Eggs is Eggs is Eggs is Eggs.

Eggs.

I love them. I mean, really love them. Ask any of my friends if you don’t believe me. Hopefully you have no reason to disbelieve me. I’d be a right tosser if I lied about loving eggs. So take it as it is, bona-fide fact. Maisie Snax loves eggs, or you would rather I wasn’t bollocking on in the first person… I love eggs. I am a repeataphile.

When I hear the words, love, and eggs next to each other I think of my dear brother Sean. ‘Love Eggs’. That might sound bit weird to you, that I think of my brother. However, it is true, I do. As an independent gay man he seems to have that funny thing about going on about baps, vadges, love eggs and the like. Actually, this is something he (we?) went on about when we were teenagers. I think it’s because of the ridiculous concept of them. It is not an egg format I am familiar with, but eggs an egg. We are over it now. We don’t talk about love eggs anymore, but Sean? Let’s talk soon…

My mum, always keen to feast her retinas on my scribblings was keen to remind me that I was allergic to eggs when I was a baby. Imagine that! Denied of eggs. I know a few babies, and I don’t think eggs feature too much in their diet, so it wasn’t too bad. I don’t remember it either. Lucky.

Eggs. They are just so bloody versatile!

Over egging. I’m a fan of over-egging. It’s a real tendency of mine. Over-egging, basically irritating people through repetition. Egg egg egg egg egg. I like to over-egg eggs. I am usually quite anti-pun, but with the egg, it only seems right. There are so many…! I can’t think of any now (I can’t be bothered, Monday is my most least productive day) Most people love a good pun, so please offer some in the way of a comment. I love them. Get it? I’m pro-egg, but not in any pro-life undertone way. Pro-choice, pro-egg.

For example, I have over-egged the maize thing. Also Partridge – although I am not sure you could ever really over-egg Partridge. I have over-egged a dance tune ‘On Off’ by Cirez D at parties, despite party protestations… If you like a dirty house tune, get amongst it, it’s the tune that keeps on giving and it makes me very happy. I can also over egg a paedo joke. Egg egg egg egg egg. Leggins. My mouth over-eggs going on about leggins.

I think Lady GaGa is over-egged. X Factor is massively over-egged. Negative egguity… let’s keep on the positive.

I once designed an ‘All You Can Eat Egg’ buffet menu. These chinese all you can eat buffets are dullish, and soulless establishments. Where is the ingenuity? A chocolate fountain doesn’t cut it anymore babes. I mean, I think I am speaking not only for myself, but for the masses, but what we want is more eggs! Yes yes! Please find below a sample of what you might find at the All You Can Eat Egg Buffet. Please note, this list is not exhaustive:

• Egg nog on entry, all year round
• Egg custard tarts
• Eggy bread
• Quiche ( pronounced quickie, as I thought it was when I read it, aged 13)
• Egg fried rice
• Omelette, cooked to order
• Mug egg
• Swedish eggs (scrambled, with hollowed out cherry toms, avocado, spring onion and spinach, with a bi of swedish cheese served on seeded bread. Recipe courtesy of the luscious Kate Quatermaine, my Leamington Spa now Stockholm lovely)
• Custard
• Eggs Benedict
• Pickled eggs* (inc. egg and quail)
• Poached (one of my faves, the egg in a pure form. I like to garnish with fresh basil, salt and pepper)
• Scotch egg (to please the masses, I am not actually a big fan, though I prefer the ones with egg mayo in it)
• That weird ham with the egg in it. Ideally, with an accompanying face, yes, a face. A down in the mouth, bad news, trout mouth face. Have I made up ‘egg ham’, and turned it in to face ham?
• Potato salad with egg, and apple and bacon, like the one the bird makes
• Pancakes slash crepes with an egg filling
• Eggs mornay

(* I used to think pickled eggs looked like they could bounce. Incidentally, they don’t. I remember my first pickled egg, you know, like you remember your first time, your first Dr Pepper etc. I was with Dawney Frimbad in Deans Cross Park in the Stock, eating batter bits from the chippie at lunchtime. If you are interested, first Dr Pepper, outside John Menzies in Brecon, South Wales in the summer of 1996. I’ve never looked back from any of those trio of activities)

My friend Zee made eggs mornay for me and the girls once, in the depths of my egg obsession back in 2007/8. It was to try and find out if you ate too many eggs, you became egg bound. You know, not being able to do a poooo. She boiled about 20 eggs, no lie. I can see all those eggs, shiny and fresh from the pan… and those eggs looked sexy. Fit. Diirty. I know that might sound odd to you. But you can’t help the way you feel sometimes. It was my screensaver on my old Nokia for a long time. Always to hand, the picture of those eggs. Delightful. Some of my happiest times were in 2007/8. The picture played a big part at best, enhanced at worst, towards that peak of my twenties. The sexy eggs were peeled, it was inevitable, and dressed in a thick, very cheesy sauce, with overtures of mustard. It was a fine egg meal. She is good that Zee.

Good egg, bad egg. A wonderful way to catagorise almost anyone, without being too explicit. I am a good egg. Dappy from that cunty urban scenario is most definitely a bad egg.

I hope you’ll be kind enough to share any egg puns on the comment thing. I think it really is the most pun friendly word. Get involved. Eat an egg. Spoon a double yolker… Just embrace the egg.