Recession Bar
‘Mr. Choc, that’s my name, that name again is Mr. Choc.’
Hard times coming my friends. A man has to make choices, a Snickers or a Mr. Choc?
It tasted kind of like a stale Snickers.
‘Mr. Choc, that’s my name, that name again is Mr. Choc.’
Hard times coming my friends. A man has to make choices, a Snickers or a Mr. Choc?
It tasted kind of like a stale Snickers.
November 24th, 2008 at 10:31 pm
Half the price of a snickers. Don’t mock Mr Choc! Of course, I gave you mine, and then bought myself a Marks and Spencers fudge bar instead…
November 24th, 2008 at 10:31 pm
It’s a dog’s life for me.
November 25th, 2008 at 2:15 pm
Soooo, it’s a Recession Bar because they didn’t have the money to spell out the whole of “chocolate?!”
November 25th, 2008 at 7:57 pm
“Mr. Choc” sounds like a character from a Mark Manning book. Or a post on Warren Ellis’ blog that makes you blind for a whole day afterwards
November 25th, 2008 at 10:48 pm
‘Mr Choc! What is best in life?’
November 26th, 2008 at 8:12 pm
It’s a play on words, see, ’cause what they do is, they dig up some of the chalk from those White Cliffs (prob’ly different than the ones in Cliff Bars), and they mix it in with a bit of cocoa powder, maybe some sawdust, a wee bit of animal grease of some sort (probably badger, since they seem to be in surplus over here), and then … and then they wrap it. And you eat it.
November 28th, 2008 at 10:46 pm
I had a bucket of those bad boys for throwing at kids on Halloween night. Also the blue ones that are not quite Bounties. Ended up keeping a few back for myself. Not that bad. An acceptable alternative. It is a sufficient peanut chocolate bar. Sufficient. A big mouthful of European sufficiency.
Lidl do some nice stuff though. Like big jars of pickled cabbage, which I love.
November 29th, 2008 at 1:02 am
All that cabbage comes from the cabbage farms of Chernobyl you know. In fact they aren’t cabbages at all, those are pickled radiation sprouts. Huge fuckers the size of baseballs, with testicles and and limbic systems.
The poor doomed cabbage farmers of Chernobyl farm their testicle sprouts with billhooks and paraquat, and their wives wait anxiously by the farmhouse door with loaded Kalashnikovs.
November 29th, 2008 at 10:23 am
The world has mislaid a brilliant writer, Donal. Perhaps someday the IT world will take an appropriate back-seat?
November 30th, 2008 at 11:56 pm
That would explain the occasional hunk of gristle.
December 1st, 2008 at 9:12 pm
You are too kind David, one day perhaps. In the meantime you’ll have to put up with me here.
December 2nd, 2008 at 4:44 pm
I think you misunderstand: I’m asking for more HERE. You can write a book someday (or a collection of limericks, if that’s what makes you happy).
Neil: I don’t think that testicles have that much gristle. I wouldn’t know, never having eaten the things, but … well, I wouldn’t think they’d be terribly muscular, nor sinewy.
December 2nd, 2008 at 6:44 pm
I’d have thought they would have gristly bits. Maybe not the life-giving love-sponges themselves, but the various wobbly little pipes that connect them with everything else. I’d say they would be gristly if pickled.
All idle conjecture until we actually test this out.
December 3rd, 2008 at 8:24 pm
Neil: who’s we? I, personally, am not going to test this out. Even in my carnivorous days, I wouldn’t have tried this out.
December 5th, 2008 at 11:18 pm
This book may be of some use to you. Cooking with Balls. Oh yes, it’s the internet, they went there.
December 6th, 2008 at 7:49 pm
I’m going to assume you meant that link for Neil.
December 7th, 2008 at 2:00 am
I cast judgement no man or woman. Let them all enjoy the pleasure of ‘Cooking with Balls.’
December 8th, 2008 at 11:38 pm
LOOK YE! LOOK YE UPON IT AND WAIL!
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/middle_east/7771042.stm
I have a hard time believing that is a potato. Looks like something a surgeon might hack out of an old Kazakh’s stomach. The product of a life breathing Soviet hydrazine mist and fallout. What you’re looking at there is almost certainly the thing’s backside–if you turn it round, it has hair and teeth and glinting pisshole eyes, and when you meets its eyes it orders you to do things in a strange subset of the Kazakh tongue where everything is in the imperative mood and sentences are punctuated by long rasping breaths with black spittle rattling in its rudimentary throat.
You can see where the farmer has tried to kill it with his spade before it latched on to his head.
December 9th, 2008 at 10:59 pm
HOLY SHITTING CHRIST!
Would it surprise you to know I am in the depths of a story based around this comments thread featuring something not unlike this monstrous tuber beast.