Three mini-restaurant reviews: KOBA (Soho), GARFUNKEL'S (Greenwich) and KNIGHTS OF ST JOHNS (Clapham Junction)

Koba (Soho)

A wonderful restaurant, easily one of favourite of the last couple of years! 

A Face for the Defence.

Yesterday, Harry Redknapp, Tottenham Hotspur manager – and widely believed to be the one who will succeed Capello for the England job – was absolved by a jury of 12 on two counts of tax evasion. The 64-year-old kept his relief well-masked, hiding his face as he hugged Milan Mandaric, his co-accused.

But in the public gallery, his 38-year-old son, Sky Sports pundit and former Spurs and Liverpool captain, Jamie Redknapp, gave a more visible display of euphoria. Making like his nickname, his eyes got redder and redder as he breathed a big sigh and got out his BlackBerry to text his wife and mother the good news. But Jamie could have probably afforded to feel more than just relief, as his continual presence at Southwark Crown Court probably helped his father in more ways than just moral support.

A tall, handsome man, Jamie Redknapp has been inundated with professions of eternal love from swooning teenage girls to middle-aged women alike [of which I fit somewhere in between *giggles*]. It’s the lethal combination of the Dianna Agronesque wide hazel eyes, cheekbones, irresistible smile, and excellent personal grooming; throughout the tax evasion trial, Redknapp Jr maintained his stubble to a standard where it was fashionable without looking hobo-like, sported a fine range of sharp Marks and Spencer and Armani suits, and kept his brown hair coiffured to a tidy side-parting.

Jamie’s tastiness is counterbalanced by his considerable shortcomings as a football pundit, particularly his fondness for the hyperbole. On Sunday’s thriller 3-3 between Chelsea and Manchester United, at half time, he compared Daniel Sturridge to Messi.

His chronic misuse of 'literally' is frequently a source of mirth; some of his nuggets of wisdom including “David Silva literally floated with the ball”, “Barcelona literally passed Arsenal to death” and “Gareth Bale literally has three lungs.”

Redknapp is also no stranger to the namedrop, he frequently likes to remind us that “my dad’s done this, my dad’s done that”, “I’m Frank Lampard’s cousin”, as well as his various celebrity and footballing friends at Spurs, Liverpool, Chelsea and on the England Team; when questioned in the Summer whether he thought Luka Modric would stay at Tottenham or go to West London, he began his answer with “I know Modric well.”

Indeed, like his father, Jamie has his favourites, which makes him a popular figure of mockery for fans of teams/players who he does not show bias toward (his laddish celebration at Aaron Lennon's equaliser in the 4-4 against Arsenal must surely make him persona non grata at the Emirates, and when Liverpool hosted City two weeks ago in the Carling Cup, the City fans took particular glee in singing "Your dad's going down" to the tune of "We won it 5 times" at the then-downtrodden-Jamie).

But it is this earnestness, I have realised, that is a big part of Jamie Redknapp’s appeal. Girls like a guy who means what he says, even if he says it 10,000 times per football match and casually misuses literally whilst doing so. His appearance at the tax evasion trial was primarily to support his dad, but what he probably didn’t realise, is that, sitting in the gallery, his twinkling pretty face was the model of an honest, reliable guy.

His loyalty to his father has been infallible (the only day he left early was to travel up to Anfield for the aforementioned Liverpool-City match, for which he was a pundit on), and whether he meant to or not, the jury must’ve, over the 13-day period, questioned whether someone who raised a son as decent and affable as Jamie could really be capable of being shady with his taxes.

In the past Jamie Redknapp has played for his dad at Bournemouth and Southhampton, and has also played against him, as a Liverpool player against a ’Arry managed West Ham. But as Redknapp Sr and Jr walked away from Southwark Crown Court yesterday, arms around each other, it marked the biggest father-son victory the two have known.

A top, top effort, Jamie Redknapp played an absolute blinder. And he didn’t even know he was playing.

Film review: MARTHA MARCY MAY MARLENE (Sean Durkin, 2011)

Martha (Elizabeth Olsen) has just escaped from a dangerous, manipulative cult, run by the sinister but charismatic Patrick (John Hawkes). She is taken in by her estranged sister, whose guilt over past sibling neglect drives her to warmly welcome Martha into her comfortable, happily married life. However, shaking off the trauma is far from simple. Martha is repeatedly plagued by visions of her past two years spent in the cult, under the name Marcy May.

Director Sean Durkin wanted an unknown actress for the eponymous lead, and held open auditions, before Elizabeth Olsen won the part. And indeed, I have never watched a film with her in, thus marking her introduction into the film world. But naturally, her surname precedes her; she is of course the baby sister of the Olsen twins, Mary-Kate and Ashley, whose transition from childhood TV sensations to fashion moguls was frequently overshadowed by tabloid scrutiny. Although I grew up with shows such as Two of a Kind and So Little Time and enjoyed the Olsen twins’ charm, I was never that bowled over by their acting style, finding them somewhat gimmicky. 

O Captain My Captain.

With John Terry stripped of the England captaincy today following allegations that he racially abused Anton Ferdinand (a decision that I support, despite my Chelsea allegiances), plenty of names have been put forward as his successor for holding the poisoned chalice of public relations pseudo-purity. 

Rio Ferdinand, Steven Gerrard and Wayne Rooney are the three most high profile names being put forward. Knowing Capello and his penchant for bowing to public clamour rather than what is best for the team, one of them will likely get the armband. 

Without a care in the world.

Would give anything to go back to these days, to be honest.

Album review: BORN TO DIE (Lana del Rey)

Celebrity. It’s a fickle business. When Lana del Rey’s Video Games first made its way onto the airwaves last year, people instantly fell in love with her. The song was beautiful, as was she. She was dubbed the “gangster Nancy Sinatra” and could do no wrong. 

An unsuccessful appearance on Saturday Night Live, which was promptly torn apart by the Twittersphere, combined with the revelation of her past as indie artist Lizzy Grant, triggered a wave of intense public backlash. Critics crawled out of the woodwork and slating her, insulting every aspect of her music as well as speculating over whether or not she had had plastic surgery. Going into the release of her album, Lana del Rey was shrouded in negative publicity.