Will Self visits the Slug & Lettuce

A mollusc, a salad leaf and an unstoppable trail of mish-mash, bish-bosh nosh.

Heading very slowly across town to the Slug & Lettuce in the Borough, I kept looking behind me to check that I was leaving a man-sized slime trail on the pavement. I was feeling pretty low on this, my 23rd Father’s Day. Not, you appreciate, that a fearless gastropod like me has any need for such marketing-led pseudo-festivals – although it did occur to me that not one of my little slime had bothered to mark the event with so much as a tweak of my antennae.

Ah well, I could rely on the Slug & Lettuce to make good the emotional deficit financially; because – so long as the staff didn’t scatter salt on me the second I oozed through the door – I had some astonishing Father’s Day offers to look forward to. The one pellet (an ironic pet name we molluscs bestow on our offspring) I’d hung on to would eat for only a pound, while I’d receive absolutely free a patriarchal pint of beer. True, I don’t actually drink alcohol any more but I was looking forward to pouring my free pint down the Slug & Lettuce urinals as a sort of libation for all those fathers whose alcoholism had deprived them of access to their own children on Father’s Day. I’m not joking.

Anyway, the smear cheered me up: the sun came out and the pellet kept scooting ahead at speeds in excess of 0.0001 miles an hour. Ah, the energy of the young! But as we reached the establishment – housed, like many others of this 80-strong chain, in a former bank – the trouble started: despite the Slug & Lettuce being, on the face of it, a pub, the dog wasn’t allowed inside. (Don’t ask me to explain why a slug has a pet dog, just run with me on this thing.) We were exiled to a grim seating area at the prow end of the old, boat-shaped building, where we could look upon a First World War memorial that featured a Tommy petrified in mid-sprint. Was he advancing or retreating – who could say?

I didn’t mind not getting to sit in the restaurant – the decor was a puke-inducing: gallimaufry of padded vinyl, beige tile, “decorative” mirroring and dark wood. Random sections of wall had been abused with sub-Bridget Riley wavy wallpaper, while a weird mushrooming column dominated the main area, with – get this! – a series of fake chandeliers dangling from its white plaster cap.

Besides, sitting on the patio I was able to Google the Slug & Lettuce and not only read up on it but also discover that I’d namechecked the chain when I reviewed All Bar One in this weird, mushrooming column a couple of years ago. I wasn’t complimentary, but described S&L, erroneously, as if it were the gateway drug for all such other narcotised faux-pubs. It wasn’t . . . but then, quite frankly, who cares?

Who cares what was on the menu, either? I mean, if you’ve reached this stage in life: a New Statesman reader still against all the odds cleaving to a progressive socialist ideal in the centennial year of this publication, do you really want to know about this mishmash, bish-bosh nosh? Suffice to say the menu was full of those process descriptions that first came into vogue in the late 1980s – some dishes were “lightly coated”, others “lightly dusted”; others still were “served on a bed” (something I assumed only happens to the Duchess of Cambridge with a turkey baster), and also “finished with coconut cream”. The pellet had a burger, I had a Caesar salad with “shredded” chicken. Ach! all this shredding – the Yiddish word for nonkosher food is “trayf”, which means torn or shredded; I wondered if the S&L powers-that-be were trying to tell me something.

The waiter – who was eastern European, of course – had three things to tell me: when I went in to ask for the bill he informed me that because there wasn’t “table service” outside I should’ve given her my credit card to begin with so he could open a tab. The idea of it! A tab at the Slug & Lettuce! The second thing he told me was that the pellet wouldn’t eat for a quid because he hadn’t ordered off the kids menu, and the third was that I wouldn’t be receiving my free Father’s Day pint because I hadn’t had a burger.

“So, that’s Father’s Day at the Slug & Lettuce!” I said to the waiter and he grimaced sympathetically. “Still,” I continued, “I expect they’re fucking you over too.” He grimaced differently, but conceded: “Since the recession, things have got . . . worse.” I said, “I’m sorry about that . . . I can afford to be philosophic, after all since I’m a slug – and hence a hermaphrodite – I’m always fucking myself over anyway.”

