The Black Pudding Debacle

So there I was, sittin' in a wee café in Santa Ponsa, just after a heavy night loud music and patter. The sun's blazin', and I’m desperate for a proper breakfast to soak up the damage. A full English—that’s what’ll sort me. I call the waiter over, and I tell him, clear as day, "Full English, mate, no white pudding and no tomato." Easy enough, right?

But naw, the waiter looks at me, as if I’ve just asked for a golden haggis in Mallorca, and goes, "No black and white pudding, sir?"

I says, "Naw mate, no white pudding. Black pudding’s fine.

He nods like he’s understood my very soul, so I’m thinking I’m in safe hands. Fast forward 20 minutes, and I’m salivating for this breakfast like a dug waitin' on a treat.

Waiter comes back, places the plate in front of me with a flourish like he's presenting the Mona Lisa. I look down… no black pudding. What’s sittin' there instead? Some kind of sad-lookin' sausage and beans tryin' to act like they belong on the plate.

I’m sittin' there, raging, trying to keep my cool 'cause, y’know, we’re abroad and I’m tryin' to be civilized. But my inner Glaswegian’s ready to burst out but reigned in my the wife and daughter.

At this point, I’m ready to fling my fork across the room and skelly the muppet .

So there I was, sittin' there eatin' the wrong breakfast with nae black pudding, tryin’ to calm down but fuming the whole day. Couldn’t even enjoy my sun bathe later 'cause I’m still thinking, "How hard is it to get black pudding right?"

It’s safe to say, mate, they don’t know how to handle a proper Scottish request over there.

Little muppet..

BA