PUTTING man on the moon, the Great Wall of China and the invention of electricity are often cited as some of mankind’s greatest achievements.
But last week, after travelling halfway across the country to a small farm shop nestled on the outskirts of Lancaster, I got to personally experience the pinnacle of human innovation – a gut-busting 4ft sausage roll.
For the Greggs-lovers among us – that’s almost 31 times the weight of your average sausage roll – making it the UK’s biggest.
To put it into context, the pastry weighs around seven pounds, more or less the weight of a new-born baby, or 5% of my total body weight.
We reckon this amounts to approximately 13,000 calories, which is roughly six times the recommended daily intake.
And if the meaty treat wasn’t enough for you – it comes complete with a generous side portion of chips, onion rings and a mountain of coleslaw.
Brave punters who successful manage to tackle the reasonably priced £23 monster can get it for free – and I was feeling ambitious.
But before I had even taken the first bite, I was overwhelmed by the scale of the supreme starchy grub.
After the first three mouthfuls of tender sausage meat and melt-in-your-mouth flaky pastry, I knew I was in trouble.
But I had to call it a day after getting less than a fifth of the way through – and my measly effort received a deservedly dismal round of applause.
When I arrived at Countrystyle Meats Farm Shop, there was an overwhelming sense of excitement – and smell of pasties – in the air.
To the untrained eye, this farm shop-cum-restaurant was just like any other with its humble grey exterior.
But I knew what was lurking behind those stone walls – it weighed 3.4kg and consisted of pure sausage meat and pastry.
Armed with plucky optimism – and having opted to skip breakfast – I confidently swung open the door to the shop.
But my ill-advised confidence soon turned to trepidation as I caught a glance of the regular sausage roll – itself brimming with pork.
“I’m here to tackle the beast”, I proudly announced, sending shockwaves across the butchers.
My declaration was met with scoffs and light chuckles from staff and customers alike, who quickly returned to going about their business.
But luckily, not everyone was quite as dismissive, and I chatted with butcher Lance, who helps create the behemoth.
He kindly informed me that, of the four people – including himself – to have tackled the eating challenge, none had been successful.
I was then ushered onto my table in the adjoining restaurant – a suitable battleground (with an excellent backdrop of the Lancashire countryside).
To my shock, a regular-sized sausage roll was then placed in front of me by one of the restaurant staff. Even that looked large on the plate.
“A practice”, he joked, before laying down some cutlery and a huge jug of water. It had all started to become very real.
My confidence was dented, yet I still had my determination – but a quick glance over my right shoulder soon ensured that left me too.
In my peripheral vision, I saw the head chef shuffling across the restaurant floor with enough food to feed a small army.
He then plonked a slate plate – which looked like it should have been carried by four men using poles – on my table.
That’s when I locked eyes with the colossus, which the bakers have to wrap up like a python just to fit it in the oven.
But I was no snake-charmer – and I found myself staring at the 4ft-long, 3.2kg sausage-filled feast, realising there was no turning back.
I grabbed my sword and shield and started tucking in – cutting off measly mouthfuls in the hope I could put a decent dent into the giant.
Every bite was a blissful balance of light pastry and tender meat.
But after what felt like hours, I looked down to admire my progress and discovered I had actually ploughed through less than a fifth of the dish.
It left me in a bizarre paradox of mouth-watering hunger and stomach-stretching fullness.
But, in a reluctant concession of defeat, I placed down my knife and fork, expecting to be greeted with a symphony of wild applause.
Instead, I was consoled by the farm shop manager, who put a reassuring hand on my shoulder and gently said: “We didn’t think you’d do it.”
My consolation prize was taking the rest of the mammoth meal home – which ended up feeding me for the next three days.
I assured staff I would return with a bigger appetite but – for now – the beast had remained unslain.
