Jersey is the most beautiful of islands but, let’s be honest, it’s a bit Wicker Man.  I feel like I am in a 1970’s time-warp. Even my beloved and essential iPhone is rendered useless by a lack of suitable networks. No voice, no data, no life.
In sleepy Grosvenor Square, just a Molotov cocktail throw from the American embassy, is yet another Gordon Ramsay place. It’s getting difficult to walk down a London street without seeing his name over some restaurant or other.
I was advised that Molotov was not on the aperitif list, but £12 for a tiny glass of Ayala champagne, even if poured at the table, set me off in an explosive mood. I think the sommelier noticed my look of disappointment, nay disdain, as he left me with barely enough liquid to create a damp patch if I spilled it on my trousers (I didn’t). I wanted to dislike this place – I don’t like being ripped off.
Stumble It!