What are you trying to do, poison me? I don’t know what this thing I’m holding in my hands is supposed to pass for but a bacon sandwich? No, that’s not it.
It’s so pink, it’s basically still alive. If I hold it up to my ear, you know like kids do with seashells, I reckon it might just oink.
The great British bacon butty – is there any finer way to kick off a day at the course?
I wouldn’t know. It’s been about five years since I had a pre-round feast that could merit the description.
Jesus, how hard can it be? Stick it on the grill, turn it occasionally until it’s crisping up and then put it in a bun – preferably one that’s been lined with a nob of butter and a splatter of red sauce. Or brown. I mean knock yourself out, I’m not an ogre.
But, no, instead you’ve charged me the better part of a fiver for something that could still be sent truffling.
At least make it warm. I sort of appreciate you ‘cooked’ about 200 of these things at the crack of dawn but if it sits in that foil any longer it’ll be able to apply for residency.
Is it any wonder, actually, they’re still untouched? It’s because we know it’s an E coli disaster waiting to happen.
We’re one bout of D+V from being cordoned off and having a hospital ward full of claimants.
Your bacon sandwich is enough to turn me vegetarian. Almost.
Does your golf club do a good bacon sandwich? If so PLEASE let the Angry Club Golfer know in the comments below or via Twitter.
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Steve Carroll
