Why can’t Rupert Lowe be my father?
From our UK edition
As seen on X ‘Another,’ I say with a belch, letting fork and knife fall to my plate. ‘Pork belly this time, I think.’ The waiter scuttles off to the kitchen of our local Greene King pub. This will be my fourth roast dinner of the afternoon. Beef, chicken and gammon have come and gone – each with heaps of crispy roast potatoes, lashings of gravy, golden brown yorkies, steamed cabbage and carrots piled high. I wash them down with Aenglish ale. I’ll have to put in a double session at the gym to work it off. Romanian deadlifts and kettlebell swings. But it’s worth it. Because there is an active intelligence operation to subvert the British Sunday roast.