Honest Burger

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Honest Burger on Eastcastle St, of Oxford Street in central London. This kind of place typifies gentrification. A place which has spent a great deal of money and time in promoting and glamourising its product in the eyes of the London rich. Decked with skidded wooden tables and chairs, heavy-thought light-weight menus and always flashing in shirts and ties on a Friday noon, a lot of effort has gone into making this place a middle class trend. 

Like many of these venues however, there is a fundamental problem: the food is shit. 

Isn't this the essence of the gentrified village: well scrubbed, well polished shit? 

In fact, the whole of Oxford street often looks like an overly polished shit. A stuffed corridor of furnished (what a fucking ugly, middle class word), wardrobes, blistering with person upon person from sunrise till sunset, a sparkling stream of furious self-consumption. I've walked down from Tottenham Court Road to Bond Street on many, many occasions and when doing so, one gets the strikingly cold, yet somehow sensational feeling of being fucked in the ass with a live fish, without actually being fucked in the ass with a live fish. The entire road is an abyss of truly sublime madness, a jostling hive of people buying lots of utter shit and then darting around screaming, jumping and spaffing all over the place about it. I do occasionally partake (rather than simply observe) in this myself, and it does feel rather nice. 

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