It’s not about the calories. It’s about the joy. A fry up is a ceremony. It’s the smell of bacon welding its way into your curtains. It’s the runny yolk mixing with beans, creating a river of gold and red on your plate.
Should you count the calories? Maybe once, for the shock value. Then forget them. A fry up is a weekend treat, not a math problem. You don’t ask how many calories are in a hug, do you? (Spoiler: Zero. Hugs are free.)
So next time you order “the works,” just smile. Your body will sort itself out. Your soul will be full. And if anyone asks, tell them you’re eating a “medieval warrior’s breakfast.” It’s basically history. And history has no calories. Only glory.
