Letters - August 3, 2015

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There’s a shop near Gazette Towers from which, when we’re feeling flush, breakfast is occasionally ordered.

They do a sandwich known as a ‘bin lid’

I’m not sure whether such a reference is lost on anyone under the age of 30.

After all they’ll not be familiar with the old metal covers and their warning not to deposit hot ashes with your household waste.

I’m worried, having recently made the journey to the cosmopolitan south, its days may be numbered.

Finding myself in the departures lounge of a London airport I felt the need for a bacon butty.

Now, I don’t know about you but in my eyes a bacon butty is a simple things.

Take two thick slices of white bread, smother with butter, add as much smoked bacon as it can handle and a sauce of your choice.

Recently I discovered the super toastie – a marriage made in heaven with greasy fried rashers.

Common as muck corner cafes have had the formula spot on for more than a generation. But, as with anything where simplicity and perfection go hand in hand, somebody’s had to meddle.

A search of the terminal revealed all sorts of variations on a theme – a dozen different and equally pretentious breads, sweetcure streaky rashers and any number of unmentionable non-breakfast table sauces.

I eventually settled on a brioche bun, which seemed reasonably priced at £2.99, until I realised once the packaging had been disposed of it was about the size of a 20 pence piece.

My coronary arteries were probably grateful ,but a bacon butty it was not.

I’m afraid the most humble of sandwiches has fallen victim to the 21st Century illness of over complication.

I remember when sandwiches came in cheese, ham and ham and cheese.

Chicken and stuffing was exotic and nobody had ever considered putting avocados or onion bhajis between slices of bread. Choice is, of course, wonderful, but when it comes to a proper British breakfast, why mess with perfection?

Honestly, you can stick your Brioche – I’ll take the bin lid every time.