I like a Scotch egg as much as the next woman, which is good news since they have just been classified as a ‘substantial meal’ by Environment Secretary George Eustice.

And why is this definition important?

Because, finding myself in an area classified as Tier 2 when new government restrictions come into place on 2 December, it is not possible to order an alcoholic drink in a pub without it being accompanied by a ‘substantial meal’.

It is almost the picture of a pub idyll: frothing pint of bitter; Scotch egg on a plate; the yolk just slightly runny; the sausage-meat delicately spiced, covered in a crispy, golden layer of breadcrumbs.  What could be dreamier?

However, the idyll is not quite so dreamy by the time you are getting up for your second pint and have to order another Scotch egg to accompany it.  You will manage it, but you already know by the end of the second Scotch egg you will be feeling a little less enamoured of the savoury repast.

By the third pint––and the third egg––your dream is fast turning into a nightmare, and by the fourth pint––and the fourth egg––well, it is frankly a no-go. 

Scotch eggs make a surprise appearance in Mudskipper Press author Rowan Edmonds’ latest novel:

“Scotch eggs are a big no-no.  Professional suicide, in fact.  Sulphur reflux.  However, it has not always been the case.  It is surprising the illustrious origins of the Scotch egg.  Despite their misleading geographical nomenclature, it is claimed that the first Scotch egg was actually invented by Fortnum and Masons, Piccadilly, London, purveyors of fine foods to the Royal Family from as far back as the early eighteenth century.  At one time, the Scotch egg would have been the preferred snack of kings.  How far the mighty have fallen.”

(From the chapter ‘Packed Lunch Hierarchies’ in The Working Dead by Rowan Edmonds, 2021)

For me, I will always cherish the Scotch egg; but they are a pleasure best consumed singularly.

© Beery Sue

Beery Sue just can’t face another scotch egg.