Is That A Sausage Under Your Kilt....?

Those little sausages wrapped in bacon, traditionally served with Christmas turkey, were always called.....well, sausages wrapped in bacon. But today the ones I saw in the supermarket freezer were called 'Kilted Sausages'.
What?
It's bad enough that the Scots have virtually taken over the British Government without them also colonising our food. What will come next? Will I have to put a make-believe sporran on the Christmas turkey?
To be fair, the Scots probably had nothing to do with this nonsense. A Scottish friend used to tell me that the Scotch Egg was almost unknown in Scotland. And if they had invented it I assume it would be a 'Scots Egg' because I believe that 'Scotch' should only ever be used to refer to whisky.
I must confess that about twice a year I get a craving for Scotch Eggs. (These irrational food cravings are not confined to pregnant women). I try to persuade myself they're wholesome by buying ones made with free-range eggs and ignore the fact that the sausage meat is made from the scrapings from pigs' skulls. But I digress.
Where food is concerned I'm all for calling a spud a spud and telling it like it is. Of course, I may be quite wrong about the Kilted Sausages. It may be that for generations waiters at the Savoy Grill have been asking diners if they would care for a Saucisson habillé de facon écossais.
But even without recourse to French there are plenty of dishes with obscure names, probably designed to baffle the lower orders. 'Devils on Horseback', for example, is not a description of the Berkeley Hunt but of something equally unspeakable involving prunes and bacon.
Kilted sausages.....kilted prunes......ooh, Matron, I feel an attack of the doubles entendres coming on....quick, my medication!

**********

With Carlo in Blackpool I wasn't sure what to do about lunch. Eventually I settled on one of the Pot Noodles that Carlo keeps in the cupboard in case Lee calls round in his lunch break.
I can now state that when Sir Thomas Beecham said "try anything once except incest and folk dancing", he should have added 'Pot Noodles'.
Recovering with a brandy in the Pink Drawing Room, I fell to reminiscing about how Carlo came to work for me.
I'd been visiting my old Diplomatic Corps chum, Sandy Mannington-Preen, at his new posting in the Phillipines. Incidentally, Sandy writes a very good blog about embassy life called 'Manila Vanilla', but it's password-protected and if the Foreign Office ever saw it he'd probably be sacked.
Carlo was working in the embassy garden and had succeeded in growing bumper crops of rhubarb for Sandy's rhubarb crumble which had been his favourite dessert at Harrow. But Carlo was keen to travel and improve his English. Sandy told me that Carlo had almost gone to work for a friend of his called 'Mandy'.
"Not that Mandy?" I said.
"I couldn't possibly comment", Sandy replied.
But, when they met, Carlo took a violent dislike to this gentleman and called him a snake.
"So it was that Mandy", I said.
"I refer the honourable gentleman to the answer I gave a few moments ago", said Sandy.
And so it was that Carlo, after a few discreet calls to people in London, had returned with me to work at Lupin Towers and life would never be the same again.

When we return: Lee is in Big Trouble