Last night was Christmas With The Barkers, a party thrown by my parents for our nearest and dearest where I think it’s fair to say my friends and I were the only ones who got royally drunk. Therefore what follows is my train (wreck) of thought when I woke up this morning, used in this instance to demonstrate why it’s always the egg that ruins the party:
Waking thought 1: “Oh God, I’ve died, I’ve finally done it, I’ve gone too far, I’ve actually died, my body has given up and now ceases to function. Shit.”
Waking thought 2: “I need tea. Orange juice. A pint of water, no ice. Diet coke, lots of ice. Fanta lemon. Now.”
Waking thought 3: “[Desperation] Burger. Cold pizza. Stir fry. Sandwich. [Realisation dawns] Ahhh, no, fry up.”
What followed these three excruciating lightbulb moments this morning, and almost every other time I wake up after a cider sodden evening, is the slow and laborious process of hauling myself to the bathroom, washing and dressing before addressing my stomach. I usually choose two to three beverages from the first list and one edible item from the second. And it’s usually The Fry Up.
At this point the clouds part and the congratulatory hand of God looms down, in whichever pub I have decided to dine, and pats me on the back.
A fry up is the obvious meal of choice for a hanging gal; meats, bread – toasted and/or fried, beans, token veg items – tomatoes and mushrooms and (my personal favourite) hash browns.
So when my breakfast is delivered to my table, where I sit drooling over my tea, water, juice and diet coke, I pick up my knife and fork, apply ketchup (liberally) and go at it. All is right with the world, as balance is restored and I enjoy bean, potato and pork meats all on one forkful.
Until that fateful moment when the yolk of the egg is forked.
Bollocks, the yolk is broke.
It opens forth into the bean juice and corrupts the sausage. Try as you might, to mop up that vulgar yellow ocean gushing amongst other breakfast items with any remaining toast, it’s all ruined. The taste, the sight, the…consistency has ruined it all and last nights beverages come crashing around your haggard body in a horrendous wave of nausea.
The Fry Up is the don of morning after food – until.you.reach.the.egg. It’s ALWAYS the sodding egg.