A Full English

I arrived at Daves cafe with low expectations and they were immediately lowered as I happened up on a dilapidated filthy old caravan seemingly balanced on bricks and calor gas canisters amongst long wild grass, the faded pages of porn magazines, litter and pop bottles full of lorry driver piss caught amongst it like cuckoo spit.
Inside the shack, a unique ambience was created by a strange almost subliminal combination of the desperate hissing of bacon, the intermittent crackle of the bug-zapper propped on an antique arcade machine and the badly tuned in kitchen wireless which filled the room with trebly approximations of 60's classics squeezed through grease smothered speakers.
I took a table opposite a dirty overalled man who went about a plate of breakfast with the fixed glare of concentration you would expect to see on a murderer as he goes about his nefarious work.
The table was set with red and white checked plastic tablemat, encrusted in the splatters of dinners past, and stood proudly in the middle like a group of centurions, stood a cluster of standard condiments.
A woman whose old face dripped off her bones like a flannel on a rake identified herself as the cook and introduced me to the 'executive chef and owner' a vast swaying pile of badly stacked gammon, crammed into a gravy splattered t-shirt, who sat at one of the tables scribbling circles around the nipples of a page 3 girl in the sun with a bookies pen, a limp woodbine hanging from his lip. He had greasy shoulder length dark hair which appeared to have been soaked in tanker oil. His name was Dave. Despite looking like he had recently emerged from a well I was encouraged by his vast girth - a fat chef knows his dinners.
I ordered the infamous breakfast, the reason for my visit.
'It'll be fifteen minutes cock,' said Dave.
He rolled and then smoked another roll-up for the first 8 of those before shuffling into the kitchen area, elbowing Mo aside and beginning to cook, his facial expression never changing from one of a man who has lost a fiver.
In a blur of repetitively condtioned routine he all at once threw thick bacon rashers and sausages onto the grill pan, mushrooms and butter in a frying pan, bread in the toaster, tomatoes in a pan, black pudding and then three eggs onto the plate with a hiss. The room was engulfed with the gorgeous, guilty aroma of the burning flesh of swine.
Dave moved his pots pans and implements around with the grace a puppet master, his arms moving fast in all directions, a polaroid wih a long exposure of him would appear to show a fat bearded octopede at work.
5 minutes later a shadow crept over my table and I turned to see Dave stood over me with a vast oval plate of food. He plonked it down in front of me without a word or a smile and returned to his true work, circling nipples and chain smoking.
I visually assessed my fry-up. Thick tongues of smoked bacon, char lines streaked across their curvy rose-pink surface, blackened, caramelised streaks of crispy fat down their back. Four sausages like barry whites thumbs, swollen with moisture, almost bubbling and fit to burst their porky goodness all over the plate. A choppy deep tangerine ocean of beans lapping against a beach of three crystal white eggs. Their golden yellow yolks, heaving like glorious bosoms inviting you to pop them with a dirty index finger and get messy, sucking off their creamy viscous golden delight. AT the back of the plate jagged planks of browned toast fenced the breakfast off from the outside world, this was all mine. 3 plump tomatoes like thick bloodclots undulated to the west of the plate, flanked by a dark fungal terrain of mushrooms, blobs of warm butter still sliding slowly across their intricate earthen surfaces. A crumpet, spongy with golden butter yet toasted crisp across its mezzanine phalanx of holes completed the plate towards the horizon where plate edge met table cloth. A steaming cup of sweet brown tea of industrial strength would provide much needed periods of respite for the forthcoming herculean task of actually devouring this smorgasboard of fatty magnificence