Food / restaurant critics

[CCArchive]

If there's a more cushy fucking job on the face of this planet, I've yet to hear about it. These cosseted, uptight wankers swan into restaurants, pockets stuffed with their editor's money, and proceed to order the most expensive fucking glop on the menu - dishes that 90% of people couldn't afford in a millennium of Sundays - then write faux-louche, faux-wry, faux-urbane, one-size-fits-all sneery WANK about the 'tartness' or the 'incohesive nature of the flavour combinations' in their nasty little column, little knowing that the grub only tasted funny because everyone from the sous-chef down jizzed in their servings. Twats, arseholes, bastards.