A Hot Buttered Muffin

Today I think I shall extol the virtues of a hot buttered muffin. I have little else to do. The labourers are tilling the fields, the poachers are ensnared, the horses are neighing in the meadow and the travelling tinkers have been sent on their way.

A muffin with melted butter oozing over its decorous sides. There is no finer foodstuff for teatime. With the possible exception of the hot buttered crumpet, the Victoria Sponge and the cucumber sandwich.

I digress.

Dear readers I feel that it is my duty to issue a solemn warning for the future of our divine muffin. I have been alerted to the shocking rumour that there is an imposter muffin circling our island, ready to invade and spread its degrading seed through these shores. It will corrupt our heirs and divert our servants from their chores.

Indeed the degradation wrought may go as far as tempting factory workers into faceless restaurants run by traders such as Mr McDonald (that well known supplier of public conveniences is rumoured to be contemplating putting a restaurant in the path of the latrine, but more of that another day).

This imposter, this so called “muffin” is coming from across the pond. It is not a muffin. It is a very large cup cake.

If we allow such a misnomer to propagate through our shores, the very fabric of England may be rent asunder.

Our very own English muffins will be a mere afterthought, a minor tea time foodstuff, forgotten in the wasteland that is dominated by this American misnomer. Whatever next? Will the colonials start to adulterate the King’s English? Maybe they will start spelling words differently or, heaven forfend, develop their own accent.

Well I say, enough. Are we not made of sterner stuff? Are we not made of English oak? Do we not rule the oceans? Let us defend the rights of our humble muffin and prevent the large cup cake from entering these shores.

I shall propose such legislation to be passed forthwith, or at any rate, the next time that I am sober in the House of Lords.

Post a Comment