Morrisons Café, Scunthorpe
by Hamish Pastry
A breakfast review, after Hardy and then Welsh.
The Knaptons are a noble pea farming family from the fertile fields of North Lincolnshire. The Munnerys made their name as the finest greengrocers in West Wittering. And so the fortuitous match of the only Knapton daughter and Munnery son was destined to bear wonderful fruit. And veg.
The wedding breakfast was an uproarious affair. Wine and ale flowed freely. And the guests dined on the very best local beef.
Two guests in particular – one Hamish Pastry and his flaxen-haired companion – made especially merry. As the next morning’s fierce winter sun awoke the two revellers in their modest lodgings, thoughts of breakfast and painkillers crept into their sodden brains.
We drive around deserted streets, looking for a greasy spoon. A pub. Anything. But there’s nothing. Until Scunthorpe.
“We can’t have breakfast in Morrisons. Scunthorpe f*cking Morrisons,” she says.
“There’s nowhere else,” I say. “Get out of the f*cking car.”
Inside, dismal pensioners eat sludgy Sunday roasts. At 11.30 in the morning. There are shell suits everywhere. Shell suits in 2009. WTF? We order full English. It’s cheap. We soon see why.
Slimy mushrooms rub flabby shoulders with sallow bacon. Fried bread oozes deathly yellow oil. I eat. She eats. She retches. Like a cat with a hairball. I fetch a paper cup. She spews bile and grease into it.
“Sh*t,” I say.