This took me about three hours to do. And, yes, I am aware that I'm mixing my Kubrick references.

Sweet holy balls, do I love me some breakfast.  Why we don’t eat breakfast all day is beyond me, because breakfast has fucking everything you could ever want in a meal: Incredible, edible eggs?  Check.  Glorious sausage?  Yep.  Potatoes of all varieties?  Right on.  Pan fried pork strips of almost debilitating goodness?  You bet your ass, hombre.  From hash to fried egg sandwiches, frittatas to big ol’ plates of bacon, breakfast may be just the thing to get your day started on the right note, but can also serve as a mid day pick-me-up, a comforting supper, or even a relaxing repast after locking your children in their cages for the evening.  I love breakfast so much that I once burned down a McDonald’s after being denied an egg McMuffin at 10:32 a.m.  I even sponsored House Bill 329, which mandated that lunch be renamed “Lunchfrast”, and dinner renamed “Nighttime Breakfast” (because I don’t have much of an imagination, that’s why.)*


Morgan Spurlock told me to do it.

Much like John Cleese in comedy; The Rolling Stones in rock & roll; and Jason Statham in kicking ass while trying to find an antidote to the poison he was given, but if his heart rate drops he’ll die, so he’s got to do a whole bunch of crazy shit until he eventually falls out of a helicopter, or something, I can’t remember what actually happened at the end of that movie; the English version of breakfast happens to be the best.  That they alternately call FEB’s “Fry Ups” should tell you all you need to know**.  Where I live, there are a number of English restaurants and pubs, all of which are happy to serve you up a wonderful FEB, and also a collective punch in the sack should you make a remark like, “soccer is so fucking boring, now football – there’s a real sport.”  I have my suspicions as to the authenticity of these establishments, however, as they are all equally disapproving of my perfect English accent, which I honed by watching Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady, seventeen times in a row.  Regardless of their ungratefulness at my attempts at cultural awareness, sitting outside on their quiet patios, in front of a plate so full of food that it looks as though I’m about to engage in a bout of competitive eating, is just about as good as it gets.  Throw in several glasses of Bushmills (neat) and you’ve got yourself a little slice of heaven, not to mention the very strong possibility of a reinvigorating mid-day throw up.  Eating an FEB out at a restaurant, however, may not be conducive to immediate nap-time, which is why I’m going to show you how to make an English Fry-up, right at home, so as to minimize any unnecessary movements between you and your couch.

Stuff to Put on Your Plate:

Baked beans
Sauteed mushrooms
Grilled tomato
Holy shit, that’s a lotta food
Fried bread
Sweet, glorious, magnificent HP Sauce


If you stare at him long enough, he steals your soul.

Cook, Guv’na

You could probably scramble, poach, or serve your eggs over-easy, but why, oh, why would you do that when you can fry them instead?  No, seriously, why the fuck would you do that?  These luscious poultry zygotes will serve as the anchor for our Anglican breakfast bounty, and leaving the yolks nice and runny means that we’ll eventually have a vibrant little cholesterol soup which we can later sop up with our meats.  While you’re frying shit, go ahead and throw some rashers of bacon in a pan and crisp-up those bad boys, too.  In that same pan, saute some potatoes, thus making them taste just like the bacon.  I see nothing wrong with this.  I’ll let you decide what kind of sausage you want, but try and stay away from those fancy new-fangled sausages with froo-froo ingredients in them, such as spinach, sun-dried tomatoes, or the soundtrack to Funny Girl.  These additives will take away from the over-all meatiness of the meal, and, besides, what are you, some kind of nancy-boy?

Here’s where things get interesting (or, as Will Smith would say: “Shit just got real”).  I don’t know what genius tossed convention aside and decided to have baked beans with his breakfast, but he did all of us a favor, because beans at any time, but especially with eggs, bacon, and sausage, is delicious.  Another curious addition to our breakfast is sauteed mushrooms, which, while delicious, seem rather arbitrary.  Feel free to deep fry them, in keeping with the spirit of this meal, in particular, and that of this blog, in general.  A grilled half tomato is also added, either as a means of making you feel as though you’re eating something healthy, or, more likely, as an ironic means of affrontery to all things recommended by the FDA Food Pyramid.


The British food pyramid is much easier to incorporate into daily life.

Perhaps my favorite part of an FEB is the fried bread.  Jesus Horatio Christ, is fried bread good.  Why on earth would you simply toast your bread, when you could cook it in butter and/or oil, instead?  Because you’re a misanthrope and you hate our freedom, that’s why.  Blood sausage is another awesome addition to an FEB, but unless you feel like making a special trip to get some, you’re probably okay leaving this off the menu.  Finally, and perhaps most importantly, is the addition of the inimitable HP sauce.  You could put HP sauce on a dead cat and it would taste delicious – trust me.  Apply HP liberally to your meats, eggs, beans, bread, chest, and groin region.  Apply it to your pet for a lustrous, shiny coat.  Apply a little elbow grease to something and it may get done, but apply a little elbow grease and some HP, and it will get done deliciously.

And there you have it, the glorious Full English Breakfast.  It should go without saying that this thing is going to give you a monstrous case of The Bloat, but don’t worry about it: you’ll probably be passed out from an advanced case of meat sweats, in no time, anyway.  Hopefully you’ll regain consciousness right before a nice light dinner of fish & chips, meat pies, and bangers and mash.


"Excuse me, ma'am... I actually ordered the 'large'."

*I’m just kidding, I didn’t actually do this.  I’m not even in Congress…  Yet.
**Some food critic for The Times of London – the very Britishly named “Giles Coren” – wrote a scathing review of the FEB (while peering through his monocle), in which he claimed that “you never see anyone with a degree eating a fry up…they’re smart enough to know better.”  Well, Mr. Coren, not only do I have several degrees, and happen to be a registered scientist, but never once have I…  Wait, what was I talking about?  Ooooo, look: shiny pretty things and boobs…


Giselle in a diamond bikini sez: "How do I take my eggs? 'Faberge,' of course."