LUV - I don’t call them Scotch eggs. I call them God’s tears. It just seems more logical to assume that, whenever God looks down upon the planet and sees the beauty of his creation, he becomes so helplessly overcome with emotion that he allows a single, fully-formed, deep-fried ball of egg and sausagemeat and breadcrumbs to form in his eye, roll down his face and drop into, dunno, a branch of Gregg’s or something. Does Gregg’s even sell Scotch eggs? Look, it doesn’t matter. Scotch eggs are fucking brilliant. They are. Fuck you.
The Scotch egg is perfect. It has everything, provided that your definition of the word ‘everything’ has somehow eroded to the point that it now only means ‘some sausagemeat, some breadcrumbs and an egg’. With this in mind, it’s easy to see why J. Robert Oppenheimer developed the atomic bomb or Pol Pot killed all those people - they were just pissed off because they’d never achieve anything as significant as inventing the Scotch egg.
But why? Why does the thought of a nice Scotch egg drive some men to madness and other men (I possibly just mean me here) to drop to the floor in the supermarket Scotch egg aisle and start rubbing at their face and genitals with clumps of sausage and boiled egg? Perhaps it’s down to all it represents. There’s the egg - a universal symbol for the delicate perfection of life. Then there’s the meat, which represents mankind and all its accomplishments. See how the meat swaddles the fragile egg? See how it demonstrates man’s protective urges towards nature? And finally there’s the fried breadcrumbs, which represent the bloody sky or something. I don’t know. Fuck off.
Look, Scotch eggs are delicious. They are. Eating one is like eating a sausage and egg sandwich, only a perfectly round sausage and egg sandwich that’s got hardly any bread in it. Or a sausage roll, where the pastry is made of sausage and the sausage is made of egg. Or a birthday cake that’s made of meat and iced with breadcrumbs and has an egg in the middle of it. I fucking love Scotch eggs.
And they’re so versatile, too. You can eat a Scotch egg cold, at a picnic. Or cold, on a park bench. Or cold, on your sofa. You can eat them whole. You can cut them into bits. You can dip them into mayonnaise or ketchup. You can eat them when you’re sad, or when you’re very slightly less sad. No word of a lie, if I knew you were withholding a Scotch egg from me, I’d stab you to death in a second. That’s how much I love Scotch eggs.
Party eggs can fuck off, though. I’m not an animal.
- Stuart Heritage
HAT - I’ve come across some unpleasant foods during my time here on Earth. There’s Turducken - a whole chicken, stuffed into a whole duck, stuffed into a whole turkey. You know, just the way it would occur in nature. There’s head cheese - the devil’s own lunchmeat, being as it is a sliceable, jellied brick made of a cow’s brains, heart and tongue. And then there’s the whole chicken in a can - a scrawny bird carcass, packed in what appears to be phlegm, in a can. Incidentally, if you click on that link just know that you brought this on yourself.
And then there are Scotch eggs. Eggs - the sort of food you can only eat if you deliberately don’t think about what it actually is - encased in sausagemeat - basically cows’ bumholes and sawdust - packed in breadcrumbs and deep-fried.
What sort of foetid imagination comes up with that shit? I’m not going to Google it because life’s too short, but I bet you 20p that whoever dreamt up the Scotch egg also drank their own urine. Not out of some misguided belief in its health benefits, but because they liked the taste.
Scotch eggs are dirty. And you know what they say to the world?
“I have basically given up. I just don’t give a shit anymore. I have here the main constituents of a delicious fried breakfast that it would literally take me five minutes to throw together, but instead of doing that I’ve bought this orange monstrosity from a petrol station and am now slumped against a wall, eating it like an apple and staring into the void. Life has failed me and the worst part is I wasn’t terribly ambitious in the first place. No one at work knows my name. I can’t remember the last time I cried with laughter. I can’t stop watching Adam Sandler movies. I don’t wash my hands after I go to the toilet anymore because, seriously, herpes would be like two weeks in the Maldives at this point. I’ve stopped buying tissues - I just pick my nose then flick it in the general direction of the bin. When I go to the doctor and read a communal magazine in the waiting room, if I want to turn a page, I will fucking I lick my finger if I want to. Yes I will. I don’t care. You’re not the boss of me. My last sit-down meal was a Happy one. I’m wearing knock-off Crocs, for fuck’s sake. Also I don’t know where Scotland is.”
That is what Scotch eggs say to the world.
- Robyn Wilder
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