There's a fat bloke sitting in the corner who looks like he's half a sausage away from a stroke. He's gasping. Literally gasping. You would've thought the large bastard had just sprinted here from five counties up the road. His face, beetroot red, is covered in dense droplets of sweat cascading over his brow and he's only reading the newspaper. Imagine the ensuing mess when the chunky fucker walks back to his car. I'll make sure I'm absent during that particular spell of activity. I am, after all, snared in a hangover the size of Oxfordshire — the result of 18 bottle of Becks and half a dozen fingers of Scotch the previous evening — and the last thing I need is physical contact with a shuffling mound of blubber.
And, what's this? Oh, quelle surprise. The waitress is coming over with his order, which is, of course, the most comprehensive plate of grub on the a menu — a number five.
A number five. For the princely sum of £5.95 you too can be presented with a platter comprising seventy-five per cent saturated fat. But to be fair to Mr Wobbly over there — who at this stage is now dabbing at his brow with a hankerchief the size of a bastard beach towel — if you're going to eat unhealthily, you may as well do it in style. And having noticed he'd substituted the usual cup of tea or coffee for a full-fat can of Coca Cola I rather began to warm to the gargatuan entity who was now in the process of seasoning his breakfast with the provided condiments.
I look on in awe as the tomato ketchup bottle is up-ended and an almighty splurge of red sauce is squeezed out next to the chips. Next, the HP Sauce is picked up and given a cursory shake before a lavish coil of the brown stuff is liberated from the bottle, landing between bacon and beans and elicting an expression of sheer delight from the man at the helm. He's a conducter. His breakfast the orchestra. And together they will create a beautiful symphony here in the cozy confines of this greasy spoon cafe.
I can contain myself no longer.
Approaching the counter I need not look at the menu and instruct the serving person to bring me double poached eggs on toast. I then take a seat opposite this fine specimen of a human being and watch as he effortlessly pings an entire hash brown into his baked-bean juice smeared maw. And in between chomps of fried bread and gulps of Coca Cola he lets me in on a little secret.
"The trick is," he said, wiping away the aftermath of a particuarly vehement bite of toast with his forearm. "Is to not give a shit... about anything."
And there concluded the seminar.