In Wolverhampton there used to be a shop that sold fried bread and pork
dripping toasted sandwiches with ketchup as well as, of course, hot tripe
baps.
Scotland's true culinary honour is, of course, not the haggis, not the
poacher's soups, nor the spiced venison, but the Glasgow Meat Pie (not to be
confused with John Bullish Steak & Kidney that so horrified Marge Simpson in
her nervous-breakdown-fear-of-flying episode) which consists of possibly the
cat's dinner surrounded in a sodden sagging slumped structure crowned askew
with crown rim of crust as asquint as Jamie Stuart's eyes and floating in a
sargasso thick sea of what might be axle grease. Only to be consumed by the
true adept if it is wrapped in old newspaper off which the print
(lead-based) has gently tattoed the pie.
Best
Dave
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