Sex and Drugs and Bacon Rolls

I'm in the City, it's 08:30, I have half an hour to kill, and I am famished. Only one thing for it: a plate of huevos rancheros at The Breakfast Club in Artillery Lane.

Whenever I come here I think of Hunter S Thompson's essay on the ideal breakfast:

"Breakfast is the only meal of the day that I tend to view with the same kind of traditionalized reverence that most people associate with Lunch and Dinner. I like to eat breakfast alone, and almost never before noon; anybody with a terminally jangled lifestyle needs at least one psychic anchor every twenty-four hours, and mine is breakfast. In Hong Kong, Dallas or at home - and regardless of whether or not I have been to bed - breakfast is a personal ritual that can only be properly observed alone, and in a spirit of genuine excess. The food factor should always be massive: four Bloody Marys, two grapefruits, a pot of coffee, Rangoon crepes, a half-pound of either sausage, bacon, or corned beef hash with diced chiles, a Spanish omelette or eggs Benedict, a quart of milk, a chopped lemon for random seasoning, and something like a slice of Key lime pie, two margaritas, and six lines of the best cocaine for dessert... Right, and there should also be two or three newspapers, all mail and messages, a telephone, a notebook for planning the next twenty-four hours and at least one source of good music... All of which should be dealt with outside, in the warmth of a hot sun, and preferably stone naked."

I kept my clothes on.