The humble British Banger

Where did they go? …


Originally posted by Robbie Burns:

Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,
Great Chieftan o’ the Puddin-race!
Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang’s my arm

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
You pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o’need
While thro’ your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead

His knife see Rustic-labour dight,
An’ cut you up wi’ ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reeking, rich!

Then, horn for horn they stretch an’ strive,
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive
Bethankit hums

Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi’ perfect sconner,
Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither’d rash
His spindle-shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro’ bluidy flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He’ll mak it whissle;
An’ legs, an’ arms an’ heads will sned,
Like taps o’ thrissle

Ye pow’rs wha mak mankind your care,
An’ dish them out their bill o’fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu’ pray’r,
Gie her a Haggis!


8 thoughts on “The humble British Banger

  1. What has become of the humble sausageThat none I know bemoan the lossage?Though many a frozen pack I've boughtIn many a supermarket soughtI find my expectationsDefines this stupid nationLast week I bought a pack from WallsOf minced trotters, snouts and blast… what is the wordOverpriced and overlardedThis bag of something else discardedWas not worth my beer tokensToday I opened some square shaped slicesI forget now, what the price wasThey drizzled slowly Oozing fatTypically, they all do thatAt least they did not taste too badI looked then at the labelDescribing what was on the tableLiterally hamburgers in all but nameBread and pork waxed in the flameAnd then I added three eggs.The worst I had was the other dayA richer man would have thrown awayAlas he was not me.The taste they had was of no tasteHighly processed that kitchen wasteThe texture was easy to describe:A dogs breakfast for Iceni's tribeLike soggy fried breadWas it really so long agoThat breakfasts for the Saxon folkWere beefier than these?Irish. Lincoln, CumberlandWhere have you goneWho now must we break fast upon?Er we ventured out into the rain?What tragedy befell the beastUpon which England used to feastIn long gone days of yore?

  2. She came from Greece hence she ran a greasy spoon,A studied vulture in her dotage,that's where I bought my fry upsShe told me that the plates were loaded,I said "In that case I'll have a Full English."She said "Fine."and in thirty seconds time she said,"I want to feed the common people,I want them to eat what common people do,I want to serve just common people,I want to serve only common people,like you."Well what else could I do?I said "I'll see what I can do."I took her to a supermarket,I don't know why but she had to start somewhere,so it started there.I said: "Pretend you've got no money"she just laughed and said,"Oh you're so funny."I said: "Yeah?Well I can't see anyone else smiling in here.Are you sure you want to serve only common people,you want to sell whatever common people buy,you want to serve the common people,you want to serve the common people,like me."But she didn't understand,she just smiled and held my hand.Rented the flat above the shop,Curled her hair and got the job.Clearing tables, serving slop,Presuming you never went to school.But still you'll never get it right,Frying eggs and serving *****,Watching roaches climb the wall,Till the council comes and stops it all.You'll only serve the common people,Half a half cooked tomato, a rasher of baconTwo fried bread and a sausage -barely doneAnd never watch your eggs slide out of view,One mug of tea and serve it each day, ten till two,Because there's nothing else to do.Sing along with the common people,Sing along and it might just get you through,Laugh along with the common people,Laugh along even though they're laughing at you,And the stupid things that you do.Because you think that poor is cool.

  3. I have just rehashed the sausage one. It only wanted fettling. I think it is just right now. Thanks for the comments.The last one was just a take on a song that was playing on the radio when I wrote it. I forget who by. "The love of the common people."I think the problem with processed food is that supermarkets are conditioned to a Pile em high and sell em cheap routine.They can't afford to buy stock that won't fly off the shelf.Which means they all have to cater to the lowest common denominator.So a sausage that costs 50 pence more per pack than wet fat won't even be offered for sale.And any alternative has been squeezed out of the market decades ago. I live in Newcastle Under Lyme adjacent to Stoke on Trent and for the life of me I can't remember seeing a small butcher's shop in either town.Occasional farmer's markets have stalls. And about 3 times a week a couple of travelling vans set up in the local markets.

  4. You would like it here, there are many farmers markets around.(Paw Paw Mi) And you can get less processed meat from many farmers.Many can fruits and veggies to hold them over for winter. I get a ton of inspiration from others music and writing.

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