons are getting more strong and brazen. Old people and children are now forbidden from going out alone, as these monstrous creatures have been known to pick off weak and infirm humans, gorging themselves on the skin, entrails and tripe. So as I got off the bus I made sure I was ready to run at full pelt, should the need arise.

Luckily I made it to my destination without incident, and was greeted warmly by Katrocket (real name: Katrocket) and the Beevers, who put me at ease by immediately thrusting alcohol into my hand. As a guest, my shyness prevented me from asking for a glass into which to put the alcohol, but I was later given one and a towel for my shoes.

Before we could retire to the Beeverdeck, I first needed to be given the basics of self-defense, and my hosts instructed me on the finer points of asparagus fencing. Raccoons are surprisingly unfond of this vegetable due to their mothers making them eat it as children, so it makes for a great weapon against advancing animals. As well as thrusting and parrying the floppy foodstuff, I also learned techniques known as the ‘Blatter’, the ‘Haichu’ and the ‘gullet-poke’.

Armed with the asparagus and my new knowledge, I was now able to go outside and enjoy the drinks and company. Katrocket and the Beevers are excellent conversationalists, and we debated such topics as the current situation in Chechnya, James Joyce’s lesser-known works and the merits of quilted toilet tissue. Before we could reach a conclusion on this last subject, though, an advance party of raccoons swarmed towards us and we were forced to take up arms.

After around half an hour of solid fighting, we felt that we had got the better of the creatures, and they were beginning to retreat. Sadly, they regrouped with reinforcements (several of which were armed with catapults and pepper spray) and so we decided it was a good time to retire to the sitting room, where the Vicar’s wife entertained us with an aria from Verdi’s La Traviata, accompanied by Mister Humbleby on piano. When they had finished we were forced to inform them that they were in fact in the wrong house and that the Cruikshanks were next door. This was a little vexing to them as they had brought their own piano and it took them a long time to get it back down the stairs.
A quick note on the food: I very much enjoyed the foie gras with vanilla bean compote and desecrated coconut, but the caviar burger with caviar-infused bun and caviar sauce was lacking something. I think it needed more caviar.

Some time before the witching hour, I was forced to bid my excellent hosts a fond farewell, and retired into the night, where I was promptly mugged by a pack of teenage raccoons who were brandishing cricket bats. Sad at the loss of my wallet and shoes, I walked home, happy at a great evening out with some wonderful people, and proud of my fantastic cufflinks.

Now I only need to buy a shirt so I can wear them.

The Imaginary Reviewer would like to thank Katrocket and the Beevers again for their warm hospitality and fantastic cocktails. He would also like to take this opportunity to apologise to any raccoons who were orphaned at the hands of his asparagus.

The Imaginary Reviewer back in England! Pubs Reviewed!

As I mentioned recently, I just spent a week back in the old homestead, Blighty, the place of my birth, Britannia, that sceptred isle, and so on, et cetera. Now, as many of you gorgeous readers know, there's one thing us Brits love: Booze. And something we love nearly as much as booze are places in which booze is sold for consumption on the premises. So while I was over in the Kingdom of Unitedness, I thought I'd check out some of our finest (and not so finest) pubs, and relate my findings back to you, my loyal fans, because I love you all, even when you give me that look that you know annoys me.

A really impressive pub is the Cuckolded Arsewipe in the beautiful village of Dripple-on-the-Gabe. This visit was my second, as I had been there several years before. I have to say, the place has really improved in the intervening time, a fact that - I am told - is due to the regular customers removing the previous landlord in a bloody coup and leaving his lifeless body in the beer garden as a warning to all. They have an excellent selection of beer, engaging portraits of the barmaids in various states of undress, and very enjoyable food. The Ploughman's Lunch was particularly delicious, although he wasn't very pleased when he caught me eating it.

The Gratuitous Mention is a very nice pub hidden away in Smothkenyonhampton, the picturesque town in Kooganthomsonborough. It's a great place to find people you know and haven't seen in a rather long time, even if they are a bunch of absolute piss-heads. It does pay to spend a lot of time here, too, because otherwise you won't get any of the the in-jokes, but it really is worth it. Oh, and the weekly quiz is fun, but rigged.

I wasn't a big fan of the Craven Beverley which is situated in a secret location at 34 Christendom Lane, Chatterstoft, because of the terrible curtains. The beer was excellent, the clientelle was fun to be around, the food was delicious and the prices were all top-notch. But why (oh why?) did they decide to make their curtains out of screaming children? It really does put a massive dampener on an otherwise brilliant pub.

