The Full Irish Breakfast – it’s one of the pillars that holds up our small island nation, and one of our most famous exports, alongside Ballykissangel, Roddy Doyle’s Facebook obituaries, and rain.
What do all those things have in common? Well, they’re all a bit shit, aren’t they?
I know this is verging on blasphemy, and don’t get me wrong here; I’m not saying the Full Irish is disgusting, nor am I arguing for a blanket ban on anyone ever serving three different variants of dead pig on the same plate – I’m not some kind of breakfast fascist. All I’m saying is, you all go on about there being no better way to start your morning than with a Full Irish, and you are all fucking wrong.
The thing is, each individual component of the Full Irish is excellent.
I fucking love eggs – eggs are one of the best foods that exist. Bacon is salt made of meat, and that’s not an insult – what sounds better than salt made of meat? Nothing. Nothing does. Sausages are great, black pudding is criminally underrated, even tomatoes and mushrooms taste pretty good now I’m a fully-grown adult and not a stupid baby who cries when he looks at a cauliflower.
So why then, if all the components are so good, is the Full Irish such a mediocre meal? Why does Eggs Benedict absolutely blow it out the water? Why is it not a patch on a plate of huevos rancheros? Why is it deeply inferior even to the humble bacon sandwich?
The first thing is that’s like a full-on animal massacre, as though a trainee chef got hammered and took a chainsaw to the cast of Babe.
A mixed grill is never that great, and it’s a reasoning that rings true for the Full Irish too, is that it’s always a bit disappointing. You’re never going to have the best steak of your life as part of a mixed grill, are you? You’re probably not even going to have a good steak. Same with ribs, chicken wings, whatever.
I’m not saying that a Full Irish can’t be excellent, but more often than not, they aren’t.
To get what you really want you normally have to take matters into your own hands, and even then getting the timing right is a true art. When you add in the amount of grease scrubbing you have to do when you’re finished, it’s a bit of a pain in the tits isn’t it, let’s be honest.
The one killer argument everyone always makes for the Full Irish Breakfast is that it’s the perfect hangover cure – that the heaps of greasy meat and carbs are exactly what you need to sort you out after a big night.
This is bullshit, though. The mounds of salt and fat definitely hit the spot as you’re shovelling them into your booze-stained mouth, but give it an hour and you’re bloated, knackered, and even more dehydrated.
You spend the rest of the day slumped on the sofa in your pants, releasing gases that are bordering on toxic and generally feeling like a waste-of-space shit excuse for a human.
Here’s my theory – if the Full Irish wasn’t called the Full Irish, we wouldn’t love it as much. Because it’s something that we’re famous for, we’re naturally very protective over it. It’s like when someone slags off your shit hometown – who gives a fuck if it’s only got one pub and the old Esso garage has been empty since 2009, it’s yours, and you’ll defend it to the hilt.
Thing is, when you move elsewhere, you realise that you don’t especially want to go back to that shit hometown, because what you have now is better. Ditch the Full Irish and have a better breakfast – it’s what we all deserve.
*This article was adapted from Alex Finnis’s piece for JOE.co.uk here*
**Also, Alex’s views do not reflect those of the entire JOE editorial team, many of whom love a good fry of a morning**
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