Number Two Breakfast
‘We have to be on the top of the bus,’ as George once put it, ‘with the skinheads.’
Gilbert and George are those loveable tosspots
Who’ve made art of skinheads, shit, spunk and
Put their bare bottoms onto stained glass,
Oft times they dine in the same caff as me.
I love a good caff.
The whole history of our country is there;
The Dark Ages of black pudding,
Jam and toast’s Tudor robustness,
The imperial glory of the fried egg,
Industrial baked beans’ revolution,
Tolpuddle Martyrs mushrooms,
The humble banger … ‘this was their finest hour’,
And the insipid gentrification of the vegetarian option.
There’s an honesty to their platters.
Even if the clock is slow – it’s telling the right time.
Workers never match the ideal
Of totalitarian propaganda posters
But with craned necks to scan the menu,
Our aspirations are as one.
This particular palace, Rossi’s
Is featured on p112 of Russell M. Davies’ book
Egg Bacon Chips & Beans
The entry notes
‘the biggest sauce bottles you have ever seen’.
Indeed it is a fine establishment.
Wood, metal topped tables, cheeky waitresses
All the necessaries.
A decent breakfast serves not only body,
But nourishes soul and feeds one’s character.
On this particular day the cook had noted
Posters papered opposite for the chaps’ latest show
‘Was Jasus a Homosexualist?’
Not one to be outdone he prepares
And personally serves two
Steaming plates of the full Monty.
Regular punters looked on astonished
At this hand delivered special …
The fried eggs arrayed as eyes, the beans as hair
Black pudding nose and the sausages a beaming grin.
With the plates laid in front of them
The chaps look down, as deadpan as frying pan,
And exchange plates.
When George asks Gilbert to pass the brown sauce
A hush falls.
