THERE is much to be said for the Scotch egg. A proper one, of course, not those neon-hued abominations that lurk in the depths of service-station chiller cabinets, all wan, gristly meat, squash-ball-textured white and yolk the colour of despair. These grim ovoid mountebanks are fit for nothing, save weapons of mass indigestion. ‘Can you smell my breath?’ asks north Norfolk legend Alan Partridge, in I’m Alan Partridge, of his long-suffering PA, Lynn. ‘It smells a bit like gas,’ she replies with a grimace. ‘It’s those Scotch eggs we had at the petrol station last night.’ I rest my case.
As it is with so many great British snacks (pasty, pork pie, sausage roll), the devil
