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That's BlueNile.com, code LISTEN for $50 off. Hi, we are here to talk to you about Sucre Bay, a perfumery we love so much. They have not one, but two official The Magnus Archives perfumes, one inspired by John and Martin, and another inspired by the mysterious Ex Altiora, a book from the library of Jürgen Leitner. Sucre Bay also make official perfumes for our friends over at Old Gods of Appalachia, including Blood and Bone and Unknown Roads.
you should check them out. Sucre Bay is a women-owned and operated perfumery that is vegan and cruelty-free, witchy and sometimes irreverent. Expect perfumes like You're in a cult, call your dad, or Vodka and Swearing, the ever-popular chloroform, or Paco.
Papa's Waffles. Sucre Bay do a range of exciting and unique fragrances you won't find anywhere else. They broadly fit into the following five categories. Classic scents that pass the test of time. Goth scents, for those who like it dark and mysterious. Witchy scents that are mysterious and potion-y. Nerdy scents, for all the self-professed nerds out there. And femme scents, the classically floral and sweet scents, but...
We recommend them for anyone of any gender. Sucre Bay small batch perfumes are not like any other. You can find out more by going to www.rustyquill.com forward slash perfume. That's rustyquill.com forward slash P-E-R-F-U-M-E. Also, you can join the supportive and kind Sucre Bay community with over 18,000 members on Facebook.
at facebook.com forward slash groups forward slash Sucreve. That's S-U-C-R-E-A-B-E-I-L-L-E. This episode is dedicated from Cassidy, to the friends I've met thanks to Magnus, to my cat Nearon, who patiently allowed me to listen and re-listen to episodes instead of giving him pets as is his right, and to the cup of tea the person listening to this likely forgot to drink. Rusty Quill presents The Magnus Protocol.
Episode 25, Gut Feelings. Hey. Hey, how was it? Well, no monsters stalked and ate me, if that's what you're worried about. Good. Probably not enough meat on you anyway. Barely a snack. Have you heard from Celia? She's fine too.
Got a text from her a few minutes ago. She's running late again. Another childcare emergency? Sounds like it. But she is, and I quote, definitely not dead. Please reassure Alice. Christ, am I that bad? You don't want me to answer that. Sorry. I get it. You're worried. I mean, we are too. And that's why we're being careful. But like...
Noted.
Any sign of Gwen, by the way? Not that I imagine it would devastate you if she got a bit monsterised. How dare you? I would definitely consider being sad about it at some point. But no, she's fine. Got in a few minutes ago and was immediately dragged into some planning session with Lena. I assume they're deciding which of the minister's arsecheeks to snog when he visits. To Kiranthal. EQRansatMailPod.com From Tom Connolly. Editorial.
Editor at Muse9Publishing.com Date February 07-20-24 Subject RE Hungry Man Grill Review Hi Kieran, thanks for sending the review. It was a real ride. That said, sorry to be blunt as it sounds like you've had a rough one, but I'm afraid we just can't publish it as is. I know I usually only give you a few line edits, but I think this one needs a full redraft.
First up, it's way too anecdotal. I know that Dirty Eating is a personality-driven series, but it takes you over half the review just to get to the food. And the whole tone of the piece is off in a way that makes it kind of hard to take seriously. We're looking for early 2000s Gordon Ramsay rage? I don't know who you're channeling in this one. Hieronymus Bosch? Regardless, it needs to be more in line with your previous reviews. I also don't actually understand what you mean when you talk about the diner's location.
Also, and I hope I'm off base here, does that ending mean you're planning to retire? Fingers crossed that's not the case, but if you are looking to get out of the game, I would have hoped you would actually talk it through with me and not let me know through some surreal faux review. Are you available for a call tomorrow? Would love to get on the line and hash all this out. All the best.
Original message to Tom Connolly, editor at Muse9Publishing.com. From Kirant Hart. EQ writes at MailPod.com. Date, February 06, 2024. Tom, here's your review. I hope you choke on it. Dirty Eating. The Hungry Man Grill. Newham.
It has often been said that there is nothing in this world as satisfying to read as a truly bad review. The writer, unchained at last from the need for balance and consideration, can unleash the full force of their pen, indulging in turns of phrase and condemnation as vile and awful as the food they have been served. And it was with full knowledge of this that I began the Dirty Eating column four years ago.
While I certainly wasn't lying when I told you my aim was to push back on health food puritanism by profiling the grimiest and most deep-fried of roadside eateries and greasy spoons, I was also quite certain that I'd get to write a lot of bad reviews. And I did. And no doubt you devoured them greedily, reveling in my bile and disdain. Perhaps the Hungry Man Grill is my punishment. Perhaps it is all of our punishments.
