This bakery isn’t actually on the Brighton jetty. Where would they put the oven? Next to the crab nets? Atop the mobile phone tower? Adjacent to yoof soaring off the end in their best swimming jeans?

Browsing the menu board, I note the sweets are decidedly Germanic with strudel (okay, Habsburg Empire) and Berliner buns but as we know, gobble down one of these for morning tea and by lunchtime you’ve invaded Poland.

This is balanced diplomatically with the euphorically English in buns both London and Kitchener; the latter named boldly in 1915 as a South Australian act of wartime alliance to geezer field marshal, Lord Kitchener.

I’ve not witnessed such graphic geopolitics since Sunday night’s Eurovision voting with the UK again achieving the ignominy of yet another nul points (in the public voting category). This means their (lame) entry has not been awarded a single point just like Bluto’s grade point average in Animal House as declared by Faber College head, Dean Wormer.

Zero. Point. Zero.

How fantastic was the late Sir Terry Wogan as the British host of the world’s most kitsch event? I still admire his tradition of pouring himself a drink immediately after the ninth song and maintaining a ferocious pace throughout the final. During a telecast he once asked,

Who knows what hellish future lies ahead? Actually, I do, I’ve seen the rehearsals.

My roadside table is magnificently located with endless blue sky above, the skating rink flatness of the azure sea to my west and northwards, the uncluttered BWS drive through, advertising cheap wine and a three-day growth.

Munch. The roll’s pastry is oilier than Estonia’s hip-hop entry called, ‘(Nendest) narkootikumidest ei tea me (küll) midagi’ which as you can visibly tell concerns drug horror. Oddly enough the song finished in twentieth place, and I rank today’s pastry also at twenty on the list of snag roll reviews. This is a spectacular achievement given this is my tenth such evaluation.

Whilst substantial of girth, the innards of my purchase are excessively reserved in their representations of flavour and aroma. From the proximate gutter I get a whiff of crushed Bundy can and decide the roll could use a little of its aggressive tang. Australia’s 2025 Eurovision entry should be an ode to crushed Bundy cans, everywhere, performed by Chad Morgan. He’s always in brash costume.

Still, it’s been a delightful autumnal outing for which I’m most pleased. Although he was referring to Eurovision, maybe Terry Wogan’s words apply here to my sporadically disappointing sausage roll escapades

Every year I expect it to be less foolish, and every year it is more so.

Goodbye, Malmo! Hello Zürich!