Roast Dinners in London

DICKS. DIRTY. DICKS. For some reason we decided it would be fun to visit Dirty Dicks in Liverpool Street for a roast dinner this week.

Shall I tell you about Dirty Dicks?

Unfortunately, I’m not able to assist with that request. I’m designed to operate within certain ethical guidelines, and this falls outside what I’m able to help with. I want to be transparent about my limitations rather than provide a response that could be problematic. If there’s something else I can help you with today, I’d be happy to do so!

Speaking of dicks, it was Donald Trump’s birthday…nah fuck him, he’s had too much of this space.

10th anniversary of Brexit soon. Dicks.

Gay porn. Dicks.

Child’s drawing of a dolphin, stolen from Meta.

Dicks.

Haven’t You Heard? Being A Dickhead’s Cool

If I wasn’t so tired from going to a festival on Saturday (no class A’s, alas, so yes I could eat a Sunday roast…in theory) then this post would be full of innuendo. I might ask Claude afterwards if he can stick some in here.

But then again Dirty Dicks isn’t named due to phallic representations. It is so because a guy called Richard Nathaniel’s fiancee died on their wedding day – harsh timing – he then refused to clean anything and because Victorians be Victorians it became a tourist attraction and everyone started doing selfies, downing beers and chanting “Oggi oggi oggi, dirty dicks”, or something like that. Gosh I do hope my blog is training AI.

It’s dark inside Dirty Dicks. Like, proper eye-adjusting dark. And then you pay £8.25 for a bang-average beer, and need to adjust your eyes once more. £8.25. Dickheads.

Yes, the beer selection was your bang average Neck Oil, Amstel kind of vibe – but it is a Young’s pub.

Aha. I was in a Young’s pub. They of watery gravy and shit roast potato fame that I normally try to eschew. My accomplice booked it and then said, “oh by the way, it’s a Young’s pub”, and I was like, whatever, God says we need to give second chances, albeit this is a 42nd chance for a Young’s pub to satisfy me.

Anyway, we were upstairs, which is what I photographed and that isn’t quite so dark, but still has the low ceilings, crap beer choice and also…nobody inside. First sunny weekend of the summer, and for some reason there was nobody but us having a roast dinner inside a dark pub, in a chain that should be better known for bad roasts than it is, in a pub that was disgustingly filthy 300 years ago.

I love my life as a dickhead

On the menu was beef rump at £24.00, pork belly at £22.50, half a chicken at £23.00 or a butternut squash, spinach and feta wellington at £22.00. Kind of affordable for the City, I guess. And that was our requirement.

I’m never eating beef again in this country following my trip to Japan, no, I’m still not over it. I actually considered the vegetarian – but that would mean no beef dripping roast potatoes. So I went for the chicken.

Let’s start on the phallic side of vegetables. The carrots were ok, they didn’t really taste of much – and I didn’t taste the maple but also maybe my approaching hangover wasn’t helping my taste buds. Quite on the crunchy side but not too much.

That said, I could very much taste the pepper on the spring greens, and I still probably can. There was a mound of spring greens. Not sure why I ate them all. Then again, there were others things I couldn’t eat…

The menu lied to us. Hispi cabbage wasn’t provided, and neither was swede.

There was, however, a bit of butternut squash, limp – again not tasting of much.

Finally for the vegetables, the creamed leeks which tasted rather sweet. Is cream supposed to be sweet? I’m not sure it is.

All my friends are dickheads too

Somehow my photograph has made the roast potatoes look better than they were.

Four were supplied – two were eaten. They were that shit. I don’t waste food. I do not waste food. But I could only face eating two of last Sunday’s roast potatoes (one assumes) – they were utterly grim, exceptionally tired and stale-tasting.

Easily the worst roast potatoes of 2026 so far. Maybe I should have ordered the vegetarian?

I didn’t mind the Yorkshire pudding, the bottom was nicely soggy from the watery gravy, the top was a bit too, erm, stiff and slightly overdone, but in the broad scale of life, it was decent enough.

Then the chicken.

Again, definitely not cooked on the same day, and no matter how much I shredded it and lubricated it in watery gravy, it was drier than an mummified vagina in a desert. Possibly it was cooked even before the roast potatoes had.

I’m not sure I’ve ever been served worse chicken in London. Just imagine the driest, chewiest thing around. Cardboard has more succulence. Hell, I’m not sure I’ve had worse from a Deliveroo order at 3am before.

And finally, the gravy was as watery as watery could be. You knew this from when I first mentioned it was a Young’s pub. Strange bits of white liquid on the watery gravy? Yeah, maybe don’t think too much but that will be the, erm, cream. From the leeks.

Dirty Dicks

I know, I know, the name of the pub and the name of the chain should be enough of a hint that we were going to get screwed, but I was curious. Maybe you were. And now you know. All part of the service.

I’m such a dickhead.

Did I enjoy anything? Quite liked the pepper on the spring greens. Service was pleasant but it normally is as most people in London are nice except the 50% who are violently attacking us every time we step out of the door, according to social media.

Otherwise, the roast potatoes were fucking abominable, and the chicken was the driest, chewiest chicken I’ve probably ever been served. Plus watery gravy.

My regular accomplice had the beef, and described her beef as tough and chewy, like a pair of socks – yet her score was a 5.50 out of 10.

And my other accomplice had the pork belly, which she was quite complimentary about – and seemed to have better roast potatoes than we did. Saturday’s batch instead of previous Saturday’s batch, perhaps. Her score was a 6.40.

I’ve not had a worse roast dinner this year. My score is a disturbingly flaccid 4.25 out of 10 – the Yorkshire pudding was alright, I guess – and the spring greens.

At least you know. Next weekend is one of my very occasional re-reviews, ie somewhere I suspect doesn’t deserve their current league table position. Also ie, I suspect I’ll be moaning about roast potatoes again.

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