I found it down a small side road in Nuo. Though should you be in line for a seat at its table, I have no doubt it will move to accommodate your booking. I shall not give you the address, as, even if I should be wrong and it remains where I found it, I would not risk those who consider themselves adventurous eaters going to find it.
The question of where I first heard about the place is one that has preoccupied me since my visit. It was nestled in the list of reviews I was due to write, far enough down so as not to draw attention, but when I think about those long hours of research I spent compiling my monthly itinerary of Epicurean disasters, I cannot recall adding it, nor was there anything written in my notes to explain why I might have considered it worth visiting. This, however, is something I have realised only since the end of my meal there.
At the time, I simply accepted it as the next stop on my grand tour of London, Greece, and made my way down there on an otherwise unremarkable Tuesday lunchtime. Finding the place was more challenging than expected, as the address I had apparently noted down did not correspond precisely to the roads I found myself on, and my sat-nav kept sending me around in circles.
It was only when I noticed a grim little alleyway tucked behind an overflowing skip looming in front of a closed-down vape shop that I finally found my destination. The street was narrow and steeper than I would have expected from that part of London, and as I made my way gingerly down it, I nearly slipped and fell twice. The cobbled stones were slick and oily, stained by small rivulets of old fat that leaked from the torn plastic of the bin bags that were piled up on either side.
Small white shapes dotted them, and I turned my eyes away, reluctant to come face to face with the maggoty refuse so close to the time and place I would, supposedly, be eating my lunch. Perhaps this is what the astute reader might have pointed out as my first warning, but to be clear, it was not. Unpleasant and extreme as the place was, it was far from unique in my odyssey to the heart of the capital's least healthy eating houses.
Such fly-blown paths have more than once led me to hidden gems serving deep-fried masterpieces and symphonies of fat and batter. No, my first warning was that as I approached the filthy sign at the bottom of the street, I felt hungry.
No doubt those who regularly indulge in my columns will raise an eyebrow at this. Lavish prose extemporising the depths of my ravenous hunger are a common feature of my more ebullient reviews, and here is where I must reveal that these, all of these, were lies. It has in fact been my habit of a day when I am to visit one of these establishments to ensure I have had a full and proper lunch beforehand. My reasoning is, I should hope, obvious.
Given how vile many of these diners can be, I always wish to be in complete control of how much of their food I wish to eat, and not be compelled by hunger to take more than a single bite if I do not wish to. On this particular day, I had fortified myself not an hour before with a sizeable sandwich from the Green Pig, a reliable cafe near Embankment. And yet, as I walked down that fetid, noxious alleyway towards the dimly buzzing sign for the Hungry Man Grill, I found myself
Well, I found myself a hungry man. Nor was it the sort of hunger that I am accustomed to. It was not the creeping, gentle ache of the stomach that alerts the mind to a need for sustenance. Rather, I felt it in my whole body, a sudden weakness and trembling in my legs, punctuated with the most terrible emptiness I have ever known in the depths of my gut.
the feeling was so thorough so profound and unsettling that part of my mind rebelled desperately telling me to turn and leave but my appetite pushed me onwards towards the doorway that seemed to hold the most immediate promise of food there was the smallest hint of resistance when i pushed on the door
Perhaps it was a symptom of my own reluctance to enter, or perhaps another manifestation of that sticky, pervasive filth that I soon realised coated everything inside. In layout and decor, it is everything you would expect from an ageing greasy spoon. From the red plastic of the chairs, to the chipped formica of the tables.
Faded posters advertising illegible meal deals papered the walls, interspersed with picture frames containing photos of supposed celebrities who had eaten there. I recognized none of them, and they did not look happy to be on the wall of the Hungry Man Grill. There were other people eating there, hunched over the tables in silence. But when I first entered, I took no notice of them, so overwhelming was my agonized appetite.
I slumped down at an empty table, noticing but paying no mind to the tiny shapes that scurried away into the shadows when I did so. There was no counter that I could see or any obvious weights to have to take my order, but I did not have the strength to stand up again and go looking. All I could do was wait, and it was as I waited that two things hit me at once. The first was the smell.
I've been to more than one restaurant where the fridge had failed, and the smell lingers with you. Most notably the cloying, vomity smell of spoiled milk that nothing seems to shift. There were hints of other things in there as well. The sweeter notes of rancid meat and something acrid and chemical, all carried on a base of old and overused cooking oil. To say it was the worst smell I have ever encountered would be redundant. And yet, it did nothing to quash my hunger.
If anything, it seemed to make it sharper still. The other was my fellow diners. Thin, ragged people lost in old suits and tattered dresses, all bedecked with a gruesome rainbow of ancient food stains. They said nothing, but many of them seemed to be openly weeping as they shoveled forkful after forkful of their meal desperately into their toothless mouths. And that was when I saw the food.