The locals in The Fantabulous Fountain of Fancy Footwear and Firkin in Dullard, Kent, are wonderful people. They were amazingly kind to this out-of-towner, and helped me to choose from the many ales and lagers, going as far as to buy me several pints of their favourite drinks. They even helped me to find a nearby hotel when I started feeling a little poorly, and apparently made sure that I made it to my room without incident. Sadly the hotel must have had some kind of security problem, as when I awoke the following morning, my wallet, passport and all my clothing had been taken. Also, I also appear to have a scar on my chest which appeared at some point in that night and may or may not be related to the fact that my pancreas is missing.

Finally, The Dog and Steamroller is a delightful little establishment in the back streets of Cockthrobton, a small village just south of Badford and Goodbury. The Dog (as locals call it) is the only pub in England licensed to serve Saint Godspeed Methadone Ale, a locally-brewed tipple that really hits the spot. In fact, I found it very difficult to only drink one pint of this excellent beer, and still find myself craving the sweet, sweet liquid and oh my God I have to go back for some RIGHT NOW BECAUSE NO MATTER HOW HARD I SCRATCH THE ANTS ARE STILL UNDER MY SKIN CRAWLING CRAWLING CRAWLING PLEASE I NEED THAT BEER RIGHT NOW.

The Imaginary Reviewer is not responsible for any injuries suffered as a result of pinching the buxom barmaid's bottom.

Imaginary Party Review

As the Imaginary Reviewer, I get invited to lots of soirees hosted by people who wish to curry my favour. Of course, my opinion on music, film or literature can’t be changed by sausages on sticks and after-dinner Armagnac, but this doesn’t stop people trying. My evenings are all full with black tie events and charity fundraisers, so much so that my tuxedo hasn’t had a night off in three months, and the Union of Formalwear Garments are threatening me with legal action.

And yet, my favour remains uncurried. The hosts of these parties have not managed to influence my reviews in any way; the only effect they’ve had on The Imaginary Review is fodder for my reviewing eye. So here are some reviews of some of the recent shindigs I’ve attended.

The evening at the Witheringham-Smythe’s home in Marylebone Square was a resounding success on all levels. Firstly, the other guests were all wonderfully interesting people. Mister Chatterstoft, a widower from Stoke-on-Trent, regaled us all with a rousing tale of his exploits in Bangkok. How we laughed at his witty anecdotes about cases of mistaken identity, slapstick police chases and missing prophylactics! And the food, laid on by the Witheringham-Smythes’ catering staff was to die for. The roast suckling duckling bathed in a reduction of its own tears was particularly delicious. Reverend Simms’s erotic shadow puppetry rounded off a delightful evening.

Lord Arse-Tebbit and his intriguing man-friends hosted a charity fundraising auction at the Blatherwick Manure Museum Hall on Tuesday. To raise money for the building of a new gallows in Blatherwick Town Centre, Lord Arse-Tebbit was auctioning off his daughters, all twenty-three of them. Bidding was quite frenzied at times, with some lots being decided through fist fights in the car park. A great time was had by all, especially Lord Arse-Tebbit’s daughters, who enjoyed the attention. I ended up winning Gladys, who now has pride of place on my mantelpiece until Saint Swithin’s Day, when I have to give her back.

I wasn’t particularly fond of the wine tasting hosted by Terence Flanagan at the Devonshire Hotel in Upper Wapping. A series of lapses in the evening’s organisation meant that no wine had been provided, and so our group of eager connoisseurs had to make do with a tap water tasting instead. This was far from ideal, especially after Mrs Killorphan caught diphtheria. We did, however, attempt to make the best of the situation, and I can reveal that – from our novice tastebuds, anyway – the upstairs gents’ toilets tap had the worst tasting water, while the best was in the third-floor staffroom.

Finally, Steve Capshaw had a wonderful soiree at his parents’ house while they were in Portugal for a week. A delightful time was had by most of his guests, especially Mark Jones who snogged Debbie Bradshaw in Steve’s parents’ bedroom, with many rumours circulating that she let him cop a feel as well. The food was excellent, and the good people at Kebabs! Kebabs! Kebabs! Takeaway down the road are to be commended. Sadly, the abundance of refreshing beverages seemed to take its toil on some people, with Johnny Murphy throwing up in the kitchen sink. Also, regrettably, somebody defecated in the hall, and Steve had to clean it up himself, as the culprit never admitted to it. All in all, this was a superb party, and I for one can’t wait until Steve’s Mum and Dad go to Prague for Christmas.