A few years ago, and inspired by Dave Lister’s fabled triple fried egg chilli chutney sandwich, I decided to concoct something similar for the destruction of my own arteries.
The Notion: Cream Soda. Cream. Cream comes from cows. Milk. MILK comes from cows.
Separated at birth. Twins boys, brothers torn apart and shipped across the globe. It’s got to happen. It has to happen. I WILL MAKE THIS HAPPEN.
(They do it all the time in Hong Kong. It’s a thing there.)
Hereafter, a bad man and a bad idea make love and out pops the best baby ever…
In the movie and film Encino Man (California Man to me and you), Pauly Shore takes Brendan Fraser’s recently thawed caveman to a shop to teach him about the four food groups, and when covering “dairy” he says of Milk Duds “you hide these under your pillow bro so your mom doesn’t find them, if she does you’re tweaked buddy” regardless of the fact Fraser’s mother is surely millions of years dead, which apparently is not as sensitive an issue as you’d think.
I have been obsessed with Milk Duds ever since, well, no, no I haven’t, that’s comic exaggeration and anyway I don’t think about Pauly Shore nearly enough to qualify as obsessed. But every time I see Milk Duds (which, living in England and not America where they’re exclusively manufactured and sold domestically, is really not that often, like so rarely I could count the number of times on my left hand. Or my dick, come to think of it) I’m reminded of that cryptic warning. Why would a 16-year old feel the need to hide Milk Duds, or any foodstuff at all, underneath his pillow from his mother who he admits to rarely seeing on account of spending all his time having his gig taxed harsh by Dave’s cruster dad at their dinner table?
Suga-something (I can’t remember the entire name of the shop, alright?) is a shop that recently opened in Crewe that sells American goodies of all sorts including Milk Duds, and with a measure of trepidation that dissipated when I remembered my mum’s back home in Ireland where she can’t get at me for anything (which she manages to do most days anyway) I bought a box and sped back home to snarf the lot, considering I couldn’t conceive of any UK equivalent to which to compare them (this all happened several weeks before my wife landed home with a box of Poppets…). IF you wondered what the box looks like, here is the box and what it (the box) looks like when photographed by a camera:
Note that unlike the UK’s very own Milk Chews, they are not milk flavoured. As for size, I’ve taken a picture next to a length of string for scale:
“What of the taste, Mag?”, you nearly type? Well… texturally they’re not dissimilar to Reisen or whatever the plural of that word is. Flavour wise, they’re quite like Made With Milk And Chocolate.
And since writing this I duly placed the box under my pillow and the tooth fairy came and took my stash a Duds, got fat and died from cholesterol poisoning. Fuck knows what Stoney’s agenda was but that’s a dark motherfucker right there.
Encino Man is currently showing constantly, in theory, at DVD players and Freeview movie channels around the world
I’m an occasional energy drink nut but the mood never takes me for more than a day or two on account of me getting really ill the one time I did that over the summer and ending up packed tighter than, I don’t know, how do these things work, than a priest’s… schedule?..
Anyhoo, when I first moved over here I’d have the odd late evening Red Bull to assist with my daily TV vigil (still working on ticking off that list) but invariably ended up falling asleep within an hour, twitching awake in the morning sun like a silly person. The odd thing is that now I can barely get to sleep before 4am without the aid of anything, but them’s the breaks. Anyway, in my experience few energy drinks (as they are wont to call them, John Advert and his friends) are actually pleasant to consume. I drank a lot of the hilariously pretentious Relentless (the only soft drink I know to openly invite the criticism of being pretentious: take a look at the tin next time you see one) back in 2007 when I was playing Super Mario Galaxy and have pleasant sense memory ties between the two, but any attempts to regain that sensation have given way to the truth, that it’s the purple coin runs, vaults between planets and minor orchestral and midi masterpieces that I’m craving, not the bizzare anti-flavour of that hateful beverage. Red Bull reminds me of two things: the erroneous belief that it helped me stay awake as a youngster and the accompanying use of on Channel 4’s quarterly wrestling PPV nights, and the general smell of The Fort in Dungannon to which no small number of fond, exaggerated recollections are owed. Plus I love those little thin cans, and they’re easily ‘slammed’ before work or whatever, so those are on the ‘alright with Paul’ list. Others, such as the varieties that come in silver plastic bottles with blue labels and go by names as varied as Boost, Kick, Scum and Bile (probably) lead to a QUICK crash, and are best avoided, not least because they accurately create the sensation of ingesting the glass of sugar water (“more, more”) that Edgar drinks in Men In Black. One that I actually like the taste of, though, is the standard Black tin of Rockstar, which I can’t quite describe (vaguely…fruitish?) but it at least in another ball park from the myriad words I’ve used in the preceding body of TEXT.
