The London Review of Breakfasts

"Hope is a good breakfast, but it is a bad supper." (Francis Bacon)

Friday, February 13, 2009

Morrisons Café, Scunthorpe

Morrisons Café
Lakeside Parkway
DN16 3UA
01724 289212

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.


Blogger Le laquet said...


Poor yous

2:29 PM, February 14, 2009  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Possibly the finest review yet

4:10 PM, February 14, 2009  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

LOL! Hilarious!

3:56 PM, February 19, 2009  
Blogger Graeme de Menthe said...

Sympathy for the Devilled:

Cheese Halal Meat to reduce fryself
I'm a flan of gel and paste
Ive beans ground for a long, strong beer
Mould jelly a brans bowl and plate
And I was browned when jesus riced
Scad his doughnuts of gout and grain
Made jam pure fat omelette
Squashed his hams and sealed his pate.

Pleased to eat gruel
Coke you dressed pie game
But what's guzzling juice
Is my bacon of free range.

I shucked around St. Petersburger
When I pawpaw it hog rind for free range
I spilled the bar and ate Ginsters
Anastasia creamed in grain
Fried roe and blanc, ate a lamb shank
When the blitz-krug sage, naan the bodies drank.

Cheesed to eat fool
Hope you dressed my game
Duck what's sizzling you
Is my bacon of free range.

I scotched with ghee
While your king edwards and greens
Haute for lucozades
Boar the cods they baked
I sprouted out Who grilled the canellini beans?
When a pub crawl, it was cru and brie.

Latte grease retro-mousse pie-self
I'm a flan of gel and paste
And I laid eggs for troubadours
Brew spek grilled before they peached bombay mix.

Squeezed to eat you
Hope you dressed my game
But waffle sizzling you
Is my bacon of free range. Oh Yeay. Get brown babybell.

Custard beverage drop is a criminal
And all the slimmers saints
As breads is quails
Just pour me juiced liver
Cos Im in need of some restaurant.

So jiff you meat me
Have some parmesan cheese
Have dum sim, latte, and some baste
Booze all pour well-burned politesse
Or Ill braise your bowl to waste, yum yeah.

10:11 PM, April 21, 2009  

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