Even in my weakened state, the sight of it was almost enough to send me running, but I did not have time to even get to my feet before the door at the back opened and the chef walked out. He was, underneath it all, a very normal-looking man. Average height, slim build, dark brown hair, but he was a normal-looking man born of an overflowing waistband and baptised in a deep fat fryer.
Every part of him was caked in grime and slick with a dozen varieties of viscous ooze. And in his hand, he carried my plate. "Order up," he said. "This is what you're here for, isn't it?"
Fine. The first course was soup.
"Viscous, creamy white with streaks of lurid green. Thin, pale strands floated in it that were I to try and rationalise I would pretend were noodles. But noodles don't move like that. Noodles don't leap off the spoon and crawl eagerly down your throat. The soup itself was oily with a sour metallic tang to it, both too watery and too lumpy, with an aftertaste reminiscent of a week-old unchanged bandage.
I swallowed every last mouthful. So acute and agonizing was my hunger. Yet still it grew. So down came the second course. The contents of the burger might once have been meat, but if it were beef, lamb, or something else entirely, it was impossible to say now.
It glistened with a putrid rainbow sheen, as though it were coated in some sort of petrol, and I could not tell if the thick, pus-like substance that dripped from it was some awful condiment or an emanation of the meat itself. By contrast, the bun seemed, at first glance, almost edible. Touched stale, perhaps. Slightly discoloured, but no obvious signs of mould or rot.
It was only when the jagged knife of rising hunger forced me to bite down into it that I felt the thousands of tiny rice-like weevils that crawled within its hollow shell. My reviewers' arsenal of descriptors fails me when I try to describe the taste of that burger. Fetid, foul, noxious, none quite encapsulate the experience. Was it sweet? Yes, but the sweetness of spoiled milk.
Was it salty? Yes. But the saltiness of infected blood. Was it bitter? Yes. Perhaps that is the only word I can be sure of. Bitter in a way that went beyond the tongue and seeped its way into my brain. I can still taste it. The weevils were the most palatable part after they had stopped moving and my teeth had ground them into a paste. But that took an awful lot of chewing.
i will perhaps skip the detailed portrait of dessert suffice it to say it was presented as an ice cream cake and no matter how much i willed myself to throw it back up to purge myself in a vomitous fury my ever-growing hunger kept me eating at that moment there was a feeling almost like hope starter main dessert i had finished surely that was enough
But despite the roiling fullness in my stomach, I was still ravenous, far hungrier than when I started. And as the chef, if so I might call him, walked back into the kitchen, I knew there would be more coming. I knew there would always be more.
It took every ounce of strength I had to rise from that table. I tapped into some core of resolve I never knew I possessed, pulling myself away, surrounded by diners who would never stand up again and fleeing, stumbling blindly out into the sunlit London afternoon. This will be my last review. Not simply because I am afraid to cross the threshold of another restaurant, terrified that on the other side I might find myself back in that place.
but because even now, a week after I took my last bite at the Hungry Man Grill, I can still feel that food inside me. It sits in my stomach, pulsating, heavy and growing. I can feel it pressing against the inside of my flesh even as I write this, see it bloating and distending my belly, and I am still hungry. In conclusion,
A meal at the Hungry Man Grill will stay with you until your dying day. Well, that brings back uni memories, doesn't it? Does it? The student union calf? Oh, God, yeah. How could I forget those sloppy joes? Sloppy was definitely the word. I can still taste it. Do you remember when they tried to do a veggie option and it just...
Oh, uh, hi Colin. Oh hey Colin! I thought you weren't... Colin? Mate? What, uh... What's with the hammer? Stay out of my way, Alice. Um, Colin? What are you- Jesus! I'm going to the server room. I don't think that's a good idea, mate. I think you should listen to Alice. SHUT UP! Both of you just shut the fuck up! Don't you get it?
I'm trying to help! Save us from this goddamn fucking nightmare machine! Okay, okay, call in. Listen to me, alright?
We've all seen messed up things happening recently. You say the computers need to be destroyed. We can totally believe that, right Sam? I mean, yeah. Yeah, that actually sounds pretty plausible right now. Yeah, but you can't just start smashing shit without explaining what's going on. No. It's listening. But that doesn't matter if you're going to smash it into bits, does it?
So, why don't you just tell us? That's only if it lives in the servers. If not, then... Then let's go somewhere down here. There isn't anywhere! That's the problem! You're not making sense, Colin. No, you still get it? You don't believe me? You're just trying to buy time. Keep me busy until... Colin, that's not what we... Come on! Come on! Come for me! Come on! Come on!
So, does anyone care to explain why you thought it was a good idea to tackle an unstable armed man on government property without alerting the authorities? Is Colin going to be okay? I doubt it. But since he's in custody, the matter is out of our hands.