Anyway, imagine my excitement when I copped ‘ball on the charmingly (idiotically) named ROCKSTAR XDURANCE in a shiny, spooky black and blue tin, boasting the flavours blueberry, pomegranate and acai. Blueberry? There aren’t enough things of the flavour blueberry in these parts of the civilized world, so on that basis alone it was a no-brainer. Plus, I thought it would aid in at least one all-nighter on Batman: Arkham City week (which began, officially, today). See, there’s that old Red Bull nonsense again. Anyway, onto the actual reviewing lark innit.
It tastes at first like some wondrous blueberry gift from zombie Jesus (and his zombie terrier, Buckman) but gives way to this bizarre sensual amalgam of what all Topps sweets in the 1990s tasted like. You know the ones they’d sell in Woolworths, that’d cost you all your pocket money and invariably came inside some sort of licensed imagery (such as my treasured Chewbacca head, which still smells of Topps). I think they’re what we refer to as ‘candy’, which to Americans means ‘all sweets, even chocolate’. Silly persons. Well, those. That’s what you’re left with after you’ve swallowed. I’ve not idea what pomegranate tastes like or even how to pronounce acai so those mean nothing to me, but the vaguely sherbetty blueberry bud assault has left me smiling. Plus, it’s not too heavily carbonated and quiet thin, in the opposite sense to how Coca-Cola is quite syrupy. The side of the tin claims the drink is “dfsigned (their typo, not mine) to give you an incredible energy boost to maximise your mental and physical performance”, and it at least inspired me to write about it and also there’s no way I’m getting to sleep tonight because this is what I looked like before I drank it:
Dunno about you but the amount of times in yank sitcoms when someone has made reference to something or other that I have no frame of reference to compare to my own life and has inadvertently as a result caused me to boycott the show for life as well as making sure by any means necessary none of my friends watches it ever again and EVEN led to the odd threatening email… where was I? Oh. Yeah, it happens a lot. Fear not, intrepid reader, for your fearless blog captain (I) has once again delved into the murky, sugary depths of the unknown to wrest free from their bounds of obscurity the myriad American tasty treats that leave us wondering like ignorant wretches “durr, what IS dat fing?”. EXPAND YOUR MIND, after the jump…
NEW! That’s what Super Saucy Noodles are. A pack of Super Noodles with a sauce AND a powder sachet. That’s the way it’s written on the packaging, in descending order from top to bottom, the words. I’m calling them Super Noodles Saucy from here on in. No. I’m calling them Super Noodles: Saucy. Like the way trendy games and films don’t use sequential numbering, but rather an ice cool colon. Super Noodles: Saucy. Saucy indeed.
Now then. Context. This is a big thing. I’ve been into Super Noodles since I was about 8 or so. Mild Curry, Barbeque Beef, Lovely stuff. Chow Mein, Chicken, hmmm. Bacon? Fuck off, sir. Bacon is the Beef flavour, only a little sweeter and a lot ranker. Diet Coke for NoodleHeads. But anyway. There is no other food that I’ve been eating since I was 8 that I’m still so devoted to. I remember two constants- Super Noodles and Goodfellas’ pizzas, which are now so inconsistent that devotion is ill-rewarded.
Such is my love for Super Noodles that my much-missed Abbath Chronicles penned in secondary school were built around a character whose primary characteristics were referring to himself in the third person and eating Super Noodles.
Pot Noodle continues to disgust unabashed well into the 21st Century, but I’ve never considered it a true threat. You know, because it’s fucking horrible. Getting slagged off by benchmark-for-disgust Dave Lister in the 1980s solidified its reputation. Still, there’s been tough times. I’ve seen Pot Rice stake its claim and wither and die. I am the only person I know to recall Pot MASH. I even remember genuinely worrying that Posh Noodle might wreck things forever. Haven’t seen one in half a decade.
I welcomed with open arms the birth of Super Noodles To Go- the Super Noodles alternative to Pot Noodle that was really fucking tasty, nice and soft unlike Pot’s noodles which have the consistency of chewed, re-dried Doritos. I’ve not seen a Super Noodles To Go in a while because honestly they were all I ate for a year in Coleraine and I’ve not been looking for them, but Super Noodles: Saucy seems to be a natural successor- all the saucy texture of SNTG in the trademark packaging and prep method of regular Super Noodles. No longer reliant on the proles’ familiarity with the general appearance of Pot Noodle to boost sales (can’t blame ‘em for bleeding the jerks dry, financially speaking). I’m happy for them to sit alongside their grandfather in regular shops across the country, clearly marked by their forgivably garish orange packaging. But what, I gotta know, do they taste like? I took my first pack to the kitchen to find out.
S’allright really. Tad sweet.