A slug. Photograph: WikiCommons

Will Self is an author and journalist. His books include Umbrella, Shark, The Book of Dave and The Butt. He writes the Madness of Crowds and Real Meals columns for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 01 July 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Brazil erupts

Show Hide image

Why is Disney producing so many live-action remakes of its most popular animated movies?

The Jungle Book, The BFG, Pete’s Dragon and Beauty and the Beast are just one small part of the studio’s extensive strategy of live-action remakes.

When Disney’s 101 Dalmatians appeared in cinemas back in 1996, it surprised audiences. With a screenplay and production by John Hughes, and a brilliantly deranged Glenn Close as Cruella, it was in many ways more cartoonish than the stylish Sixties animation it was based on. The film was a peculiar choice from a studio in the midst of an animated renaissance: in the first half of the decade alone the releases of The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, Aladdin, The Lion King, Pocahontas, Toy Story and The Hunchback of Notre Dame, reasserted Disney’s status as the ultimate home of animated family movies.

But it also paid off: 101 Dalmatians broke box office records on the Thanksgiving weekend of release, and was the top grossing family movie of that year.

Fast forward to 2010, and Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland tells a similar tale. The only live-action remake of one of the studio’s own animated classics since 101 Dalmatians, it was critically panned, but a huge financial success, bringing in over a billion dollars at the box office.

Since then, Disney has woken up to the commercial potential of this formula. Following Alice were The Sorcerer’s Apprentice (a 2010 release based on a segment of 1940’s Fantasia), Maleficent’s unusual take on Sleeping Beauty, 2015’s Cinderella, and, this year, The Jungle Book (and an Alice sequel ).

Next month, a live-action remake of The BFG will hit US theatres, to be followed by Pete’s Dragon and Beauty and the Beast later this year. Also in the works are new live-action versions of Dumbo, Mulan, Winnie the Pooh, Pinocchio, The Sword and The Stone, Peter Pan (two, in fact: Peter Pan and Tink), and Chip 'n Dale – as well as a version of The Nutcracker which will be the second live action film modelled on a Fantasia segment.

Like the animated movies of the Nineties and earlier, many of these movies all based on tales as old as time: but the studio is very specifically remaking its own films, rather than working on new retellings of ancient stories. Disney is undertaking a deliberate and extensive strategy of live-action remakes of nostalgic animated successes.

The Disney brand depends on nostalgia to reel in children and adults alike. It’s earliest animated successes, from the Thirties through to 1960, were variations of stories everyone had been told in childhood: Snow White, Pinocchio, Cinderella, Peter Pan, Sleeping Beauty.

Their latest formula works in a similar way: take an old story which will appeal to children, their parents, and a generation of adults with a specific, nostalgic connection to one version (in these cases, Nineties babies). Bring a smattering of famous faces on board, plus an extra helping of action, some vaguely cheeky references, and the promise of 3D visuals. Then you have a Disney film that can extend beyond what can be fairly limiting Disney audience.

It will certainly be profitable for the studio in the short term, but by investing more and more into live-action remakes, Disney is moving further and further away from its USP. Arguably, the animated renaissance of the Nineties demonstrates that Disney generates is most iconic (and, in the long-term, it’s most commercial) movies by sticking to its most traditional skillset: hand-drawn animation, original songs, and a childlike earnestness unsullied by considering what might draw in an older audience. Who remembers the live action Disney movies of generations past? We might just about recall 1997’s George of the Jungle, but Robin Williams and Shelley Duvall in Popeye, anyone? 1994’s The Jungle Book?

It will certainly bring in big numbers at the box office – temporarily at least. But Disney’s latest strategy won’t result in the production of films that will continue to generate big bucks for the studio via its infamous moratorium strategy, or generations of merchandise. The animations that are already modern classics, from Frozen to Tangled, will be doing that work in the next decades. Disney would be wise to look for its next original movie in order to capture hearts – and wallets – for years to come.

Anna Leszkiewicz is a pop culture writer at the New Statesman.