The OIAR's mental health policies only stretched so far, and this became a police matter as soon as he attacked government property and employees. It's a miracle no one was hurt. A miracle that cost us three computer terminals and damaged a server rack. So I'll ask again. What on earth were you thinking confronting him like that? We were trying to talk him down. Oh, really? Because it looked to me like Sam attempted to body tackle him. I thought he might hurt Alice.
Crystal. As far as I can tell, the server damage was superficial.
But again, as I keep saying, I'm not an IT expert. I don't actually know how any of this works, so... I shall have someone take a closer look in due course. In the meantime, I want you all focusing on cleaning everything up ahead of the Minister's visit.
Understood. No, no, hang on a minute. I think we need to discuss if Colin's right. Right about what, exactly? About the system listening in on us. About there being something dangerous in the computers. Sam... No, I'm done playing office intern. After everything else that's been going on, it would be stupid of us not to even consider it.
While I understand your concerns, Sam, there's no way we can realistically act on them. Whatever quirks the system might have, it is still essential for departmental functionality, and interfering with government equipment is a criminal offence. As it is, Colin will be lucky to avoid charges of domestic terrorism. So what do you suggest? I suggest you do as you are told and clean up.
Meanwhile, I will begin looking for a replacement IT manager. As if we didn't have enough new hires already. Speaking of which, does anyone know where Celia is? She had an emergency. She's not sure when she's going to get in. Let me know as soon as she does. Her repeated absences have become a problem and I will not hesitate to add a second position to the jobs page if I have to. I'll tell her. See that you do. Now, if that's everything, I would appreciate it if you would all get to work.
And please refrain from any further attempts at heroism on government property. I could do without the paperwork. Hi, um, could you tell me when the next coach to London is? Oh, you're in luck. Should be any minute. If you need a ticket, the machine's over there. Right. Cheers. Can I pay by phone? Yeah, should be able to. Listen, is everything alright? Not to be rude, but you're looking like you've had a bit of a time of it. No, yeah, I'm alright.
Just a lot of last-minute travel recently. If you're sure, well, best get that ticket. Looks like this is your coach. Oh, right. Thanks. Just try and get some rest when you get home, yeah? Yeah, right. The Magnus Protocol is a podcast distributed by Rusty Quill and licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-Sharealike 4.0 international license. The series is created by Jonathan Sims and Alexander J. Newell and directed by Alexander J. Newell.
This episode was written by Jonathan Sims and edited with additional materials by Alexander J. Newell, with vocal edits by Nico Vitesse, soundscaping by Meg McKellar, and mastering by Catherine Rinella, with music by Sam Jones.
It featured Billy Hindle as Alice Dyer, Shahan Hamza as Samama Khalid, Anuja Battersby as Gwen Bouchard, Lorianne Davis as Celia Ripley, Sarah Lambie as Lena Kelly, Ryan Hopevere Anderson as Colin Becker, with additional voices from Alexander Jane Ewell,
The Magnus Protocol is produced by April Sumner, with executive producers Alexander J. Newell, Danny McDonagh, Lynn C., and Samantha F.G. Hamilton, and associate producers Jordan L. Hawke, Taylor Michaels, Nicole Perlman, C.T.S. DeRaven, and Megan Nice.
To subscribe, view associated materials, or join our Patreon, visit RustyQuill.com. Rate and review us online, tweet us at TheRustyQuill, visit us on Facebook, or email us at mail at RustyQuill.com. Thanks for listening.
Hi, we are here to talk to you about Sucrebae, a perfumery we love so much, they have not one, but two official The Magnus Archives perfumes, one inspired by John and Martin, and another inspired by the mysterious Ex Altiora, a book from the library of Jurgen Leitner. Sucrebae also make official perfumes for our friends over at Old Gods of Appalachia, including Blood and Bone and Unknown Roads.
you should check them out. Sucre Bay is a women-owned and operated perfumery that is vegan and cruelty-free, witchy and sometimes irreverent. Expect perfumes like You're in a Cult, Call Your Dad, or Vodka and Swearing, the ever-popular Chloroform, or Papadum.
Papa's Waffles. Sucre Bay do a range of exciting and unique fragrances you won't find anywhere else. They broadly fit into the following five categories. Classic scents that pass the test of time. Goth scents, for those who like it dark and mysterious. Witchy scents that are mysterious and potion-y. Nerdy scents, for all the self-professed nerds out there. And femme scents, the classically floral and sweet scents, but...
We recommend them for anyone of any gender. Sucre Bay small batch perfumes are not like any other. You can find out more by going to www.rustyquill.com forward slash perfume. That's rustyquill.com forward slash P-E-R-F-U-M-E. Also, you can join the supportive and kind Sucre Bay community with over 18,000 members on Facebook.
at facebook.com forward slash groups forward slash Sucre Bay. That's S-U-C-R-E-A-B-E-I-L-L-E.
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