Good British Grub Poem by C Richard Miles

It’s Russian roulette with the croissants:
You never know where they have been.
I don’t hold with sauté potatoes
And broccoli turns me quite green.

Just look at the food that they serve you:
French Fries and a chic casserole.
I’d rather have chips and a hot pot
Or good, British toad-in-the-hole.

Just give me some tripe and some onions
And a plateful of moist jellied eels,
With a tasty fried slice of black pudding;
Now they’re decent, regular meals.

I’m frightened of foie gras and blinis
And other such pretentious food
With names like courgettes and zucchinis,
I’m sure these words mean something rude!

Instead of those fancy French menus,
I’ll ring for a pizza instead,
Not ratatouille and lasagne,
Whose names really do in my head.

There’s now’t like a good British pizza
With plenty of cheese on the top
That you order and then get delivered:
You don’t have to troop to the shop.

Yes! Good British grub’s what I die for:
You can’t beat spaghetti on toast
Washed down with a good China cuppa
Or coffee, Brazilian roast.

Just give me a warm pint of Stella
And a packet of prawn cocktail crisps;
I love my libations of lager
But I don’t care for crudité dips.

And when I have done with my drinking,
It’s time to go home from the pub
And nip for a nice British curry
At the Indian: that’s proper grub.

I detest all that foreign palaver;
1 prefer a nice hot vindaloo
Or a good British tikka masala
Or even my mum’s Irish stew.

And, after a few pints of Pilsner,
There’s nothing that pleases a chap
Like the smell of that great institution:
The great British doner kebab.

And so, as I sit in the gutter
And think I am going to throw up,
I’m sure you’ll agree and support me
And won’t truck with that yuck foreign muck.