I like sausage rolls more than most things and size is surely important but even I have to declare that twelve inches of sausage is simply too much for me.
Still, we should feel blessed, if this was America they've have embedded cheese and bacon in the pastry and probably a layer of beef chilli around the sausage meat and coated the entire thing in an outer nacho crust, and kept going until it was the sort of colorific neutronium than can only be forced down with 32 fluid ounces caffeinated soda.
<sigh>
It is one thing I really miss, not eating wheat. Going and buying a greasy, unhealthy (but oh so tasty) 'baked' thing. So greasy that the paper it comes in is transparent, the ingredients are indeterminate, the pastry layered with grease and painted with extra grease and a few layers of cheap, toasted cheese. Preferably so hot that the inside burns your mouth off.
I haven't done it for years, but the post-pub pasty after a long session was a pleasure not to be missed. A colleague of mine used to buy two on account of it 'being a long journey' (to zone 2). I don't think there's anything healthy in an 'award winning' pasty, I suspect the contents would only be identified through DNA analysis. But biting into one and unleashing that volcanic gout of steam to broil the top of your mouth, followed by the belch of meaty aroma that you know no one sober in the carriage will appreciate. Oh my. It's the middle-class kebab. You'd wake up the following morning and burp something that smelled like an animal had died in your mouth several days before. Then you'd realise that the top of your mouth was hanging there like a dilapidated trampoline.
A series of sensations only put into context by the runaway train of an hangover slamming into your head a few moments later while your stomach started the slow aerobatic roll of protest.
I think I might sell my Big Dong to 7-11. A foot long core of sausage in a mantle of spicy beef chilli, wrapped in finest cheese and bacon pastry, rolled in nacho chips, and deep fried. And then left to mature on the rollers under a heat lamp for a week to attain perfection. The last bit is important and often overlooked. It's why the kebab is supreme, that skewer of mystery meat has been twirling like the world's saddest ballerina for weeks, not so much overturning all the rules of food hygiene as we know them but giving them the finger (refrigerate meat, pah). I haven't, I confess, been drunk enough to consummate my evening with a kebab for a couple of decades. I remember once on the top deck of the night bus home someone eating one and someone else emerging from the stairs and declaring loudly 'WHO'S FUCKING DOG DIED?" That was bonhomie N172-style.
