Obviously I’m desperate for a link here. I’ve come to Crombies, butchers of renown in Broughton Road. A national newspaper has been shouting, panic mongering you may well say, that “one in ten sausages may carry the hepatitis virus” and Sandy Crombie is essentially on the defensive.
“We’ve been here before, in the wake of ‘horsegate’ where our profession in Scotland was tainted wrongly with the horsemeat scandal. Now, though on a much smaller scale, it’s scaremongers having a go at sausages.
“I can speak only for the trade around Edinburgh. No nitrates. Smoked pig’s liver is peculiar to the French. We don’t have offal, pig’s liver or blood in our sausages. In any case, liver has a short shelf life.
“Listen, talking about the trade here, most of our sausages are made from locally-produced animals reared in Scotland. Trust your local butcher.”
Count your blessings. Edinburgh isn’t on Foster and Allen’s autumn UK tour. A guitar and accordion due, they are an exceedingly poor man’s Alexander Brothers. They’re not doing Scotland with their Ultimate Collection. Phew, that was close!
Alas, there’s no escape from the lovely Pam Ayres. She’s on the road with her latest salvo of poetry, An Evening with Pam Ayres. Is there anything more excruciating?
Afterwords . . .
. . . You’ll find life is still worthwhile, if you’ll just smile, the song goes. It’s not easy but this column does keep trying. So why the long face?